On a Wild Night (23 page)

“Dexter?”

“Hmm. I think he's trying to make me
want
. Make me physically yearn so I'll agree to marry him.”

Amelia flopped on the bed. “Is he succeeding?”

Frowning, Amanda joined her. “Yes, damn him—that's why I couldn't sleep.” Why she'd tossed and turned, restless and unsatisfied. “He's a fiend, but I'm not going to give in.”

After a moment, Amelia asked, “How does he do it—make you yearn?”

“Don't ask. But I'm not going to marry him just because he knows how to make me feel very nice.”

“So how are you going to stop him”—Amelia gestured—“working his magic and making you yearn?”

“I'm not.” Amanda stared at the canopy, reliving the illicit interludes she and her nemesis had shared. “That's what I was just thinking about. This latest tack of his might well work in my favor. In fact, it might work better than anything
I
could instigate.”

“How so?”

“Consider this: for every ounce of desire he evokes in me, then . . . I'm not certain of this, but from all that's passed between us it
seems
to be so—for every ounce of desire he makes
me
feel, then
he
feels the same, if not more.”

After a moment, Amelia ventured, “Are you saying that your battle, as it were, might come down to who can resist desire best?”

Amanda nodded. “And I think he's miscalculated. He's used to ladies being”—she gestured wildly—“swept away by desire. He's used to doing the sweeping. I don't think it's occurred to him that I might hold firm.”

“Hmm. But he's very experienced, I imagine.”

“Very, but in this case, experience might be a disadvantage. He's accustomed to having his desires gratified, more or less instantly. He's not used to having to wait, or negotiate. He wants, he takes. But
this
time, he's using desire like a carrot. He wants something else first, before he agrees to satisfy my desire
or his
.”

“So he might well end hoist with his own petard?”

“Yes. And given I'm not accustomed to desire and likewise not accustomed to having it fulfilled, then . . .”

“Then it's possible this tack of his might play into your hands.”

“Precisely.” Amanda considered the prospect, viewed it from every angle she could conjure. “It's definitely a way forward, and as he thinks it's
his
plan, he's less likely to be defensive.” She glanced at Amelia, aware her twin's
thoughts had wandered. “How's your plan going?”

Amelia met her eyes, then grimaced. “I've a remarkably long list of possibilities which, every day and every night, I'm steadily reducing.” Settling her head on the pillow, she closed her eyes. “It is, however, going to be a
slow
business.”

Amanda held back the urge to suggest a shortcut—a flurry of crossing off that would leave only one name. Although it wasn't her way, she understood Amelia's need to be certain in her own mind before she committed herself to pursuing that one name. Snaring that particular gentleman was going to be a Herculean task.

The thought brought her mind back to her own task, her own gentleman. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift to the delightful prospect of having her lion trapped securely in his coils.

 

She felt sure he'd appear at the Cottesloes' ball. Their ballroom was on the ground floor; the windows at one end opened onto a terrace giving access to a parterre, which happened to abut a formal shrubbery. The evening was mild, perfect for strolling in the moonlight.

The dinner at the Wrexhams dragged on, but once they reached the ball, her greatest obstacle in meeting with Martin proved to be her increasingly attentive would-be suitors. Now that the Season was in full swing, they'd materialized in hordes.

“Like locusts,” she muttered, dodging through the crowd. Having to glance every way at once was distracting. Keeping her social smile firmly in place, she doggedly progressed toward the most shadowy corner of the room.

“At last!” Slipping past the last guests, she was disappointed to find no large and handsome male waiting. Beyond the windows lay the terrace; the doors giving onto it lay to her right.

Frowning, wondering if she'd misjudged, either him or his intentions, she turned and rescanned the room, wondering if she'd overlooked some other useful place where he might be lying in wait for her—

Long, cool fingers slid around her wrist, closed over her
leaping pulse. She glanced around, wide-eyed, and met his mossy green eyes.

“Where . . . ?” She looked beyond him, but there was no door or even window he might have come through. He stood half behind her; she could feel the heat of his body down her back, where it hadn't been an instant before. She lifted her gaze to his face. “You move so silently.”

He raised her hand, kissed her fingers, then turned her wrist and pressed his lips to where her pulse beat wildly. Lowering her hand, he turned his head so his whisper fluttered the curls by her ear. “I'm a predator—you know that.”

She did. Luckily, he expected no answer. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he waved to the terrace door. “Shall we adjourn to quieter surrounds?”

A smile curving her lips, she inclined her head. “If you wish.”

They passed through the fringes of the crowd; no one recognized him—none paid them any heed. Stepping onto the terrace, Martin scanned the parterre. Noted six other couples already availing themselves of the amenity. He inwardly smiled and gestured to the steps. “Shall we go down?”

She acquiesced with a confidence he found disarming; the aura of a lady in charge hung about her. Doubtless an intrinsic, inherited quality; the fact that it was he on whose arm she was leaning made him smile.

Seeing it, she raised her brows. He shook his head. “Come—let's stroll.”

They did, but not innocently. By unspoken agreement, they walked close, his thigh brushing her hip, his arm again and again brushing the side of her breast. He only had to glance at her face, lit by the moonlight, to know she was neither oblivious nor reluctant. She was enjoying the subtle contact as much as he.

“Enjoying,” however, was not the right word.

They reached a spot where a mulberry tree spread its branches over the parterre; he drew her into their shade. Slid one finger beneath her chin, tipped up her face and set his lips to hers.

He kept the kiss light—teasing, tantalizing. Tempting. Lifting
his head, he watched her face as he slowly trailed his finger down her throat, barely touching as he traced over the ivory expanse exposed by her neckline. Looking down, he watched as he slid that questing fingertip over her silk bodice to briefly circle a nipple already pebble-tight.

She dragged in a shaky breath as his hand fell, but smiled serenely and turned when he urged her on, out of the shadows. They continued their stroll. As they rounded the far corner of the parterre, he murmured, “I want you.”

She threw him a glance, one too shadowed for him to read. Her lips curved as she looked away. “I know.”

Not a quiver shook her, yet he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. A feminine challenge, one he was perfectly ready to answer.

The entrance to the shrubbery, an archway cut through a hedge, lay to their right. Amanda was not surprised when Martin whisked her through into the dark avenue beyond. They continued to stroll, slowing as the tall hedges, black in the night, closed around them.

She was even less surprised when he halted, and drew her into his arms. When his head lowered and he set his lips to hers—kissed her commandingly, letting her feel his desire. She now knew him well enough to know he kept it leashed, that the fire he let her sense remained firmly under his control. But his was a game at which two could play.

Stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back with flagrant abandon. While his control held, she could do as she pleased in perfect safety. Could tease and taunt and drive him . . . just this side of wild.

Her response derailed his attention; for one long minute, he simply savored her, plundered, tasted. Then he took charge again, wrested all control from her—ripped her wits away, set them tumbling as he backed her against the hedge.

His hands rose to close about her breasts, possessive, too knowing, too experienced. She arched against him, sought to appease the ache his touch evoked, then she realized, recalled, that that was precisely what he wanted.

It was an effort, but she managed, even while returning every kiss avidly, to ease back mentally, to pull her mind
free of the drugging urgency. And discovered she could enjoy and savor and incite without getting caught, without drowning in desire. As long as he remained mentally aloof, she could, too. If he dropped his guard, desire—his combined with hers, rising in response—would sweep them both away. As it had before.

But he couldn't overwhelm her, not completely, not anymore, not without letting down his own defenses.

And he wasn't about to do that.

Very wisely, as it transpired. They were engrossed, enthralled, absorbed in the challenge of their exchange, when voices reached them, increasing in volume until they penetrated the fog shielding their senses.

They both broke from the kiss, stared through the semi-darkness. Amanda's senses reported that she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck, her breasts crushed to his chest. His arms were wrapped about her, his hands pressed to her hips, molding her to him. The magnitude of his desire, still leashed, still severely controlled, was nevertheless very evident.

Someone was approaching. With a sigh, she drew away, artfully used the movement to slide one silk-clad hip sensuously against that part of his anatomy most susceptible to suggestion.

He caught his breath, looked sharply at her, but his attention was diverted by the figures—two male, two female—approaching along the walk.

“We'd better return to the ballroom.” She looked into his eyes. “I've been gone for quite a while.”

A moment passed, then he inclined his head. He gave her his arm; she took it. With no further detours, he escorted her back into the ballroom, then very correctly took his leave.

 

The next evening, they met at Lady Hepplewhite's drum. The Hepplewhites' mansion was a rambling old place affording numerous possibilities for clandestine meetings. Amanda literally ran into Martin in one of the minor salons. She was fleeing from Percival Lytton-Smythe.

“Good!” Linking her arm with Martin's, she tugged him
about. “If we stand still, we're going to be talked at.” She glanced up and arched a brow. “Might I suggest we repair to the conservatory?”

Martin studied her eyes, her eager, open expression. Briefly wondered . . . “I have a better idea.”

The garden hall: narrow, deserted, it gave onto a small courtyard beyond which the wider gardens lay. It was reached via a series of interconnecting corridors, but the hall ran alongside one of the major salons.

“I've never been in here before.” Amanda looked about as she entered.

Martin closed the door, watched as she turned and looked back at him. The room was dim, yet he still saw the unabashed anticipation in her face as she held out her hands to him.

“Come—dance. We can hear the music, even here.”

He went to her. Through the thick walls, the muted strains of an air wafted, created by the orchestra in the main salon. Gathering her into his arms, he slowly revolved.

The beat was undemanding, leaving their senses free to roam. To search, to dwell. His dwelled on the enticing feminine curves filling his arms, on the supple sway of her spine under his hand, on the seductive shift of her silk-clad hips against his thighs. Bending his head, he murmured, “There's another dance I'd like to engage in with you.”

“Hmm.” Amanda smiled, then freed her arms and draped them about his neck. “Unfortunately”—she deliberately pressed closer and felt his arms tighten in response—“it seems we'll have to make do with the waltz.”

A calculated challenge. She lifted her face, offered her lips; he took them without hesitation. Yet restraint was still there, even though he teased her lips apart, surged in, took her mouth, tried to steal her wits away.

More or less succeeded.

She felt her need swell, felt his heighten in response, in reaction as her nails scored his nape, as she shifted provocatively against him. The ache within, raised and left unfulfilled for the past two nights, sprang to life at a touch, at the first caress of his thumb across her breast. More intense, more demanding; she longed for his surrender, longed to tender hers.

Yet his had to come first.

She clung to her wits, let him tempt her, ply her with wordless promises of glory. Focused her talents on returning the invitation. On heightening his desire, on feeding the compulsive need she sensed behind his experienced mask.

Trailing her fingertips down his lean cheek, she let her hand fall to his shoulder, then his chest. Continued to stroke downward, trailing to his hip—

He caught her hand, twined his fingers with hers, closed his fist. Held tight.

She shifted under his kiss, drew away, murmured, “Let me touch you.” Kissed him again, long, lingeringly.

“No.” He drew back, then reconsidered. “Marry me and you can touch whenever you like.”

She laughed, seductive, sultry, supremely conscious as she spread her other hand over his chest how very tense he was. Felt emboldened enough to state, “You won't win me like this.”

“Regardless, I won't lose.” He caught her other hand, raised both to his shoulders. Released them, reached for her, drew her hard, flush against him, crushing her breasts to his chest, blatantly molding her hips so her soft stomach cradled his rigid erection.

Her eyes on his, she tightened her hold about his neck, drew him to her. Let her gaze fall to his lips. Let her lids drift closed.