He glanced at her face, found it studiously serene, her gaze fixed on the trees. As if she thought he’d simply been a little late rolling from his bed. He wasn’t fool enough to swallow it, but reluctantly acknowledged her strategy. Her subtlety. In this arena, she was a more worthy opponent than any who had gone before.
They were deep in the trees, screened from any early riders, when he again drew rein. She halted, considered him, then raised a questioning brow.
“Your wish to attend a Covent Garden masquerade—I fear I’ll be unable to accommodate you.”
“Oh?” Her gaze remained steady on his face. “And why is that?”
Because after their interlude on the Thames, he was too wise to give her another chance to tempt him. “Because such an outing is entirely out of bounds for a lady of your station.” He returned her regard and deliberately added, “Especially with me as your escort.”
Her cornflower blue gaze didn’t waver, but he couldn’t read her eyes; her expression said only that she was considering his words.
Then she nodded and picked up the mare’s reins. “Very well.”
With that, she set the mare ambling on.
Martin stared, then urged the roan along in her wake. Very well? “So you accept that you won’t be attending one of the masquerades?”
She glanced back. “Of course not.” She faced forward again. “I’ll just have to find another escort.”
What had he expected? She was damned well turning him into another “dear Reggie.”
He could call her bluff. He would, if he could be certain it was indeed a bluff.
Amanda bit her tongue, kept her expression fixed as if pondering her male acquaintances, trying to decide which to ask to escort her to a Covent Garden masquerade.
They were within sight of the gate, his groom waiting beside it, before she heard the words she’d been praying she’d hear.
“All right, all right!”
She glanced at Martin; he fixed her with a stony look. “I promised I’d take you to the blasted masquerade—so I will.”
Swallowing her whoop of delight was not easy, but she managed it, smiled evenly instead. “Thank you. It would make life easier.” Letting her lips curve a touch further, she murmured, “Better the devil one knows, after all.”
His expression grew stonier. He nodded curtly. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
He swung the roan’s head, clearly intending to ride deeper into the park. With a graceful salute, Amanda set the mare for the gate.
She didn’t look back, didn’t need to look to know that after a moment of watching her, he turned away. As the mare’s hooves clopped on the cobbles, all confidence faded from her eyes.
“He’s going to pull back—escape! I know it!” Pacing across her bedchamber, Amanda flung the comment at Amelia, perched on the bed.
“Isn’t there some way you can . . . well, tie him up?”
She snorted. “He’s too careful—too wide awake, no matter how lazily he moves.” Swinging around, she paced back. “You see, he knows we’re playing some game. I’ve made him interested enough to indulge me by playing, but he knows—and he knows I know he knows, too. What he doesn’t know is that I mean the game to end at the altar. I could simply be after a taste of excitement before succumbing to a boring marriage.”
“A boring marriage? He can’t believe that.”
“He doesn’t go about in the ton. He doesn’t know the family. So he can’t guess where I’m heading, which is part of the attraction, part of what makes him willing to be my guide.”
“Ah.” Leaning on her elbows, Amelia considered. “But what about the other part—the rest of the reason he’s spending time with you?”
Amanda grimaced. “Did I tell you he’s hard to read—elusive? I don’t truly know what that ‘rest’ is. In fact, I’m not sure he knows, either. But whatever it is, it’s too . . .”—she waved her hands—“amorphous to pin down and use. Besides, I don’t want him focusing on that yet. If there’s anything there, it needs time to grow before he recognizes it.”
Amelia nodded. “So you need another tack—another prod.”
“Yes. But what?” Amanda paced on. After some minutes, her twin’s voice broke through her tortured thoughts.
“You know, I think you’re looking at this from the wrong angle.”
Turning, she met Amelia’s eyes.
“You’re thinking of him specifically, and that’s difficult because you simply can’t know. But he’s still a man—a man like our cousins. Isn’t he?”
Amanda stared, then her face cleared. Smiling brilliantly, she flung herself on the bed and hugged her sister. “Melly, you’re a genius.”
Four mornings later, Martin sat his roan under the tree in the park, and watched Amanda Cynster ride toward him. The smile on her face was mildly sunny—not a hint of a smirk, not the faintest glimmer of triumph showed.
He stifled a disaffected grunt, but couldn’t keep his gaze from drinking in the sight of her, golden curls bright against the early morning sky, figure supple and trim in her velvet habit.
The clash of his emotions left him feeling like gnashing his teeth. He hadn’t felt so exercised in years. Irritation was nearest his surface, roused by the perception that fate was, once again, not treating him fairly. He was trying to do the right and honorable thing, trying to keep faith and give her the adventures they’d agreed on, then cut the connection he sensed growing between them and slide into the shadows once more, yet fate—and she—were conspiring to tease him.
After making the necessary arrangements for her evening at Covent Garden, he’d waited for her to send for the mare again. And waited. It had finally dawned on him that she was spending her mornings sleeping in.
She was either supremely sure of him, or she didn’t truly care.
The rub was, he couldn’t decide which.
Regardless, because of her new tack, instead of adhering to his sworn oath not to encourage her in any way, he’d had to send a note asking her to meet him. Irked was not the half of what he felt.
She reined to a halt; the mare pranced. Patting its glossy neck, she smiled fondly. “You were right—she does need to be ridden.” Lifting her head, she regarded him evenly, then raised a brow.
He studied her blue eyes, face hardening as his mind recited her words. Tightening his reins, he jerked his head toward the track. “Let’s go.”
They did; despite his frequent glances, he detected not the slightest smugness. Indeed, her demeanor suggested her adventures with him were merely by-the-by, that they didn’t figure highly in her life. That she wasn’t, at that very moment, wondering if he’d made the arrangements she’d earlier been so keen for him to make.
Reaching the track, they turned as one, then thundered down its length. As usual, the exhilaration claimed him; he was aware it claimed her, too. For those minutes as they raced side by side, neck and neck, there was just them and the birds and the sky. No expectations. No obligations. Just simple excitement and delight.
They had that in common—an ability to give themselves up to the moment without reservation. The realization dawned as they slowed and turned onto the lawns.
His irritation had eased, leaving behind it . . . something he’d thought never to feel.
With a brusque nod, he directed her onto the screened path they’d taken previously. The sun was rising earlier; other gentlemen were already sleepily plodding toward the park.
“I have a box at Covent Garden for the masquerade next Tuesday.”
She smiled gloriously at him. “Wonderful.”
He fought against a scowl. “If the date suits, I’ll wait in the carriage as before.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “Tuesday evening will suit admirably. There are major balls on Monday and Wednesday nights, so if I cry off on Tuesday, no one will be surprised.”
He studied her face. She bore the scrutiny calmly; her expression gave nothing away. Yet she had to know that he could have sent the deta
ils in the summons he’d sent her. He hadn’t; the last thing he wanted to think about was why.
Perhaps she hadn’t realized—perhaps she thought horses were what he preferred to ride at this hour.
He hauled his mind off that tack, away from the ache in his loins. “Tuesday night, then.” After that, he’d be free.
Still smiling, she inclined her head. Barely waiting for him to acknowledge the gesture, she flicked her reins and left him.
He watched her ride away, calmly assured, then turned and rode home, even more determined to end her game.
The pit of Covent Garden, cleared and crammed with revelers, was a scene lifted from Amanda’s wildest imaginings. When Dexter escorted her into their box in the first tier, she didn’t know where to look first.
Everyone wore masks, but many ladies had already dispensed with their black cloaks, revealing gowns the likes of which Amanda had never seen. Eyes round, she drank in the sights—and corrected her thoughts. Not ladies. No lady would ever wear such provocative attire. Sinking into a chair at the front of the box, she viewed this one, then that, with voyeuristic fascination; these were the demimonde in all their glory. The Cyprians, the ladybirds, the opera dancers who more frequently appeared on the stage of the huge hall, presently hosting an orchestra laboring to be heard over the din. Ribald comments, raucous laughter, rose from all quarters. Arch glances, teasing titters captured men’s senses and tempted them nearer.
The gentlemen were unremarkable, the same crowd she saw every night in the ton. What enthralled her was their behavior, their open worship of the bold and brazen who flaunted their charms directly beneath their noses.
The flagrant play—the inciting of desire and the subsequent negotation over its satisfaction—intrigued her. Although aware of Dexter’s frowning gaze, she continued to sit and stare. After a time, he sprawled in a chair beside her, large, watchful—intensely lionlike.
Once she’d drunk her fill and confirmed that, as far as she could tell, there were no familiar faces hidden among the throng, she turned and regarded him through the slits in her halfmask. “Can we go down?”
He wanted to say “No.” She could see it in his eyes—he hadn’t worn a mask. Little point; he was easily recognizable—there was no other with hair of his particular shade, so richly burnished. The gold overlaying the brown was doubtless one of the changes his years in India had wrought.
Indolently, he stirred; his gaze drifted to the crowd. “If you wish.”
He stood; she gave him her hand and let him raise her. His gaze returned, slid down, over her, taking in her gown of apricot silk revealed as her domino parted. She’d chosen the gown carefully; its hue made her skin glow and turned her hair a deeper gold.
For one instant, he stared, then, reaching out, twitched the cloak closed. “It would be wise to remain incognito. One look at that gown and the cogniscenti will be rabid to learn who you are.”
An angel slumming in hell. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, Martin escorted her down the stairs to the vestibule. As they reached the pit and the noise engulfed them, he reminded himself it wasn’t truly hell; if it had been, he’d never have brought her here.
Here, however, was a place she didn’t need to be, didn’t need to see—she didn’t need to be exposed to this kind of company. At least in his opinion.
He knew better than to argue. Jaw set, he guided her into the throng, intent on ensuring that what she did see was, if not acceptable, then at least not shocking. He was counting on the fact he had a woman on his arm to ward off any approaches; nevertheless, numerous arch glances, come-hither pouts and knowing winks were directed his way. A fact his partner didn’t miss.
She stiffened; her fingertips sank into his arm. But as they penetrated further into the crowd, her tension gradually eased.
He glanced at her face, but with her mask on and her gaze on the crowd, he couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t guess her thoughts.
Didn’t forsee her direction.
Amanda’s openmindedness over the women parading the pit ended the instant she realized they were as aware of her escort’s potential as she. Fifteen feet of slow progress, however, demonstrated that he had no interest in them—his attention remained firmly rivetted precisely where she wanted it.
On her.
Which left her free to take in all she would, to catalogue the flourishes, the teasing glances, the flirting whisk of a fan, to glean all she could from experts in the field. Yet the fact he seemed immune suggested that she would need more subtle weapons.
She’d turned her mind to evaluating exactly what subtle weapons she possessed when a jocularly jostling couple bumped her, sent her careening—
Dexter hauled her to him—she fetched up against his chest, breathlessly locked against him. Protectively shielded.
She glanced up. His face was a stony warrior’s mask, his gaze fixed beyond her. She could hear some gentleman gabbling his apologies. Beneath her hands, in the arms around her, she felt tension swell, muscles flex. Dragging in a breath, she fought to turn—but only succeeded in turning her head. “That’s quite all right.” She glanced up as Dexter looked down.
He looked ready to argue.
She smiled. Patted his chest. “No harm done.”
The couple took advantage of his distraction to melt into the crowd; Martin looked up and they were gone—he felt as if he’d been deprived of his rightful prey. It took an instant more to shackle his instincts. To quell his reaction enough so he could ease his arms from . . .
Damn! He refused to meet her gaze as he forced his arms from her. Closing one hand about hers, he twined her arm with his and anchored her hand on his sleeve. “What now?”
The growled words were barely polite, but . . . she was the one who had wanted to come here.
He felt the glance she threw him, declined to meet it.
“Let’s amble. I want to see all there is to be seen.”
There was not a chance of him permitting that. He steered her through sections of the crowd that he’d first ascertained were safe, avoiding any group whose behavior he considered too lewd for her angelic blue eyes.
And reminded himself why he was here.
Because he’d agreed to bring her here, because he’d extracted a promise that if he did, she’d return to the ballrooms where she belonged. The years had taught him wisdom; he knew she’d keep her word. She had her own brand of honor, as did he. His demanded that once this night was over, he retire from her life. And he would. Regardless. All he had to do was survive tonight, and all would be well.
The shrill shrieks, the high-pitched gibber of excitement that always seemed to occur beyond her view, informed Amanda that she was missing a good deal of what she had ostensibly come to see.
She no longer cared. The game she and Dexter were engaged in demanded her entire attention. Tonight would be her last chance to breach his walls. While he might be a superior card player, in this particular game they were more evenly matched. All she had to do was tip the scales her way.
As the crowd grew more unruly, she considered every opportunity, ready to seize any advantage. Before the stage, they came upon an area filled with waltzing couples. Abruptly stopping, she turned. Into Dexter’s arms.
“Can we dance?” Suppressing her reaction at the sudden contact, breast to chest, hip to thigh, she ignored the tension locking his frame, the possessive grip of his hand at her waist. Eyes wide, she looked up at him.
He glanced at her, then at the dancers. His jaw hardened. “If you wish.”
Smiling, she lifted her hand to his shoulder. He gathered her close and steered her into the twirling couples. Here, the waltz was a different dance to that performed in the ballrooms. Slower, more intimate. Infinitely more useful.
He’d used the dance for seduction before—the moves came too easily, second nature to him. Even now, when she knew he wished it otherwise. They slowly revolved; the floor was too crowded for him to hold her at any distance. The domino he’d broug
ht for her shifted constantly against his coat, against her silk gown, making it hard for him to hold her firmly. Then she misread his direction and was jostled again. Jaw set, he flicked the domino open and slid his hand beneath, to rest at the back of her waist, firm against her gown. He drew her to him—not close so that their bodies shifted against each other, teasing and tantalizing—but all the way, so she was locked flush against him, held, trapped. His.
For one instant, she couldn’t breathe, then she leaned closer, rested her temple against his shoulder. Lips curving, she relaxed into his tight embrace, let her body flow with the suddenly intense tide. He felt like hot rock against her; they slowly whirled, hips and thighs caressing, pressing close.
Excitement, a hot streak of sensation, raced through her, then pooled, liquid heat, deep inside. Barely able to breathe, she raised her head, looked up—fell into his mesmerizing eyes. Soft, deep green flecked with gold, they burned with the promise of limitless passion, limitless but restrained. She couldn’t look away, wondered what he could read in her eyes.
That he wanted her was plain; the desire she’d sought to evoke was there, and even more potent than she’d guessed. The knowledge thrilled her—unexpectedly scared her. This was what she’d plotted to get; now she’d got it . . . the thought of what came next set her heart pounding.
Shifting her hand, she grazed her fingertips through his silky locks, then, wonderingly, ran the backs of her fingers along his jaw. With his habitual languor, he bent his head; her heart stood still, her lips throbbed, parted.
As he had once before, he touched his lips to the very corner of hers. “Don’t worry.” His voice was deep, a rumbling purr. “I won’t eat you.”
Damn! She rapidly reassessed, read again the tension holding him, the strength of his restraint. He was going to spare her. Noble of him, but not what she had in mind. How to explain—
“Oh! You dreadful man!”
The words and the slap that followed had them glancing to their right. Raucous laughter engulfed a group surrounding the protesting woman. She was smiling and laughing, too—she’d merely slapped a gentleman’s straying hand away.
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