She drew his lips to hers, confident—determined. The chaises were too far away; with the desk at her back, indulging in one, albeit lengthy kiss was safe. A kiss to further whet his appetite, to appease hers. She was hungry, hungry for all they were doing without because of his stubbornness, and hers.
He was hungry, too, perfectly ready to sink into her mouth, to take, to claim, at her invitation. His hands fas-tened about her waist, holding her steady as he angled his head and feasted. As eager as he, she gave herself up to it—reveled in the heated exchange. Urged him on, confident the situation limited the possibilities. If she wanted to tempt him to give her all, she needed to remind him of what he would gain when he did.
When his hands eased their grip, then rose to her breasts, she exulted. Felt the leap of her pulse, the sudden surge of yearning, saw no need to hide it. Let the need pour through her, glorying in the heady tide of desire, pressed her lips to his and let him sense it, then fractionally drew back, taunting him, challenging him.
He kissed her voraciously; his hands closed, kneading, then through the fine silk of her gown, his fingers found her nipples, closed, squeezed. She gasped, drew back from the kiss, arched her head back; she’d forgotten the intensity, the sheer sensual force. His lips traced the line of her throat, then returned to capture hers again. To pull her ruthlessly back into the fire and the rising flames.
Martin had intended to go slowly, to coax her into passion, to guide her along the road to sensual desire, and its ultimate satisfaction. To lay before her all the splendors like the expert he was, a king wooing his queen, to show her the beauties of the landscape that together they could travel.
He hadn’t counted on her fire, on the rush of desire and passion that rose at his touch, welled and poured through their kiss. Hadn’t calculated on the arousing effect of her fingers sliding through his hair, then gripping, wordlessly evocative. Hadn’t anticipated his own response.
She drove him giddy. Drove him wild.
His lungs locked; suddenly, he could think of nothing beyond the moment of having her, the incredible sensation of sinking into her willing body and feeling her clamp, hot and wet, about him.
He wanted—that, her—with a simple, uncomplicated, ravenous hunger utterly unlike his characteristic elan and all the more powerful for that.
Powerful enough to send his hands skating over her, eager to possess. To repossess, to have again. Devastating enough for his lips to devour hers, to claim her mouth in a primitive prelude. Gripping her waist, he lifted her to sit on the desk, pushing back her skirts, pressing her knees apart.
Gentleness had flown; neither he nor she minded.
Quite the opposite.
One hand was beneath her skirts, frothed up between them, fingers sliding, sinking, over and over, repetitively probing the slick heat of her sheath, all to her urgent murmurs, to the thunder in their veins, when the door latch clicked.
Unsurpassed instincts, lightning-fast reflexes had saved him in the past.
By the time the door swung open, he was concealed behind a Chinese screen that stood five feet from the desk. Slumped against the bookshelves, his chest heaving, his pulse pounding in his ears—Amanda clutched against him, one hand clamped over her lips to stifle her indignant protest. One with which he fervently agreed.
From beyond the screen came silence, then: “This is the library.”
They both recognized the voice, both held their breath.
Footsteps entered the room. After a moment, Lady Jersey inquired, somewhat disgruntled, “Now what?”
Above his hand, Amanda’s eyes were huge. She tugged his hand from her face, mouthed, “Who?”
Martin shook his head slightly. Wondered how long they could stand as they were without making the slightest sound. The faintest rustle.
Who the devil was Sally Jersey, the ton’s greatest gossip, talking to? And why were they here? More important, when would they leave?
Heels tapped as Sally wandered the room; luckily, she’d headed for the fireplace.
Then a firm footstep sounded in the corridor; an instant later, someone else paused on the threshold.
“Sally? What are you doing here, all by yourself?”
Amanda stiffened. It was Devil’s drawl.
“Truth to tell, St. Ives, I really don’t know.” They heard the crackle of paper. “I received a note asking me to come here—well, to the library. There isn’t another in this house, is there?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How strange.”
“Are you planning to wait, or can I escort you back to the ballroom?”
“You may give me your arm—and the next dance, too, come to that.”
Devil chuckled. “If you wish.”
An instant later, the door closed—and they were, once more, alone.
“Great heavens!” Amanda wriggled.
Martin winced, and set her back on her feet.
“That was . . .” She blinked at the desk, remembered all that had happened, and what, just, had not. She blushed. “A very near-run thing.”
Tight-lipped, she shook out her skirts, rearranging them, the action and her expression stating louder than words that the interlude was over.
Martin dragged in a huge breath, exhaled through his teeth.
When she threw him a suspicious glance, he offered his arm. “We’d better return to the ballroom.”
“Heaven knows what would have happened if Silence hadn’t walked in!” Amanda halted, frowned. “No—that’s not true. I do know what would have happened, and it would have worked more to his advantage than mine.”
Eschewing her pacing, she climbed onto her bed where Amelia lay listening. “Being alone with him is too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Amelia looked concerned.
Amanda bit her lip, then went on, “I thought if we loved more, it would prove my point, because when we love, the fact he truly loves me is so patently obvious I don’t see how he can continue to ignore it! But . . .”
She grimaced and looked down at her stomach, smoothed her gown over the curve. “If we do, I risk falling pregnant.” She frowned at the slight bulge. “Who knows? I might already be carrying his child.”
She heard the wistfulness in her voice, wasn’t surprised when Amelia softly asked, “Don’t you want to have his child?”
“Yes. More than anything.” A simple truth; she dragged in a huge breath. “But I don’t want him marrying me because of it, and that’s how he’ll make it seem!”
She thumped the bed, then fell back and stared up at the canopy.
Amelia grimaced. After a moment, she asked, “Does what ‘seems’ truly matter when weighed against what ‘is’?”
That, indeed, was the question. Amanda faced it squarely, yet couldn’t formulate a clear answer. Until she did, she decided to play safe—to talk, but not to kiss. To encourage, yes, but to draw a clear line over which she would not be tempted. Again. Not until . . .
“Miss Cynster?”
She turned; a footman bowed and proffered a salver on which lay a note. She took it; stepping away from the chaise on which her mother and aunts sat, she unfolded the note.
If you come to the ballroom terrace now, I believe you will be intrigued with what you will discover.
The note was unsigned. And it wasn’t from Martin. His scrawl was bold and lazy; this writing was cramped, each letter squeezed by a tight fist.
It was early and the ballroom was half empty, yet there were sufficient people about should she need to call for assistance. Refolding the note, she stuffed it into her reticule, excused herself to her mother and aunts and glided across the room.
The doors to the terrace were closed; she peered through, but could see no one. Opening one door, she stepped outside, clutching her shawl as the brisk breeze tugged.
She couldn’t leave the door open, not with the curtains billowing. Looking around, she saw only empty flags, but the terrace was a wide one, bordered by thick bushes that c
ast dense shadows. Reluctantly, she pulled the door shut. Wrapping her shawl about her, she strolled along, going only as far as the ballroom windows, keeping within the light they shed.
No sound reached her ears bar the sibilant hiss of the wind.
Turning, she retraced her steps, eventually reaching the other end of the ballroom. Increasingly cold, she frowned, then, muttering a curse, swung away—
“Miss Cynster . . . Miss Amanda Cynster . . .”
She halted, peered into the dense shadows of what she now saw was the entrance to a shrubbery. The disembodied voice called again.
“Come to me, my dear, and in the moonlight, we’ll—“
“Show yourself!” Scowling, she tried to define just which of her acquaintances it was. She recognized the cadence, but the voice was disguised, syrupy and girlish. Yet it was definitely a man. “Who are you? Only a knave would behave in this manner.”
“Which manner is that?”
Amanda whirled; relief flooded her as Martin stepped through the ballroom door, tugging it shut. Distant rustling, then retreating footsteps reached them. Martin came toward her, a frown in his eyes. He scanned the terrace; his gaze settled on her face. “Who were you talking to?”
“I don’t know!” She gestured to the shrubbery. “Some fool was in there, trying to lure me to join him.”
“He was?”
It was his tone that alerted her, irritated her. She jerked her head up, saw him staring menacingly at the shrubbery. Narrowed her own eyes. “Yes. He was. But he didn’t succeed, and he wouldn’t have, either!”
Swinging around, she headed for the ballroom.
Martin was at her back in two paces. “Why did you come out here?”
“Because he—whoever he is—sent me a note.”
“Let me see it.”
She halted; he ran into her, steadied her. She hunted in her reticule and dragged out the crumpled note. “There! See—I’m not inventing him.”
He studied the note, then, frowning, slipped it into his coat pocket.
Amanda hummed in her throat, then made for the door. She didn’t care about the note or its author.
“You shouldn’t have come out here alone, not in response to an anonymous note.”
She halted before the door; Martin reached around her and opened it. Catching the door’s edge, she whirled and, narrow-eyed, looked into his face. “It was my note, my decision, and I was perfectly safe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go in and dance. With whomever I choose!”
She flung the door open and swept through.
She wasn’t going to stand for it—allow him to act the possessive male—not unless she’d agreed to be his. And she hadn’t. Yet.
The first dance was a country dance; she bullied Reggie into partnering her. Later, they joined a group of young ladies, chattering animatedly; when the introduction to a cotillion filled the room, Demon tapped her on the shoulder.
“Come and dance.”
She was suspicious, but there was not the faintest hint of a scowl or any overprotective reaction in his manner. Flick was expecting their third child and wasn’t dancing; sitting beside Honoria on a chaise nearby, she smiled and waved, encouraged her to dance with her handsome husband.
So she danced the cotillion with Demon, and had no reason to complain. The next dance, a country dance, followed hard on its heels, and she found Richard soliciting her hand with a smile.
“I have to dance with you once this Season, before we leave.”
“You’re returning to Scotland?” She let him lead her into the nearest set.
“Catriona doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the Vale, and the twins, to their own devices for long.”
He said it with a smile, one she returned. Of all her cousins, Richard was the most . . . not gentle, but understanding. And Catriona was a font of feminine wisdom; Amanda made a comment about speaking with her before they left.
“You’d better speak with her tonight, then, for we leave tomorrow morning.”
At the end of the dance, she would have gone with Richard, but others gathered about and she stopped to chat. Then she heard the first strains of the waltz.
She turned and found Martin beside her. He raised a brow. “My dance, I believe.”
There was a wealth of warning in the deep words, no drawl to soften them. Inclining her head, she gave him her hand, regally let him lead her to the floor. Let him draw her into his arms and start them twirling.
The orchids that continued to be delivered every day—a spray of three pure white blooms—rested on his shoulder, all but glowed against the black of his coat. She considered them, then lifted her gaze to his face.
To his eyes, green as ever but turbulent, harder—more agate than moss.
“I am not yours.”
His gaze only grew harder. “That is a matter of opinion.”
“Regardless, even were we wed . . .” She let her gaze drift over those about them, then looked again at his face. “I would always insist on being my own person.”
“I wasn’t aware the designations were mutually exclusive.” He bit the words off, clipped and hard.
She opened her eyes wide. “You mean I could be yours and still act independently? That, for instance, matters such as how to deal with anonymous notes addressed to me would be mine to decide? That you wouldn’t simply interfere as your right?”
“It’s my right to keep you safe.”
She glared. “If I agreed to be yours, possibly.”
“There’s no ‘possibly’ about it.”
“I do not accept that such a ‘right’ extends to shielding me from harm as if I were an incapable lackwit.”
“The very last thing I consider you is lacking in wit.”
Their aggravated gazes locked, then the end of the room arrived; they both looked away as they negotiated the tight turns. Realized they’d been arguing in the middle of a dance floor, and there were interested eyes aplenty. Then they were sweeping back up the long room.
“This is getting us nowhere.” Martin’s jaw was set; he briefly met her eyes. “Neither this discussion, nor your latest tack.”
Her latest tack? “What do you mean?”
The muscles in his jaw tightened. “I mean that you’re going to have to exercise your independence and make a decision—soon.” He caught her gaze. “You know what I’m offering—I’ve laid my cards on the table.”
She understood—read in his eyes exactly what he meant, that he’d declared his hand, offered all he would, and there was no more to be gained, no more that he would risk in this game.
“It’s your call, your lead.” His expression, his eyes, were granite hard.
She didn’t answer, looked away, let the revolutions of the dance sweep them along, then the measure ended with a flourish. She curtsied, he bowed, and raised her.
She met his eyes. Let him see her resolution, as set in stone as his. “You’ve forgotten. I have another option.”
He frowned. Smiling lightly, she half turned. “I could resign the hand.” Her eyes on his, she stated clearly, deliberately, “I could throw my cards on the table, and walk away.”
On the words, she turned and walked to the chaise where her Aunt Helena sat, along with Lady Osbaldestone and Honoria, Devil’s duchess.
“Well!” Her ladyship shifted her bombazine-covered bulk sideways to create space for Amanda to sit. “What was that about?” She chuckled evilly and gestured with her cane at Martin’s departing back. “If looks could kill . . . I take it he isn’t getting his way.”
“No. He isn’t.” Amanda struggled to shackle her temper. “But he’s pigheaded, and arrogant, and determined to win—”
Helena laughed and placed her hand over Amanda’s, gripped comfortingly. “He’s a male, one of our kind—you can expect no less.”
“I’ll vouch for that.” From beyond Helena, Honoria smiled at Amanda. “If it’s any consolation, you could try reminding yourself that Dexter’s a mere earl. I had to cop
e with a duke—one who, for good reason, goes by the name of Devil.”
Amanda had to smile. “But you eventually persuaded him to see the light.”
Honoria raised her brows. “Truth to tell, I think he’d seen it from the first, but . . .” After a moment, she said, “You might be wise to decide just what form capitulation should take. There are other signs, other forms of communication that ultimately are more telling than words.”
“Yes.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded sagely. “You’d be well advised to consider that fact. However”—she transfixed Amanda with her sharp black gaze—“remember what I said. No matter what he says, no matter what he does, you must not weaken. He has to be brought to reopen old wounds and deal with that old scandal.”
Amanda glanced at Helena, at Honoria, and saw them both nodding. Her temper had ebbed, the strength behind her resolution had gone with it. Looking across the ballroom, she saw Martin standing with Luc Ashford. She grimaced, inwardly sighed. “I’ll try.”
She was no longer so sure she would succeed.
His temper—an emotion he usually, with little effort, kept well reined—all but frizzlingly under his skin—Martin stalked from the dance floor. How much longer he could play the role of sophisticated, civilized male while she tweaked his baser instincts at every turn, he didn’t know.
Not much longer was his guess.
At the side of the ballroom, he saw Luc and Edward Ashford standing with two of their sisters. His cousins. The girls saw him and beamed, then took in his expression; their smiles faltered.
Wiping the harsh expression from his face and eyes, he smiled back, and their smiles returned. Changing tack, he joined them. Let them curtsy and chatter at him for a few minutes; they were sweet and very young, and he was the head of a closely related house.
Two young gentlemen, the girls’ partners for the next dance, approached with care. While Martin engaged the girls and their would-be consorts, Luc stood beside him, tossing barbed comments at the youthful sprigs, yet he was always ready with an encouraging word for his sisters. They clearly adored him.
Edward, however, stood back, features pinched in what appeared to be disapproval. It took Martin a moment to realize that it was he Edward most disapproved of.