The deck of the pleasure craft looked exactly as she’d always imagined such a notorious venue would look—a setting for seduction. Lowering her hood, she glanced back at Dexter.
He looked down at her face, studied her eyes. The deck rocked as the vessel pushed off from the quay; his fingers closed about her elbow. “Come. Sit down.”
He handed her to the couch; she sat and found it as comfortable as it looked. He sat beside her, angling against the cushions. “Does it live up to expectations?”
She smiled. “Thus far.” Sliding back, she let herself sink against the silk-sheathed mound. She looked up at the stars. And said nothing more.
She kept her eyes on the heavens, on the pinpricks of light bright against the darkness, aware that Dexter’s gaze never shifted, never left her.
The boat swung into the current, then the oarsmen rested and the craft drifted south with the tide.
Martin eventually stirred, then rose and crossed to the basket. Ignoring the wine, he plucked a grape from the platter, tasted it, then picked up the platter and returned to offer it to her.
Smiling, she chose a sprig of grapes and murmured her thanks. He hesitated, then sat once again beside her, placing the platter between them.
Amanda eyed it, then lifted her gaze to his face, to his profile as he looked out over the water. Popping a grape into her mouth, she looked in the same direction. “You spent many years in India.”
His gaze touched her face briefly. “Yes.”
She waited, then prompted, “In one place, or”—she gestured with a grape—“all over?”
He hesitated, then replied, “All over.”
Pulling teeth would be easier. She looked directly at him, and inquired, sweetly determined, “All over where?” He met her gaze; she sensed the frown in his eyes. Frowned back. “Your travels can hardly be state secrets.”
Unexpectedly, his lips kicked up at the ends. “Actually”—he leaned back against the cushions—“some of them were.”
Shifting, she faced him. “You worked for the government?”
“And the Company.”
“The East India Company?”
He nodded; after a fractional pause he answered the question forming in her mind, “There were precious few Etonites in Delhi, and the maharajahs preferred to deal with those they considered their peers.”
“So where did you go?”
“Mostly along the trade routes through the north, occasionally south to Bangalore, Calcutta or Madras.”
“What was it like? Tell me.”
It was the light in her eyes, Martin later told himself, that and the genuine interest in her face that had him complying—and, of course, the knowledge that while she was listening wide-eyed to his tales, she wasn’t plotting his downfall. She peppered him with questions; he found himself telling her things, recounting the years as he had to no one else. No one else had asked.
The end of her questions coincided with the last of the grapes. With a satisfied sigh, she picked up the platter and rose.
He watched as she crossed the few steps to the basket and set the platter in its niche. She stood in the prow, looking out over the black waters, presumably studying the reflections of the stars. She’d flipped her hood up; from where he sat she appeared the very essence of mysterious—a cloaked and silent female, mind and body shielded, hidden from his knowledge.
The urge to know, in every way, completely, waxed strong; he quelled it, restlessly shook aside the impulse to go to her, take her in his arms . . . he looked away, to the shore, indistinct in the dark. Between them and the banks, other craft slid through the waters, some, like theirs, idling, others pressing on.
Recollection of their unexpected meeting with Luc had him glancing at Amanda. “Sit down.” Another craft was coming up swiftly on their right. Leaning forward, he grasped her wrist. “Someone might recognize you.”
She turned at the same instant he tugged, the same instant the swell from the other vessel lifted the deck. She lost her balance. Before she could fall, he yanked—she fell across him.
Wriggled and ended up alongside him, breathless, tangled in her cloak, laughing up at him, her free hand trailing down his chest.
He couldn’t breathe.
Their gazes met—she stopped breathing, too.
The laughter faded from her eyes; awakening desire replaced it. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his lips. Her lips parted, softened; the tip of her tongue skated over the lower.
When he didn’t move, she lifted her gaze to his eyes. Studied them. Then, with a deliberation he could feel, she slid her hand up, around his nape and drew his lips to hers.
No, no, no, no . . . despite the clarion warning in his mind, he permitted it, let her draw him down so he could feast on her lips, sink into the warm haven of her mouth and devour. She welcomed him in, offered herself up to him, and he knew very well what she did.
Knew she was trying to snare him, knew he would be wise to refuse her lures.
Simply couldn’t.
Especially not when his logical mind pointed out her inexperience; she could have no weapon, no plan he had not already escaped, that women more experienced had not already used to try to capture him. She was no threat to him. So there was no reason he couldn’t savor her, and give her a taste of the excitement she craved. She was safe with him, and, logically, he was safe from her.
He kissed her again, took her breath, drew her to him. He sensed her inner gasp, felt her yearning rise. Her hand drifted to his cheek, touched, stroked, a featherlight caress. Tantalizing. Taunting. He deepened the kiss and she shivered. He felt it to his marrow.
Before he knew it, he’d shifted, angling over her to take the kiss further, the better to touch her—
No. Caution caught his reins. Mentally hauled him back. He wasn’t that foolish. She lay beside him, cocooned in her cloak, her svelte form shielded from him—temptation under velvet wraps.
Infinitely safer than temptation under his hands, no matter how his palms itched. But the impulse wouldn’t leave him. He pressed his palms to the silk cushions in a vain attempt to ease their burning.
Amanda knew all about that burgeoning heat; she was far too hot swathed in her cloak. Each kiss, slow, deep and languorous, poured liquid fire down her veins, yet focusing her mind enough to free herself . . . every time she tried, he stole her wits, caught her senses with some shifting nuance in the steadily deepening intimacy of their kiss.
A shared delight—she didn’t need experience to tell her he enjoyed the heated exchange as much as she. She was a novice, he an expert, yet his every exploration spoke of desire, each invasion of building passion.
Passion severely restrained. The fact gradually dawned. Despite the tale told by his lips and tongue, by the tension thrumming through the large body so tantalizingly close to hers, iron will kept his muscles locked, kept his chest fixed two inches from hers.
The realization gave her strength—stubborness enough—to focus her wayward wits. She wanted him to touch her, caress her—to lay hands on her. At the thought, her breasts ached, and kept aching.
He’d set wards, limits, boundaries—the challenge was: how to break them. How to make him break them; even if she grabbed and yanked, she doubted she could move him. How—how?
With every minute that passed, her inner ache intensified. She managed to raise her hands to her throat and tug the ties of her cloak loose, managed to push back her hood. Instantly, he shifted, spearing the fingers of one hand through her curls, gripping, holding her head steady as he plundered, deeper, hotter, stronger—
She’d been burning before—now she was aflame.
On a gasp, she pulled back, tipping her head back against the cushions, desperate for air. For ease. His head dipped, lips tracing the line of her jaw, then skating down her taut throat to press heat to the pulse point at its base.
Her body reacted, her spine arched. The need to be closer, much closer to him flooded her. “Please.” She couldn’t think, c
ouldn’t form a thought, but she knew what she wanted. “Touch me. I hurt. So much. Just . . . touch me.”
The fractured plea fell into silence. His voice gravelly, he replied, “You’ll hurt even more if I do.”
She forced her lids up. From beneath her lashes, she looked into his face, into his mossy green eyes. “I’ll risk it.”
But would he? Should he? Martin fought to distance himself from her, to hold his clamorous impulses at bay.
Her gaze dropped to his lips; lifting one hand, she traced his cheek. “Please.”
The fleeting touch even more than the whispered word shattered his good intentions. He drank the last syllable from her lips, then took her mouth again. Sliding his fingers from her golden locks, feeling them fall like silk from his skin, he reached for the edge of her cloak.
Slipped his hand beneath. Told himself that if he left her fully covered, fully clothed, all would be well—
Knew the instant he touched her he’d been wrong.
His fingers skated over silk, then he cupped her breast. And something shattered. Whether in him or in her he couldn’t tell. Her walls or his—one at least had cracked. She clung to their kiss as did he, but their attention had shifted, coalesced, focused completely on his fingers, on the firm flesh, hot and swollen, about which they curved, then gently kneaded.
The tension in her spine transmuted, eased by his touch, appeased by each caress. He continued to fondle and she moaned softly; without thought, his fingers shifted, circled her tightly budded nipple, then firmed, squeezed.
Until she gasped with pleasure. He drank the exhalation from her lips, continued to stroke, to fondle, to ease her hurt, to soothe her with pleasure.
Lifting his head, he watched her face, and wished he could draw back from her fire. Knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t recall when a woman’s neediness had had the power to so arouse him. Worse, to arouse him to such a painful state.
Worse yet, a state for which there would be no relief.
Regardless . . . he flipped back her cloak, pushed the folds from her shoulders. Bent his head to pay homage to the alabaster skin sheathing her collarbone, trailing kisses along every curve. Her neckline was cut low; easy enough to hook a thumb beneath and ease gown and chemise down enough to free one rosy nipple so he could taste.
Amanda thought she would die when he did.
The touch of his lips there was excruciatingly right—exactly what she needed, wanted, even though she hadn’t known, not until the instant when the hot wetness of his mouth had so briefly engulfed her sensitive flesh. Her gasp shivered in the night; her fingers threaded through his hair and clenched, holding him to her. He licked, lapped, then took the peak of her breast into his mouth again.
Oh, yes! The words whispered through her mind, escaped on her sigh.
He continued to caress her, lifting his head every now and then to press brief appeasing kisses to her hungry lips. Desire rose, spread about them, lapping gently, lazily, until she felt afloat on its gentle tide, quite unlike the rushing, pummeling, compelling stream she’d expected. It was as if their desire, strong and forceful though it was, had been diverted into a wider landscape so its power was dissipated in the vastness.
So she could know and enjoy without losing her mind, while in full possession of her senses.
The tide slowly ebbed, little by little, touch by touch. She made no demur, made no effort to encourage him further; in truth, she doubted she could. Throughout, his resistance had stood firm as a fortress wall, but she’d managed one crack, and with that she was content.
With that and the knowledge she’d gained, the sensations she’d felt—the experience. She felt a little shocked by how unshocked she was as she watched him ease her gown back into place.
She gazed at his face, at the harsh planes so set, so rigid. At the evidence of desire ruthlessly controlled. She wasn’t ignorant of his state; she could feel his erection against her thigh. While she might wish to experience a great deal more, the time was not right—she was too wise to press him further.
Too wise to challenge his control overtly.
When he flicked her cloak back over her arms, she stayed him. Lifted one hand to his cheek, drawing his dark eyes to hers. Coming up on her elbow, she lifted her face and pressed her lips to his in a long, lingering, simple kiss, as sweet as she could make it.
“Thank you.” She murmured the words as their lips parted. Lifting her gaze, she looked into his eyes, no more than two inches from hers. Let him search her eyes, let her sincerity show.
His gaze drifted from hers; he hesitated, then bent his head and touched his lips, not to her mouth but to the corner of her lips.
“It was entirely my pleasure.”
When he stalked into his house two hours later, Martin recalled those words with a certain savage irony. He’d succumbed to her plea with the sole intention of pleasuring her, of easing the ache his kisses had caused.
He’d ended lost, fascinated, enthralled to his bones by the simple act of touching her. Caressing her. Savoring the different textures, the incredibly fine skin of her breasts, her tightly ruched nipples, the silken fall of her hair.
He’d enjoyed her far too much. He’d wanted to enjoy her a great deal more. And that way lay madness.
More specifically, that way led beyond the narrow confines of the world in which he’d chosen to live.
She’d already made him want, made him start to yearn for things he couldn’t have. The longer he let her remain in his life, the more she’d undermine his defenses.
Slumping onto the daybed in the library, he took a long sip of brandy and stared into the fire. Her presence lingered, imprinted on his hands, on his senses; her taste was addictive, remembered and desired.
He directed his mind to the problem of how—how to sever all contact.
Two mornings later, Amanda tiptoed around her bedchamber, wriggling into her chemise and petticoats, then donning her riding habit. She performed the actions by rote, her mind engrossed with thoughts of Dexter, or more correctly, Martin Fulbridge, the man behind the wall. Their last interlude had confirmed that her instincts had been right; the man within was precisely as she’d guessed, and more. There were deeper currents there, deeper wants, deeper needs. A character more complex than she’d expected.
A conquest more challenging than any man she’d met.
Contentment warmed her. She now knew she could succeed; she’d sighted her true quarry—the elusive man. On the boat, he’d revealed himself more clearly than at any time previously. He’d dropped his guard long enough for her to recognize the difference, to feel it in his kiss, sense it in his touch.
A wish, a need, a wonderment that was only partly sensual, although his overt sensuality provided a distracting screen. She had something the elusive lion wanted, something with which she could lure him out of his lair.
That evening had confirmed that all she dreamed of could truly be.
His control, absolute and unwavering, was the next hurdle she needed to overcome; twisting up her hair, she considered how that might best be done, how she might strengthen her hold on him. Rewarding though their dual adventures had proved, she now had only one more outing to which he was committed, one more chance to work her wiles. What possibilities might a Covent Garden masquerade throw her way?
She continued to think, to plot, to plan as she slipped through the silent house and out through the side door. How far would she need to go to trap him, to snare his senses and overthrow his will? What actions on her part were most likely to evoke the desired reaction on his? Protectiveness. Pride. Ultimately, possessiveness, as Amelia had warned. Strong emotions all. Which was it safe to prod, which wiser to let be?
Which did she dare provoke? Where would she draw her line?
Ten minutes later, she rode into the park.
There was no one waiting under the oak by the gates—no roan, no large, dangerous rider.
She felt his absence like a slap. A shock. A sudden emptiness.
She didn’t know what to think. After a minute of simply sitting the mare, staring at the empty space, she gathered the reins and set off down the park. Dexter’s groom trailed after her.
Her heart, so light mere minutes ago, buoyed by the expectation of seeing him again, had plummeted. A constriction tightened about her chest; inside, she felt hollow. Skittering from one recollection to the next, her mind again and again returned to one question: how much had he guessed?
She reached the tan track; without thought, she sprang the mare. The groom stopped under the trees and watched.
Halfway along with the mare in full stride, the wind whipping her cheeks and tangling her curls, desolation swept her as realization struck. She did not enjoy the moment—the excitement, the thrill—half as much alone.
On the thought, she heard thunder. The thudding of heavy hooves closing rapidly. She flung a glance behind; the roan with its familiar rider was quickly making up lost ground. Facing forward, she smiled ecstatically, knowing he couldn’t yet see.
Seconds later, he ranged alongside; she met his eyes, smiled in easy welcome, and prayed no hint of the triumph she felt showed in her face.
He might be here, but he was far from tame. And she wasn’t fool enough to think he didn’t, at least in part, have her measure.
The end of the track neared; Martin slowed, then they turned aside onto the sward. He drew rein, noting the color the wind had brought to her cheeks. They were both breathing rapidly, courtesy of the ride; he fought not to let his mind focus on the rise and fall of her breasts.
The same breasts that had filled his dreams, not just with sensual images but with sensual longings, with the simple need to experience the sensations again, to sate his tactile senses with a feast more sumptuous, more enthralling than any before.
Signalling the groom back to the gate, he gathered his reins and nodded to a path wending through the trees. “Let’s return this way.”
He’d meant to stay away, to cut the connection, to withdraw from her game. The fact he was here, riding beside her, didn’t please him at all.
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