Once the trolley was positioned and the dishes displayed, Martin dismissed the man and took his seat. Amanda helped herself to the various delicacies; he reached for the bottle and filled her glass, then his.
“You’ve been here before.”
Across the table, her eyes quizzed him.
“On occasion.” He had no intention of letting her imagine he was any less dangerous than society had painted him.
Her lips curved; a dimple winked. She raised her glass. Obligingly, he lifted his and clinked the edge to hers.
“To my adventures,” she declared, and drank.
To sanity. He took a fortifying swallow.
“Can we go out and about the gardens?”
He took another gulp. “After we’ve eaten.”
She applied herself to the food with unfeigned appreciation. However, other than commenting on the culinary skills of the unknown cook, she did not speak. Prattle. Fill his ears with the usual babble, as women were wont to do.
He found her reticence disconcerting. Disorienting.
As he tended to keep silent, having long ago discovered the advantage that conferred, the ladies he escorted usually felt obliged to fill the vacuum. Consequently, he was never consumed by any wish to know what was going on in their heads; if they were talking, they weren’t thinking.
Now, however, Amanda’s silence focused his attention as no feminine discourse ever would. What was going on under her golden locks? What plot was she hatching? And why?
That last nagging question rang warning bells. Why did he want to know? He mentally shrugged the quibble aside—he definitely wanted to know why she’d selected him as her partner in adventure.
On a sigh of pleasant repletion, she laid down her knife and fork. He drained the last of the champagne into his glass and sat back, sipping.
Across the table, she met his gaze. “It’s odd—although we’re in the gardens, you can’t hear the crowd.”
“The bushes absorb the sound.” Including any sound from the isolated booths. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “Come. Let’s take the air.”
Amanda was very ready to do so; the strain of not giving way to nervous babble was wearing her down. Outside among the crowd there would be plenty of distraction, and ease for her overstretched nerves. Sharing an enclosed space with a large, intensely predatory male, one who looked like sin personified, was not a calming experience; she knew she was safe, yet her senses insisted on screaming she was not.
In her cloak with the hood up, shielding her face, she left the booth on Dexter’s arm. They retraced the path, then took another turning. It opened into one of the main walks. Immediately, they were surrounded by couples and groups all flown with good cheer. As they walked toward the rotunda, the center of the garden’s entertainments, the crowd steadily increased.
It was not a Gala Night, so when they reached the area where couples were waltzing, there was space enough for Dexter to draw her into his arms and steer them into the swirling throng.
She glanced at his face; he was watching her. He studied her eyes, her expression, then had to look up as they turned. The lanterns bobbing overhead sent light, then shadow, dancing across his features. Illuminating the strong patrician lines, then veiling them.
Following his lead without thought, she let her mind drift, allowed her senses to appreciate as they would. She was aware of his strength, of the ease with which he steered her, of the sudden tensing of his arm, drawing her protectively closer when more couples joined in and limited their space.
Those about them were of all walks, all types, including others of their ilk, ladies and gentlemen enjoying an evening in the gardens, others even more like them with the lady cloaked and in some cases veiled. A frisson of daring tickled her spine; for the first time in her life, she was flirting with the illicit.
Dexter’s gaze returned to her face. She met it boldly, her lips curved, awareness naked in her eyes. They continued to twirl, neither willing to look away, to risk missing the next moment. Breathing became a secondary concern; absorption in the moment was all.
Magic shimmered in the shifting light, touching them fleetingly, teasing their senses. It was as mesmerizing an experience as she’d hoped for, twirling through the shadows with him. They were surrounded, but they might as well have been alone, so intent on each other were they.
The music ended and they slowed; she broke the contact, mentally reaffirmed her plan. She’d lured him this far; now she had to tempt him to take the next step.
Martin noted the faint crease between her brows. “Would you care for some punch?” What was she plotting?
“Please.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, banishing the frown. “I haven’t been here for years.”
“I doubt the punch has changed.” He took two cups from a passing waiter, handed her one, watched her sip. Watched red liquid stain her lips, watched her tongue slide across the lower.
He raised his cup and drained it in one gulp.
“Dexter!”
Martin turned and saw Leopold Korsinsky pushing through the crowd. Mentally cursing, he tossed his empty cup to a passing attendant and reached for Amanda’s hand. “Careful,” was all he had time to growl before Leopold reached them, a cloaked lady on his arm.
Barely nodding to Martin, Leopold bowed elaborately before Amanda. “Madame—have we met?”
Using the cup to shield her lower face, Amanda looked out from the shadow of her hood, noting the sharpness of the Corsican’s gaze as he scanned all he could see. She lowered her voice to a deeper key. “I believe we have met, sir, although you might not recall.”
Dexter squeezed her fingers. Amanda grinned behind the cup.
Korsinsky’s eyes narrowed. “My memory is often at fault, yet were I so remiss as to forget such an attractive parti, I would be a lost cause indeed.”
The other lady was eyeing Dexter as if he were a meal. Keeping her voice low, Amanda laughed. “How do you know I’m attractive, covered as I am?”
Leopold shot a glance at Dexter and she had her answer.
“I would not suppose it otherwise, ma belle,” Leopold returned. “But perhaps I can persuade you—”
“Leopold.”
Just one word, loaded with warning; Leopold looked at Dexter, brows rising. “But mon ami, there is plenty of distraction for you here. Agnes, she is attending. She will be delighted to know you are present.”
“I daresay. However, Madame is keen to see the gardens. If you and your lady will excuse us?” With a bow for the lady, a brusque nod for Leopold, Martin gripped Amanda’s hand and stepped back. He barely gave her time to nod in farewell before he led her away.
Into the gardens, down the long, shadowed walks; Amanda saw no reason to remonstrate. “Who was the lady?”
“Not one of your circle.” He took her empty glass and handed it to an attendant. Then he stopped, contemplated the poorly lit walk before them, then turned and led the way back to a cross path. “The fireworks will start soon.”
They headed toward the grassy area where the fireworks would be set, meeting more and more people similarly inclined. When they stepped onto the lawn, there was a gaggle of couples milling and shifting. Dexter scanned the field. He grasped her elbow. “Up there.”
“There” was a small hill affording a good view of the display. The slope was crowded, but he found them a place near the top.
“Stand in front of me.” He wasn’t the sort of man people crowded; he positioned her before him, protected by his body from the crowd behind and to some extent from the sides as well.
Almost immediately, the first rocket streaked upward and exploded. Accompanied by rapt “ooohs” and “aaahs,” the exhibition progressed, a man-made tapestry of white fire hung against the ink-black sky.
The crowd was transfixed by a depiction of a horse, when Amanda sensed movement behind her, then heard, “Martin? I thought it was you.”
Luc Ashford!
She felt the loss of Dexter’s protec
tive presence, the loss of his heat down her back, felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. He’d stepped back to avoid any suggestion of a connection between them. Luc was sharp-eyed and sharp-witted. Neither she nor Dexter wanted to direct Luc’s gaze her way.
“Luc. Are you here for the ambiance, or are you with a party?”
After an instant’s hesitation, Luc responded, “I’m with friends. They’re down there, but I thought I glimpsed you through the crowd.”
“Ah.”
“And what of you? According to the gossips, you avoid social gatherings like the plague.”
“One should never listen to gossips. I found little else of interest tonight, so thought to take the air here.” After a pause, Dexter added, “I’d forgotten what it was like.”
Another pause; Luc’s voice was softer when he said, “Do you remember the first time we came? A girl each, a cheap booth and we thought we were kings.”
“That”—Dexter spoke quietly but his tone was hard—“was a long time ago.”
Luc shifted. “Indeed.” After an instant’s awkward silence, he said, “I’ll leave you to enjoy the night, then.”
Amanda could imagine their stiff nods; they were alike in more ways than the purely physical.
Minutes ticked past; she didn’t move—had stopped seeing the fireworks long before. Then Martin stepped nearer; through her cloak, his fingers closed about her elbow. “Come with me.”
The words were a whisper drifting past her ear. Without hesitation, she turned and let him lead her down the hill, into the empty walks.
Behind them, white fire lit the sky. A breeze stirred the leaves, setting the shadows shifting, sighing through the boughs like some watchful ghost. They turned from the main cross walk into an even darker avenue. Martin slowed, Amanda looked about and recognized where they were.
The Dark Walk.
The one Walk no young lady was ever supposed to let herself be lured into. She’d never heard of any verified drama associated with breaking that rule, but she’d never known any young lady who’d travelled the Dark Walk.
Especially with a man like Martin Fulbridge at her side.
She shot him a glance; he was waiting to capture it. Shadowed, unreadable, his eyes held hers. “I assumed a promenade down the Dark Walk would feature in your scheme for excitement.”
“Indeed.” In her scheme for excitement, and more; she knew opportunity when she saw it, when fate offered it to her on a plate. Tucking her hand in Martin’s arm, she moved nearer. “Can we walk the whole way?”
He hesitated, then replied, “That was my intention.”
It was a narrow, winding walk. The bushes that bordered it were dense, crowding in, rendering it secretive and gothic. Dotted along its length, tucked around bends, were benches and structures designed for dalliance. With the crowd distracted by the fireworks, the Dark Walk was deserted.
Save for them.
Amanda considered each bench, each gazebo as it appeared; none was quite right for her purpose. Then she saw what she needed—a small Grecian temple set back a little way from the walk and hemmed in by thick shrubs.
“Look!” She towed Dexter toward it. “Can we go in?”
She felt his sharp glance, but he took her hand and led her up the steps.
Inside was a tiny circular room; in the dark, with the bushes so close, it seemed enclosed. In the center stood a pedestal supporting the bust of some god; she couldn’t tell which. There was nothing else—just empty darkness.
In which she stood with her own particular god.
He was looking at the bust. She’d slipped her fingers from his when they’d entered; now she joined him, slippers silent on the marble floor.
Martin’s senses alerted him to her nearness—too late. He’d been distracted by the bust—Apollo, the gods’ messenger. He’d been wondering what message there was in this for him. Now he knew.
He was too late to stop her from pressing close, from laying her hand on his chest. From leaning into him, reaching up and drawing his face to hers.
Too late to stop his body from reacting, to stop himself from bending his head, meeting her lips, taking what she offered. He tried—for one instant fought against her spell. But she’d captured him; despite all his logical arguments, there was too much of him that simply wanted her.
And it was only a kiss. That was what he told himself as he sank into her mouth, let his arms slide around her and gathered her to him.
One kiss. What harm could one kiss do? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t in control, of himself as well as her.
The kiss lengthened, deepened. She wound her arms about his neck and stretched upward against him.
He let her. Gloried in the feel of her lithe body pressed to his, the feminine curves, the tempting contrast of softness and resilience that beckoned, promised and teased.
She wanted more; he knew it. All sense of time, of place, of safety, fled from his reckoning. He knew nothing beyond her innocent hunger, and the powerful need to be the one to slake it.
Innocent though she was, Amanda recognized that need. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in the arms that caged her, cradled her. Coveted it, wanted it—wanted him.
Wanted him to be hers, linked to her and her alone with a chain strong enough to withstand whatever pressures life brought to bear.
Knew in her heart what she would give to forge that chain.
Realized it would have to be created link by link. Episode by episode; interlude by interlude. Kiss by kiss.
Desire was a drug, its addiction potent. He stole her breath, held her mind and senses captive. His slow, achingly thorough exploration, the lazy, compelling conquest left her mentally reeling, emotionally bound.
She’d been right—this was what she wanted, what she needed to be all she’d been created to be.
If she told him, she’d lose him. If her actions became overt, he’d pull back, leave her and slide back into the shadows. The occasional sharp glance he’d thrown her were warnings; she had to walk a line between naive encouragement and deliberate sensual beckoning without a single stumble. She had to tempt him further while keeping her intentions veiled so he couldn’t be sure she was luring him on.
The ultimate game given his experience, given his steadfast reticence.
She kissed him back boldly but briefly, enough to evoke a reaction, to tug him an iota deeper into the game. Desire flared, heated and sultry, contained behind the wall of his will.
Crack by crack, she would demolish that wall.
She let her lips soften, tempted his to harden, tempted him to take just a fraction more. Clung, fingers sinking in reaction when he did. He was sensuality incarnate, each languid caress an invocation of pleasure. Her fingers threaded through his silky hair as inside she felt herself melt.
His hands tensed, flexed on her back; she sensed the war he waged to keep them from wandering. She considered trying to tip the scales—realized her inexperience would give her game away.
He won his inner battle too easily for her liking. Time to try another tack.
She drew away, gently broke the kiss—hid her triumph at the brief instant that passed before his arms eased and let her do so. As her senses returned, she heard voices outside. They both turned, listening, then she stepped back, out of his arms.
She cast about for some quip to cover her retreat, to disguise her hope that it would evoke his desire for something denied.
“Excitement enough?”
The deep words and their underlying challenge had her lifting her head. He was no more than a shadow looming close in the dark. She let her lips curve with a haughty confidence she hoped he could see. “The night’s young.”
Her tone struck the perfect note, low, warm yet even.
It was the tilt of her head that ruffled Martin’s surface, an elementally feminine gesture of defiance that sparked an instanteous reaction. One he ruthlessly quelled.
She looked toward the Walk. “Shall we return to the booth?”
&
nbsp; He reached for her hand. “We won’t be returning.” When she glanced at him, surprised, he murmured, “The night’s young.”
And he’d been a fool for thinking that cramming two of her adventures into one night would be a good idea. More of her “excitement” was not going to be easy to withstand. Yet he would. Leading her down the temple steps, he glanced at her. “You said you wished to see the stars in the Thames.”
The anticipation that lit her face was a joy to behold. “A boat? From here?”
It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman who could conjure such innocent delight. His lips curved in a genuine, entirely spontaneous smile. “The Water Gate’s this way.”
He led her further up the Dark Walk, then across to the gate opening onto the riverbank, steadfastly refusing to dwell on the difficulties that doubtless lay before him. During his years in India, he’d survived his fair share of life-and-death encounters; one hour floating down the Thames with Amanda Cynster could hardly be that dangerous.
From the Water Gate to the stone quays where a plethora of river craft waited was but a few steps. The pleasure craft he’d hired waited, bobbing gently, a pair of brawny oarsmen slumped over the oars, the owner standing by the tiller. The latter spotted him, straightened and saluted. The oarsmen stirred, nodding respectfully as Martin stepped down to the deck. He held out a hand to Amanda; eyes huge, she eagerly descended.
“M’lady.” The owner bowed low.
Amanda inclined her head, then glanced at Dexter. He gestured to the curtain cutting off the front two-thirds of the deck. The owner hurried to lift one side. She walked through. And stopped. Looked around. Offered mute thanks to fate for her assistance.
Dexter ducked through the curtain behind her; the heavy material fell closed, shutting them off from the watermen, leaving them in a private world.
A world composed of a narrow path leading around the railings. Fixed in the prow, a wickerwork basket held a platter of fruit, a bowl of nuts, two glasses and an open bottle of wine. The rest of the space was taken up by a thick pallet on a wooden base, covered by a plain black cloth. Piled atop was a mound of cushions encased in brightly colored Indian silk.
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