On a Wild Night (20 page)

What if she'd been wrong? What if he wasn't sufficiently interested to pursue her? What if he hadn't felt the moment as she had, hadn't seen it for what it was? What if . . . ? What if . . . ?

Such questions seemed innumerable and equally unanswerable; determinedly, she focused on what she felt she did know. On what her senses and her instincts insisted was true.

He was the right man for her. After all her years of searching, she was absolutely sure; she knew it in her heart, in her soul. And she was the right woman for him. The thought of some less confident lady dealing with him seemed absurd; he'd rule her like the tyrant he was. Yet . . .

She flatly refused to accept a proposal based on social strictures. When he'd stated he'd
have
to marry her, she'd been aghast. She hadn't wanted to believe her ears. Then she had. Yet she didn't know—couldn't tell—whether in fact he felt more for her, but as she could imagine her cousins doing, had used society's rules to conceal his true motive. Or had the fact he felt more for her not yet occurred to him? Who knew what went on in male brains?

A mystery, but in this case, one she couldn't live without unravelling. She had to learn what he truly felt.

So what should her next move in the game be? Presuming they were still playing and he hadn't simply shrugged and already forgotten her.

The thought dragged at her spirits, then she thrust it aside. Reminded herself that lions did not behave like that. They were possessive, and usually quite obsessive about it.

That being so, she couldn't risk returning to his world. If she did, she'd be at his mercy, with him dictating the rules of their game. Handing him such an advantage was out of the question—who knew what he would do with it? Her imagination supplied a number of possibilities, all of which would result in them marrying under the guise of social necessity. No.

Their game would have to proceed as she'd thought—here, in the ton. The problem was, how to lure him from his lair.

Four days had passed since she'd stalked from his house; after that first note, she'd heard no more. After learning his story, hearing it from his lips, she understood that his antipathy to the ton might run deep, accepted that he would not readily step beyond the walls he himself had constructed.

But if she didn't go to him, he would have to come to her. Was there anything she could do to urge him on?

She formulated wild schemes and rejected them. Tried to ignore her incipient dejection; waiting with nothing but hope to warm her was simply not her style.

Long, cool fingers slid around her throat, curving about the sensitive spot where throat and shoulder met.

Reaction streaked through her; her parasol jerked.

“No. Stay where you are.”

His voice drifted down to her; his fingers pressed warningly, then eased, drifted across her skin, slid away. Keeping the parasol steady, realizing it largely hid them both, she turned her head and looked up. Met his eyes.

His expression—politely impassive—said nothing; his moss-agate eyes were much more eloquent.

Where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?

She could see those questions, and others, too, crowding his mind, but he asked none of them, and she made no move to answer.

Instead, they simply looked, watched, gauged . . . wanted.

When he slowly bent to her, she didn't think of moving away—couldn't have done so. Her gaze fell to his lips, then her eyes closed.

The kiss started gently, but then his lips firmed; the caress became more definite, more a statement of intent. Her lips parted and he stole her breath, took it and more from her.

When he lifted his head, she was dizzy and dazed. Then she blinked, focused—hissed, “You can't kiss me in the park!”

“I just did.” Rather than straighten, he hunkered down. “No one saw.”

She glanced around, confirmed she'd kept the parasol in place; her sudden panic subsided.

“Why aren't you chatting with your sister and Carmarthen?”

The inquiry had her turning to face him; his tone was even, but she could no longer read his eyes.

She waved and looked away. “I'm feeling a touch under the weather.”

Silence met the comment; she glanced back, met his eyes—knew precisely what he was thinking. She blushed fierily. “Not that. I'm not . . . indisposed.” She looked away, lifted her chin. “Just a trifle jaded.”

He'd thought she'd meant she was unwell, as ladies frequently were once a month. But she wasn't. Which meant there was a possibility . . . a possibility that hadn't occurred to her before, one that had her eyes widening, her wits whirling, her emotions seesawing.

“We have to talk.” His murmur was definite. “But not now, not here.”

“Definitely not here, not now.” She fought an urge to fan herself. Drawing breath, she faced him.

He was watching her closely; he studied her face, then said, “Meet me tomorrow morning at five o'clock at the end of your street, as before.” He hesitated, then smoothly rose.

She looked up at him. “And if I don't?”

He looked down at her. “If you don't, I'll come knocking at your father's door.”

Voices reached them. He looked up; Amanda swivelled, peeked around her parasol. Reggie and Amelia were approaching, arguing. She looked back.

Dexter—Martin—had disappeared. Pushing away from the seat, she stood, searching the surrounding lawns, but he'd vanished.

Amelia and Reggie drew near; she turned to greet them.

And wondered if the victory had been Dexter's, or hers.

Neither, she decided, as she slipped from the house at five o'clock the next morning. True, he'd come into society to seek her out—she considered that hugely encouraging. But even there, he'd insisted on clinging to the shadows; it seemed prudent to meet him halfway.

He stood waiting at the corner, the horses' reins in his hand. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up; his gaze scanned her, then he moved to the mare's side. She went to him, smiling. “Good morning.”

He met her eyes, then reached for her; his fingers flexed about her waist and he paused . . . then lifted her to the saddle.

By the time she'd settled her feet in the stirrups, he'd mounted and was waiting. Muting her smile, she turned the mare and they headed for the park.

Once inside, they set the horses cantering; noting the real pleasure lighting her face, Martin held back the words burning his tonuge and led the way to the track. As usual, they raced; as usual, exhilaration dominated the moment—that zest for speed, for power, for indulging in unbridled wildness they shared.

At the end of the track, they slowed, turned aside, caught their breath. Then she set the mare walking, not to the gate, but into the secluded ride they'd used for discussions before. He noted the conciliatory gesture; he didn't imagine that
meant she was ready to listen to reason. He nudged the roan in the mare's wake, and set his mind to honing his arguments.

Deep in the ride, completely screened, completely private, Amanda drew rein. She glanced at him as he came up and raised an inquiring brow.

He captured her gaze. “We need to get married.”

Both delicately arched brows rose. “Why?”

He hung on to his temper, refused to grit his teeth. “Because we were intimate. Because you're a gentlewoman, one of a noble house not known to practise
laissez-faire
in such matters. Because I'm of a noble house and think the same. Because society demands it. Do you need more reasons than that?”

She met his gaze directly. “Yes.”

An absolute, unshakable yes. Unwavering resolution invested her blue eyes, determination firmed her chin. He recognized the signs, but was at a loss as to their cause.

He glowered at her. He opened his lips—

She silenced him with a shake of her head. “Only you and I know we were intimate—there's no reason to feel you've ruined me.” She held his gaze. “I was a perfectly willing participant, in case you've forgotten.”

To his eternal irritation, he had—or rather, he couldn't remember enough to be sure. “Be that as it may, in circles such as ours—”

She laughed and set the mare ambling. “You've rejected ‘our circles,' so you cannot claim their strictures matter to you now.”

He gritted his teeth, spoke through them as he set the roan after her. “Regardless of my attitudes,
you
haven't rejected those circles—their strictures
do
matter to you. Your life—the life you should live—is very much bound by society's dictates.”

She glanced at him; despite her easy smile, her eyes were watchful, serious.

He caught her gaze, knew his expression was stony, could feel the hardness in his face. “Regardless of all else, I will not again be put in the stocks as a gentlemen who
did not do
the right thing.”

Her eyes widened, then she looked away. “Ah—the old scandal. I didn't think of that.”

“There are certain parallels.”

“Except that you weren't, in that case, responsible at all”—her voice strengthened—“and in this case, I can assure you I have no intention of taking my life.”

Amanda censored the statement that she was also not pregnant; she didn't actually know, and he would guess that was so. The last notion she wished to raise within the present discussion was the possibility she might be carrying his child—his heir. Just the thought was enough to distract her utterly—she hurriedly buried it. “Rather than waste our time in fruitless generalities, might I declare my hand?”

He nodded curtly; as the mare ambled on, she declaimed, “My position is simple: I will not marry—not you, not anyone—purely because society, if it knew all, would deem our wedding a required penance for our sins. I do not consider social obligation to be a viable foundation for marriage. Especially not
my
marriage.” She met his eyes. “Is that clear?”

Martin searched her eyes, and wondered what she wasn't telling him. What she'd said was the truth—that he accepted—but was it all?

That she, at twenty-three, with her inherent wildness, her liking for excitement and thrills, should harbor a bone-deep antipathy to the social conventions that ruled her life . . . that wasn't hard to see. That she would therefore react badly to the suggestion that social obligation necessitated their marriage was, unfortunately, entirely logical.

Jaw setting, he nodded. “Perfectly.”

She blinked; after a fractional pause, she asked, “So you agree we don't need to wed to appease society's sensibilities?”

He forced himself to nod again.

“Good.” Her expression easing, she looked ahead.

Through narrowing eyes, he studied the back of her head, the bright curls glossy gold in the strengthening light, studied the slender lines of her figure, swaying gently. Considered his next avenue of attack.

At the end of the ride where it joined the lawns not far from the gate, he murmured, “There's a private party at Lady Chalcombe's house tonight.” Amanda glanced back at him; he added, “It's in Chelsea, by the river. Perhaps we could meet there?”

Very blue, her eyes met his, then she looked away. Shook her head. “No—I'm afraid not.” Her tone was regretful, but firm. “The Season proper is upon us—it's the Duchess of Richmond's ball tonight. After that, my evenings are crammed with engagements. I always knew the start of the Season would put an end to less formal entertainments.”

What was she telling him? Frowning, he glanced at her profile, all he could see of her face. And saw consternation sweep her features.

“Oh, dear—there are others out already. We'd better part. Is that your groom over there?” She pointed to the figure waiting by the gate.

“Yes.”

“I'll leave the mare with him.” She glanced at him, smiled. “Good-bye.” Flicking the reins, she trotted away.

Martin watched her go in disbelief. A smile, a cheery good-bye—and that was it?

In a pig's eye.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Lytton-Symthe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must circulate.”

“But my dear Miss Cynster.” Despite Amanda's tugging, Percival held onto her hand. “Naturally, you must. I'll be only too delighted to squire you.”

“No!” Amanda searched for some way out, then fell back on her standard ploy. “I must visit the withdrawing room.”

“Ah.” Deflating, Percival released her, then he brightened and smiled superiorly. “But we can't have you wandering Her Grace's rooms on your own. I'll wait for you to return.”

Amanda suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “If you wish.”

She escaped, wondering if it would occur to Percival that she must have some illness—he was such a pest she was forever leaving him for the withdrawing room. Then again, he
seemed incapable of adding two and two, steadfastly impervious to all her hints that she did not subscribe to his belief that she should allow him to steer her from what he described as her path of regrettable levity onto his puritanical path of the right and proper.

“Hah!” She'd been heading toward Her Grace's front foyer; now she ducked through an arch into a smaller salon. She'd only danced with Percival from a sense of duty. She hadn't enjoyed it; he was becoming uncomfortably irritating. Not that he held her too close or, heaven forbid, let his hand wander, but while she loved to dance, Percival was definitely the wrong partner. She'd felt like pulling out of his arms the whole time.

Exchanging greetings with various guests, stopping to chat here and there, she gradually made her way to the far corner of the salon where a stand of potted palms screened the space before a pair of long windows. The windows stood open; a breeze occasionally wafted their lace curtains.

The perfect spot to skulk and think.

Slipping behind the palm fronds, she inwardly sighed. There were more gentlemen than just Percival who had her in their sights. It was well known that she and Amelia were well dowered; it was equally well known that they were now twenty-three. Almost on the shelf. Certain gentlemen had concluded that this would make them desperate.

Said gentlemen were right, but their responses to desperation were not as those gentlemen supposed.

“Humph!” She peeked through the fronds. Through an archway giving onto the ballroom, she saw Amelia waltz past in Lord Endicott's arms. Her twin had thrown herself into her own plans; she was set on assessing every eligible-to-them gentleman in the ton.

Mentally wishing Amelia luck, fleetingly wondering if Luc Ashford had yet arrived, Amanda turned her thoughts to her own plan. Would Martin come after her, even into the ton? If so, how long would it be—

A steely arm locked about her waist; a hard palm clapped over her lips. In the space of a heartbeat, she was lifted and
whisked back—through the lace curtains, over the threshold of the long windows, onto the terrace beyond.

When her assailant set her on her feet and released her, she whirled, already knowing who it was. Even so, her breath caught, her eyes widened.

He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. She'd seen him in evening dress before, but in a drawing room, not on a terrace in the moonlight. The severe black and white, the stark silvery light, emphasized his contrasts—his harshly angular face, the hardness that was an integral part of him, the strength that gave promise of implacability, set against the tawny fire of his elegantly tumbled locks, the heavy-lidded eyes with their soft, mossy shade, the blatantly sensual cast of his lips.

She took it all in in one glance. Then she raised her arms, beckoned with her fingers. “Come. Dance with me.”

In a blink, he'd gathered her into his arms, started slowly revolving to the music drifting out through the windows. He held her a great deal closer than Percival had, a great deal more possessively. The hand at her back, riding low, below her waist, burned through the fine silk of her dress. As they revolved, she was aware of the reined strength with which he steered her, knew, as she gazed into his shadowed eyes, that he was a great deal more powerful, more intrinsically dominant, than Percival could ever be.

At the end of the terrace, he turned them, gathering her even closer. Her body brushed his; instead of stiffening missishly, she moved into him, let her body flow into the dance, gave herself into his embrace.

He held her easily, close, yet so comfortably. Lowering her lids, she rested her temple against his shoulder, and let him steer her back up the flags.

“I didn't expect you to be here tonight.” She murmured the words as they neared the end of the terrace and the music died.

“Didn't you?” He halted but made no move to release her.

She looked up at his tone, looked into his eyes. “No. I hoped you might appear one night, but I didn't think you'd come here.”

Martin studied her eyes, saw simple honesty looking back, and inwardly marvelled. Did she truly have no idea of the attraction—the sheer compulsion—she now exerted over him? Having her in his arms again, he was supremely conscious that he didn't—ever—want to let her go.

He'd been prepared to walk into the ballroom and draw her out, but then he'd seen her through the windows. He'd mentally called to her, had barely believed his luck when she'd obeyed.

She was studying his face, his eyes, her own narrowing. “Tell me, does our hostess know you're here?”

He smiled, the gesture tight with intent. “No.” He lowered his head. “No one knows I'm here . . . bar you.”

His lips closed over hers; Amanda opened to him, curled her fingers on his lapel and clung tight.

Just as well. He was ravenous—he took her breath and left her dizzy, sent her senses spinning with a too-knowing hand. Held her tight, his hands hard and possessive on her back, his arms a steel cage about her.

And she knew why he was here, why he'd followed her so close to the bright lights he despised. He wanted her, desired her, wanted her to want him. God help her, she did; the rush of pure need he evoked shook her, drove her on. Drove her to return his kisses avidly, hungrily; the exchange quickly turned greedy. They both wanted more, much more.

Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, then bent his head again, brushed her lips until they clung. “Come with me,” he whispered. “There's something I want to show you.”

One arm fell from about her as he lifted his head. Releasing his coat, she turned, felt his hand, large, hard and hot in the small of her back as he urged her to the terrace's end.