Confirming her judgment, the carriage halted, not at the main entrance, but at an exclusive side entrance. Infinitely more discreet. Dexter descended, looked briefly around before handing her down, his gaze passing approvingly over her hood, pulled forward, shadowing her face. Thus attired, unless someone came close and peered at her face, she was unidentifiable.
An attendant greeted them, bowing low as Dexter ushered her through the gate. "Your booth is prepared, my lord."
Dexter nodded. The attendant turned and led them down a heavily shaded path.
She'd been to Vauxhall often, yet had never ventured into this part of the gardens. The rotunda, well lit, the source of plentiful music, lay some way ahead, screened by trees. The path curved under spreading branches, the thick shrubs bordering it interrupted now and then by the square shape of a booth. Each booth was well spaced from its neighbors, shuttered and private. Stopping before one such dark outline, the attendant opened a door, spilling soft candlelight onto the path; he bowed them in.
Amanda stepped over the threshold, uncertain what she would find-eager to see. The booth was smaller than those in the public part of the gardens, but was furnished in considerably better style. A rug covered the floor; the table was set with a damask cloth, sparkling glasses, white dishes and cutlery for two. Two upholstered chairs stood ready. A single candle burned in a holder at the table's center; a two-armed candelabra shed light from a sidetable set beside a comfortable chaise. By the table, an ornate stand supported an ice-bucket containing a bottle of champagne.
The answer to her question was none. Reassured, she set back her hood.
"You may bring our meal." Martin closed the door on the attendant. He hesitated, then strolled to where temptation stood. He lifted the cloak from her shoulders as she slid the strings free; she glanced back, smiled her thanks.
He used the moment taken in laying her cloak on the chaise, in adding his to it, to steel himself. Then he turned back to her.
And saw her clearly for the first time that evening, knowing she was here, alone with him in a completely private setting.
Limned by the candlelight, she was half turned his way, the fingers of one hand resting on the back of the nearer chair. The weak light deepened the gold of her hair but did nothing to conceal its luster, to hide her flawless complexion or the intensely feminine curves of breast, hip and thigh, all draped in cornflower silk the exact shade of her eyes.
The gown made the most of her charms. Severely simple, it led the eye to see, showcased the bounty it concealed.
All that, he'd foreseen. What he hadn't expected was the aura of anticipation, blatantly sensual, that filled the space between them, that invested her expression, widened her eyes, lingered in the curve of her lips.
The effect was worse-far worse-than he'd expected.
He couldn't recall taking the steps, but he was suddenly beside her. She'd lifted her head to keep her eyes on his; raising one hand, he trailed the backs of his fingers up the exposed line of her throat, then turned his hand, cupped her jaw and bent his head to hers.
Her lips met his confidently. Not overeagerly, but she was ready and willing to follow wherever he led.
It was her control that gave him his, gave him the strength to raise his head without taking the caress any further. Hearing a sound outside the door, he reached around her and drew out her chair. Her eyes met his briefly, then she turned and sat, settling her skirts as the attendant entered pushing the trolley carrying their meal.
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 party, 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 protective 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 femin
ine 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.
On a Wild Night c-8 Page 9
