On a Wild Night

He slowed the tenor of their kiss; she could sense the harsh saw of his breathing, could feel his chest rise and fall against her aching breasts, could sense the thunder of his heart, and her own, as he listened.

  Nothing more reached them; he angled his head and dragged her once more into the whirlpool of their kiss. Into the path of onrushing desire.

  “Which way is it? Over there?”

  The high-pitched girlish voice pierced their absorption—hauled them to earth with a gut-wrenching jolt.

  “What . . . ?” Amanda looked over her shoulder.

  Martin looked, too, and cursed.

  “I don’t believe it!” Amanda hissed. “It’s Miss Ellis again! With a different man!”

  Hand in hand, the pair were heading for the dell, crashing along by the lake. They hadn’t yet seen the present occupants.

  Martin cursed again. “I’ll have to go.”

  Amanda looked back at him, swallowed her “No!” Muttered a curse of her own as his hands slid from her.

  His gaze flicked between her and the approaching couple as he backed toward the trees. “Where will you be tonight?”

  She put a hand to her whirling head. “The Kendricks’. Damn! It’s not possible. There’s no terrace or gardens, just one big ballroom. They’re friends of the family—I can’t not be there.”

  He paused in the shadows of the circling trees. “The house in Albemarle Street?”

  She nodded.

  “There’s a balcony that overhangs the side garden.”

  “It’s on the first floor.”

  “Be on it at twelve.”

  She blinked, then nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  His gaze said she’d better be, then he stepped back; before her eyes, he melted into the shadows, fading away.

  Totally disgruntled, her senses in disarray, her nerves tight, tense and flickering, and certain to remain so for hours, she turned to greet the reason. Plastering a smile on her lips, she went to meet Miss Ellis and her cavalier.

  If her expectations of the afternoon were to remain unfulfilled, she’d be damned if she allowed Miss Ellis to fare better.

  At precisely midnight, Amanda slipped out onto the narrow balcony at the end of the Kendricks’ ballroom. Reached through glass doors, the balcony extended around the corner of the building to overlook the side garden.

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms about her. The weather had turned unaccommodating; a blustery wind scudded rain clouds across the moon. A downpour threatened. Hugging herself, she hurried to the corner.

  The door behind her opened. “Amanda?”

  She whirled, blinked at the fair-haired figure silhouetted against the ballroom’s brightness.

  “What are you doing out here?” Simon’s tone, one that could only be managed by a younger brother, suggested he thought she was insane.

  “Ah . . . I’m taking the air. It’s stuffy in there.” She hadn’t even known he was watching her. Worse, his narrowing eyes, the very fact he’d followed her . . . her little brother was growing up. And he was a Cynster to his toes.

  So was she. She waved dismissively. “I’ll come in in a few minutes.”

  Simon frowned, and stepped onto the balcony. “What are you up to?”

  Amanda drew herself up; she would have loved to look down her nose at him, but at nineteen, he towered over her. “I’m not ‘up to’ anything.” Yet. And if he didn’t leave, she wouldn’t be. She skewered him with a censorious look. “Just what are you imagining? I step out on a balcony so narrow it should be called a ledge, and you’re concerned about what?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m out of reach of the ground, and there’s no one here!”

  The clouds chose that moment to empty; the wind gusted, flinging fat raindrops against the house. Amanda gasped and shrank against the wall.

  Simon grabbed her arm. “It’s freezing! You’ll catch cold, and Mama will have a fit. Come on!”

  He yanked her back toward the door. Amanda hesitated; the rain began to pelt down in earnest. If she didn’t go inside, she’d be drenched. Grumbling under her breath, she allowed Simon to bundle her back into the ballroom.

  She just hoped Martin knew she’d kept their appointment.

  From his position below the balcony, Martin heard their footsteps, heard the door click shut, then he was left listening to the rain pour down all around him. A Romeo in the rain without his Juliet.

  That’s what happened when plans were made in the heat of desire.

  The essential uselessness of this evening’s meeting hadn’t occurred to him until he’d reached home after leaving Osterley. It had taken that long for his focus to shift from all that hadn’t happened in the dell. And all that had. Once he’d been able to think constructively, it had waxed plainfully clear that given the current state of their discussions, there was nothing to be gained from snatching a few illicit moments with Amanda, let alone on a ledge. For the arguments he wished to put to her, allowing for the way in which he wished to put them, he’d need an hour, preferably two. On a bed.

  He’d come here tonight purely to arrange such a meeting. Instead . . .

  As soon as the rain eased, he ducked out from under the balcony, slipped out of the garden gate and climbed into his carriage, black and anonymous, waiting in the mews. Stretching out his long legs, he wrapped his greatcoat about him. As the carriage rattled back to Park Lane, it was difficult to avoid the observation that the eruption of Amanda into his life had already wrought considerable change.

  Two months previously, he would never have been heading home alone at this hour. He would have been out, hunting—for distraction, for dissipation. For entertainment to fill the lonely hours.

  Now . . . despite the fact he’d be alone once he reached home, he wouldn’t be lonely, wouldn’t feel the emptiness of the house closing in on him; he wouldn’t have time. His mind would be racing, assessing, planning how to beguile one stubborn lady into accepting him as her lot, even though that would assuredly mean making even more changes in his life.

  Taking Amanda Cynster to wife was going to cause nothing short of an upheaval. The wonder was that, despite his inherent laziness, his dislike of being disturbed, that fact didn’t deter him in the least.

  Kidnapping her seemed the only viable option.

  The next morning, seated at his breakfast table slowly sipping coffee, Martin considered the where and how. And discovered that the card sent to him by Lady Montacute for that evening announced a masquerade, albeit one of the tame, watered-down affairs that these days went by that title. Domino, half-mask and the invitation as entrance, so her ladyship had decreed.

  All those, he had.

  Deciding how to make Amanda, disguised in domino and mask, readily identifiable to him and only him took no more than a minute.

  Fourteen hours later, draped in a regulation black domino, her face concealed by a halfmask, she appeared on the threshold of Lady Montacute’s ballroom, accompanied by another lady and a gentleman. Judging by height and the golden curls beneath the unknown lady’s hood, Martin assumed she was Amanda’s sister; he’d take an oath the gentleman was Carmarthen. He waited only until, after exchanging a few words, the three parted before closing in on his prey.

  He was the first to her side, but only by a few strides; other men had noticed her, alone, looking about, and thought to claim her hand. He didn’t bother with her hand; he slid his arm about her waist and drew her to him.

  “Oh!” She looked up, knowing him in the same way he knew it was indeed her and not some other golden-haired lady who just happened to be wearing three white orchids at her throat. She blinked. “Where are we going?”

  He was already steering her through the crowd.

  “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

  He said nothing more as he whisked her into a corridor, then through a deserted parlor and out onto a terrace that rejoined the front porch; his hand at her back, he urged her down the steps, around the curved drive and so to the street. His carriage was waitin
g, horses prancing.

  He opened the door. She clutched his sleeve. “Where . . . ?”

  He looked down at her. “Does it matter?”

  She glared, then turned to the carriage. He helped her in, then followed, shut the door; the carriage jerked, and they were off.

  Amanda set back her hood. “That was—”

  He moved—gripped her waist, lifted her onto his lap. One hard hand cradled her face and his lips came down on hers.

  She lost her wits in that first assault, clutched his arms and let reality slide. Her senses drowned in the sudden rush of desire, of hot, unmistakable, irresistible passion. He took her mouth and she gave it, pushed her arms up to his neck and clung as the carriage rattled on and he continued to evocatively plunder. His arms locked about her, a warm steel cage cradling her, holding her to him, safe and secure.

  It wasn’t far to his house; she was dazed but unsurprised when the carriage halted and he set her back on the seat, then flung open the door and she saw, beyond him, the dark, unlighted mass of his home.

  This time, the carriage had halted before the front door; he descended, turned, swept her into his arms and carried her up the steps. The massive door swung open the instant his bootheels rang on the porch flags; as he strode through, she glimpsed a figure in the door’s shadow, one who inclined his head with dignity.

  She waited for Martin to stop. He didn’t. “Is that your man?” she asked pointedly.

  “Jules.”

  She’d assumed, as far as she’d thought of it, that he’d head for the library. Instead, he took the stairs three at a time.

  Her heart started to beat faster. “You can put me down now.”

  He glanced at her. “Why?”

  She couldn’t think of an answer, not one he might accept. That he had only one thing on his mind seemed transparently clear, and only compounded her distraction. Increased the dizzying notion that nothing else truly mattered.

  The first time he’d carried her to his bedchamber, she hadn’t been awake; it seemed wise, this time, to take note of the way. The vast emptiness echoed; she recognized the gallery, then he headed down a familiar corridor.

  He stopped, juggled her and threw open a door.

  Gloom, coldness and emptiness were dispelled as he carried her over the threshold. He heeled the door shut; eyes opening wide, she sank her fingers into his arm and he paused.

  Let her drink in the sheer, sensual splendor.

  Some things she remembered—the massive carved stone overmantel shading the hearth in which a fire blazed, the rich brocade curtains swathing the huge carved bedposts, the sumptuous silk of his sheets and pillows. Elsewhere, carved chests and tables in dark mahogany glowed in the soft light from brass lamps stationed about the room. Brass and gold inlays winked in the flickering firelight. Jewel-hued oriental rugs lay spread across the floor; even more gorgeous examples hung on the walls.

  As in the library, there were a thousand points of interest, myriad colors, textures, artifacts, ornaments to please the mind and fill the senses.

  The oddity stood out by virtue of its absence.

  What wasn’t evident, not anywhere in this mecca of sensual delight, was any item, any object, anything at all that hinted that this was the bedroom of an English earl, a man born and bred in this country, schooled at Eton, raised to rule his portion of England.

  This was the lair of an eastern pasha, a man ruled by the sun, a man to whom sensuality was second nature. For whom sensuality was life and breath, an inherent part of him, strong, vital, inseparable from the rest.

  Walking forward, he swung her down to stand before him on the silk rug beside the bed. She looked into his face, tried to reconcile all that was about them with what she could see there.

  He tugged his domino’s ties loose, flung the voluminous black cloak aside. His gold-flecked gaze remained steady on her face, on her eyes.

  Raising a hand, she touched the cheek she’d traced so often in past weeks—a simple fascination with the aggressively angular planes, so reminiscent of her own Norman ancestors. A thoroughly English part of him.

  She looked into his eyes, again recognized her own race, her own kind. Felt understanding dawn.

  He’d been disowned, or so he believed. So he’d buried his Englishness, let another side of his personality dominate. But the Englishman was still there, the other half of his coin, yet even here, he hid in the shadows.

  She wanted them both, the Englishman and the pasha, wanted them both in one. Stretching up, palms flat against his chest, she set her lips to his.

  Kissed him. Encouraged him.

  Felt him wait, passive, letting her make her wishes clear, then his lips firmed and he took command, surged in and took her mouth, set his mark on her, on her lips, on her tongue, on the softness of her mouth.

  She gave them gladly, heart thudding as she felt his hands rise, felt the tug as he unravelled the domino’s ties, set them loose, sent the cloak sliding down. Then his palms slid about her waist, the pressure firming as he grasped, and drew her to him.

  Flush against the hard length of him.

  She pushed her hands up, wound them about his neck, pressed closer—gave herself to him. The only way she knew to tempt him into the open was to offer herself, all she was, all she could be—to love him as she wished him to love her.

  Completely. Without reserve.

  Martin sensed her decision; he’d had too many women not to recognize when a woman gave herself without restriction, offered herself without demand. On all others he’d lavished attention, sensual pleasures, transitory joys. With her, now, it was different—there was so much more he wished to give. Deeper pleasures. Greater joys.

  A lasting commitment.

  He didn’t have the words, didn’t have any intention of finding them, finding a way to admit to a condition the past had taught him was the ultimate vulnerability, the one true chink in the armor his heritage had otherwise bequeathed him. Caring openly was too costly, the one sacrifice he would not again make. Not even for her. All else, he was willing to give her—his body, his name, his protection. His devotion.

  Holding her between his hands, fingers flexing, sensing the supple strength of her, the sleek, slender, unutterably feminine length of her pressed against him, he set his mind to the task of laying heaven before her.

  Convincing her to be his.

  He deliberately let his reins slide. Let go. Let instinct take him, drive him, guide him. With her, he needed no thought, no logic, no considered plan. All he needed was to follow his heart.

  She stood, eager and very willing, gathered against him, her tongue tangling with his, while he peeled her gown away. Blindly stepping out of her slippers, she kicked them aside. He couldn’t stop his hands from closing about her breasts, still screened by her chemise, from fondling the soft mounds in anticipation, feeling them firm beneath his fingers. He drew his lips from hers, traced kisses down the taut column of her throat as she arched her head back so he could lave the thudding pulse at the base of her throat. Letting his hands slide down, around, he closed them about the globes of her bottom, lifted her against him, evocatively kneaded.

  Felt her breath catch, felt desire well.

  He set her back on her feet; the instant she was steady, he sank down, kneeling before her. He looked up at her face, caught her gaze as she looked down, blinking, lips swollen and parted.

  “Your stockings.”

  She blinked again, but when he sat back on his heels, she bent one knee and lifted her stockinged foot to balance it on his thigh.

  Inwardly smiling, knowing the sentiment would not shift the stony cast of his features, he reached beneath the edge of her chemise and gripped the scrap of ruched silk circling her leg. He removed that stocking, then the other, openly appreciating the silken wonder of her long legs. Tried not to think of them wrapped about him, as they shortly would be.

  Tossing aside the second stocking, he returned his attention to her, cupped both hands about her
thighs, ran them slowly down, all the way to her ankles, then reversed direction, slowly stroking each curve, caressing each hollow, sliding his hands to the front of her thighs as he leaned into her, felt her fingers slide into his hair as his own flicked up the hem of her chemise.

  Closing his hands about the tops of her thighs, he held her still as he nuzzled the hollow between. She gasped, but didn’t pull away, didn’t resist, curved her hand about his skull and let him part her thighs, let him part her soft flesh and taste her.

  The scent of her sank into him, wreathed his senses, an elemental attraction that called to every primitive instinct he possessed. Her willingness, the acquiesence and encouragement in her stance, in her shivering breaths, fed his most primal need.

  Drawing back, he rose, hands sliding up over her body, raising the chemise, drawing it up, over her head. She raised her arms, slid them free.

  Reached for him—for his coat. Their gazes clashed, and he stilled. Remembered. Tightening his grip on his impulses, he held still and gave her the moment she sought. Watched the play of her thoughts over her face as she undressed him. He moved only when necessary while she stripped his coat, cravat, waistcoat and shirt from him, then she fell to tracing muscle and bone with a touch that left him aching.

  His hand went to his waist; he flicked open the buttons—she pushed his hand aside and parted the flap. He couldn’t see her face, just the top of her head as she looked down, stilled . . . then he remembered that she hadn’t, until then, seen him—that part of him—naked. Not until after. Later . . .

  Before he could wonder what she was thinking, she wrapped her fingers about him, and her touch told him. Fascination, wonderment, worshipful excitement. Anticipation.

  She moved her hand upon him; he bit back a groan—felt her start, glance up. Then she closed her hand again, caressed him again. And again.

  He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips. Captured her mouth, let both their senses feast . . . for a time. Then he closed his fingers about her wrist, reluctantly drew her hand away. Lifted his head, stepped back, stripped off his trousers, stockings, toed off his shoes.