"She had a list of outings she wished to experience, beyond the ton but not of themselves scandalous. A moonlight drive in Richmond Park, boating on the Thames by night, a visit to Vauxhall in non-approved company, and attending a Covent Garden masquerade."
A wave of low growls swept the room.
"You offered to take her on these outings?"
"No." Martin felt his expression harden. "I had little choice-it was either fall in with her plans, or watch her organize with some other who would. She had Lord Cranbourne in her sights for the drive to Richmond."
"Cranbourne! That slug?" Demon's scowl was black.
"There were others she'd met in Gloucester Street. She had real alternatives. I deemed it safer not to call her bluff."
"And during these outings…"
"No." Martin met Devil's gaze. "I took her on the outings on condition she return thereafter to the ballrooms-where she belonged. However, as it transpired, the outings weren't her true goal. Once they were over, she rescripted the rules and returned to Gloucester Street and other venues even less appropriate." His gaze steady on Devil's, he stated, "What happened thereafter was entirely at her behest, if not precisely as she'd planned."
There wasn't one of them who didn't sympathize; he was admitting to being stalked, and caught, by their cousin. Knowing the moment was right, he pressed on, "In the circumstances, a wedding is the prescribed outcome. So… do I have your permission to address her?"
Devil blinked, frowned. "Wealth, birth, station, estate-all those are in order. But what of the past?"
He inclined his head. "The past will be dealt with."
"Did you do it?"
"No." After a moment he added, "But the inescapable fact is, someone did."
Devil's uncannily penetrating gaze searched his eyes; Martin endured the scrutiny without shifting. Devil nodded. "Very well-I agree. Provided the old scandal is resolved in your favor, a marriage between you and Amanda is clearly appropriate. You have my permission to address her. I'll speak with my uncle on his return."
"Good. And you'll make the family's stance clear?"
Devil shrugged. "To the ton? Of course."
"I meant to Amanda."
That last was met with silence, a different, slightly uneasy one. Devil broke it. "Why?"
"Because, while she's 'agreed' in a manner we'd all accept, on several occasions, she's yet to manage the word 'yes' in the appropriate context."
"Ah." Devil's eyes widened. "You've asked her."
Martin frowned. "Of course. Immediately and several times thereafter. Why else do you imagine I've been chasing her through the ton, not an arena I particularly relish, if not to tighten the noose a few notches before I ask her again?"
"Has she said why she won't agree?" It was Richard who put the question.
Martin hesitated, then replied, his tone hard, "She wants'something more,' by which I take it she means something that would not feature in any marriage contract."
The look on their faces told him they knew exactly what he meant.
Devil's grimace was heartfelt. "Commiserations." After a moment, he asked, "I take it you're not of a mind simply to give it to her?"
"No." Martin considered, then added, "Not if there's any other way."
"And if I was to tell you there probably won't be any other way?"
Martin met Devil's green gaze. "I won't know until we get to that point."
Devil sighed. Nodded. "I'll do what I can, but, conversely, there's little I can do."
"You could speak with her."
"I could, but all that will yield will be a glare, a pert recommendation to mind my own business and a guaranteed wall of feminine disapprobation mobilized to ensure we can do no more to assist your suit."
Vane nodded. "And within the ton, they rule."
"There's a better way." Perched on the arm of the chaise, Demon looked at Martin. "You tell her Devil's given your suit the nod. She'll expect us to hound her. We won't. She'll credit us with better sense than she'd expected, and very likely not mention the matter to our mothers or wives." Demon grinned. "Then we can help you."
Martin considered the committed glint in Demon's eyes, the sense of fellow-feeling now pervading the room. He nodded. "How?"
He told her that evening, on the Fortescues' terrace.
"Devil?"
"He is the head of your house."
Amanda humphed. Resettling her shawl about her elbows, she continued to stroll at his side. "What he or any of them think is beside the point. I have to agree-and I haven't."
"I know." His hard tone had her glancing up; he caught her gaze. "What will convince you to say yes?"
She narrowed her eyes. "I told you before-you need to discover that on your own."
He glanced ahead. Although a dozen other couples were strolling the wide terrace, none had ventured in this direction, to where the terrace was overhung by thickly leaved branches creating a grotto of shadows. "In that case, I assume you're not averse to allowing me to… explore."
She glanced at him. Other sounds reached them; they both turned. Everyone else was returning to the ballroom, drawn by the strains of a waltz.
Martin smiled. "My dance, I believe."
He reached for her, drew her into his arms; she came, but warily. His smile deepened; he began to revolve in the area lit by the wall flares, until she relaxed, until she let the moment and the music sweep her away, and she followed his steps without thought.
Amanda wasn't surprised when he whirled her into the shadows, wasn't surprised when his steps slowed and he drew her closer still.
His words ruffled the curls about her ear. "I've waltzed with you often, so presumably what you want will not be found in the dance." His lips touched her ear, traced the outer curve, then slid into the sensitive hollow behind. "I wonder…"
The hand at her back held her hard against him; his lips caressed so lightly she shuddered. As if that were a signal, he shifted his attentions to her lips, and she suddenly found herself drowning in an inexpressibly sweet kiss.
Not a kiss of claiming, but a kiss that lured, that tempted with promises not just of glory, but… her head spun as she tried to adjust to the sudden shift in his attack. Their steps slowed, halted, as their senses sank deeper and deeper into the enthralling exchange.
His hand didn't leave her back, the hollow just beneath her waist where it habitually rode; his other hand curled about her wrist, lightly stroking.
She was trapped, but not physically. The sensual web he wove was insubstantial yet unbreakable-because she couldn't bring herself to break it, to pull away from the landscape that with his tongue, his lips, his mouth, his breath, he created. It was a landscape where she ruled, and he served. Where, empresslike, she could command, demand, then lie back and have her every desire lavished upon her.
She tried to slip her hand free and reach for him, touch his cheek, but his fingers firmed; he held her hand, drew her closer yet so that the heat and hardness of his body wrapped about her. Shielding her from all else but the communion of their mouths, the drugging promise of the kiss.
"You'll feel much more the thing once you've had a breath of air."
The words, uttered in a voice she recognized, broke their kiss, shattered the magic. Blinking, peering back along the terrace, Amanda saw Edward Ashford escorting Emily, Anne and their friend Miss Ffolliot out from the ballroom from which music still wafted.
Martin swore softly; she felt the same. He set her back on her feet; the loss of his heat only added to her irritation. They were in the shadows, as yet unseen, but they weren't sufficiently screened to ignore the interruption. Setting her hand on his sleeve, Martin turned her; as if they'd been doing nothing else, they strolled out from the branches' shadow.
Having led the way from the ballroom, Edward was standing waiting for the girls to join him. He saw them first; he stiffened, then adopted an even more supercilious expression than usual.
The girls, juggling shawls and reticules
, saw them, smiled and came bustling forward. Edward hesitated, then fell in on their heels.
"Hello! It's quite mild out here, isn't it?"
"Edward thought I looked peaked, so he brought us out here."
"Good evening, my lord."
All three girls had met Martin previously; all were in awe of him, but Amanda's presence gave them courage.
After greeting the girls, Amanda looked at Edward. He was observing Martin narrowly, then he noticed her and inclined his head. Somewhat more stiffly, he nodded to Martin. "Dexter."
Martin nodded back.
Amanda felt like throwing her hands in the air. They were first cousins, for heaven's sake! At least Luc had conversed reasonably. Edward's stiffness, his uneasiness, projected the clear impression he'd be happier gathering the girls and her, too, and retreating from Martin's contaminating presence.
Martin's eyes had narrowed; Amanda gave him credit for not reacting further to Edward's irritating attitude.
Taking Martin's arm again, she smiled at the girls. "We'll leave you to your perambulation. But don't remain out too long-people do notice."
"I can't believe it-they haven't lectured, they haven't growled. Demon even smiled at me!" Amanda stared narrow-eyed at her cousins, currently standing with their wives on the other side of Lady Hamilton's ballroom.
Beside her, Amelia stared, too. "And Devil's given his permission… but surely they've guessed? Perhaps the others haven't heard?"
"According to Patience, they were all there when Martin spoke with Devil."
"Well, then, they've all met him, which means you're right-it's not believable. I'm surprised he's unmarked. They must be up to something."
"Maybe…" Amanda's gaze grew distant. "Yes, that has to be it. Martin must have convinced them that, as what's done is done and he does wish to marry me, to let him manage me-my resistance-on his own." She refocused on her cousins. "He knows how I feel about them and their interference."
"Maybe they've realized that our lives are none of their business."
Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia met her gaze.
Amanda shook her head. Stared again at her cousins. "They're up to something. But what?"
Whatever their plan was, it didn't include discouraging Martin's suit. Giving permission was one thing; in the circumstances, it might have proved difficult not to grant. But actually approving…
As she whirled through the first waltz in Martin's arms, Amanda saw both Vane, and then Gabriel, notice them, then turn away, apparently unperturbed. She refocused on Martin's face. "When you spoke with Devil, did you or he touch on the… degree of our relationship?"
Martin met her gaze. "If you mean did we discuss the fact of our intimacy, no. However, my interpretation of the discussion was that that aspect was understood."
She stared at him. "Taken for granted?"
"Let's say 'assumed.'"
"Humph!" She wasn't sure how to react-relieved her cousins had apparently accepted her right to manage her own life, or wildly suspicious, certain they never would. She settled for being watchful, wary. Looking before she leapt.
"This is bedlam," Martin muttered as the music ended and they halted. "Let's stroll in the foyer. At least we should be able to breathe out there."
She was willing enough; Lady Hamilton had invited more than double the number of people her rooms could actually hold. Unfortunately, her ladyship's guests were still arriving; the foyer, although less packed, was still crowded.
They wended their way through the guests, then Martin twined his fingers with hers and drew her into the mouth of a corridor. "Let's leave this madness. The library's this way-there won't be anyone there yet."
Feeling a touch giddy, she acquiesced. He led her down the dimly lit corridor, then opened a door, looked in, then waved her in.
The library was a medium-sized room, comfortably furnished with chaises before the fire and a handsome desk at the other end. A lighted candelabra stood on a table between the chaises, its glow illuminating a silver tray set with decanters and glasses waiting for the older gentlemen who would gravitate here as the evening wore on.
At present, however, the library was blissfully empty.
Amanda breathed in, then exhaled on a sigh. She felt Martin's gaze on her, felt her nerves prickle, then tense. Eschewing the chaises as potentially dangerous, she strolled to the desk. She halted before it, her gaze drawn to the bookshelves behind it. "This library is nothing like yours."
"No?" Humor echoed in his voice as he prowled in her wake. "How so?"
"It lacks color." She turned, and found him all but breast to chest with her, a familiar sensual glint in his moss-green eyes, a taunting tilt to his lips.
"Just the color?" he murmured.
She felt all three words. Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck. "That, and a few other amenities."
She drew his lips to hers, confident-determined. The chaises were too far away; with the desk at her back, indulging in one, albeit lengthy kiss was safe. A kiss to further whet his appetite, to appease hers. She was hungry, hungry for all they were doing without because of his stubbornness, and hers.
He was hungry, too, perfectly ready to sink into her mouth, to take, to claim, at her invitation. His hands fastened about her waist, holding her steady as he angled his head and feasted. As eager as he, she gave herself up to it-reveled in the heated exchange. Urged him on, confident the situation limited the possibilities. If she wanted to tempt him to give her all, she needed to remind him of what he would gain when he did.
When his hands eased their grip, then rose to her breasts, she exulted. Felt the leap of her pulse, the sudden surge of yearning, saw no need to hide it. Let the need pour through her, glorying in the heady tide of desire, pressed her lips to his and let him sense it, then fractionally drew back, taunting him, challenging him.
He kissed her voraciously; his hands closed, kneading, then through the fine silk of her gown, his fingers found her nipples, closed, squeezed. She gasped, drew back from the kiss, arched her head back; she'd forgotten the intensity, the sheer sensual force. His lips traced the line of her throat, then returned to capture hers again. To pull her ruthlessly back into the fire and the rising flames.
Martin had intended to go slowly, to coax her into passion, to guide her along the road to sensual desire, and its ultimate satisfaction. To lay before her all the splendors like the expert he was, a king wooing his queen, to show her the beauties of the landscape that together they could travel.
He hadn't counted on her fire, on the rush of desire and passion that rose at his touch, welled and poured through their kiss. Hadn't calculated on the arousing effect of her fingers sliding through his hair, then gripping, wordlessly evocative. Hadn't anticipated his own response.
She drove him giddy. Drove him wild.
His lungs locked; suddenly, he could think of nothing beyond the moment of having her, the incredible sensation of sinking into her willing body and feeling her clamp, hot and wet, about him.
He wanted-that, her-with a simple, uncomplicated, ravenous hunger utterly unlike his characteristic elan and all the more powerful for that.
Powerful enough to send his hands skating over her, eager to possess. To repossess, to have again. Devastating enough for his lips to devour hers, to claim her mouth in a primitive prelude. Gripping her waist, he lifted her to sit on the desk, pushing back her skirts, pressing her knees apart.
Gentleness had flown; neither he nor she minded.
Quite the opposite.
One hand was beneath her skirts, frothed up between them, fingers sliding, sinking, over and over, repetitively probing the slick heat of her sheath, all to her urgent murmurs, to the thunder in their veins, when the door latch clicked.
Unsurpassed instincts, lightning-fast reflexes had saved him in the past.
By the time the door swung open, he was concealed behind a Chinese screen that stood five feet from the desk. Slumped against the bookshelves, his chest hea
ving, his pulse pounding in his ears-Amanda clutched against him, one hand clamped over her lips to stifle her indignant protest. One with which he fervently agreed.
From beyond the screen came silence, then: "This is the library."
They both recognized the voice, both held their breath.
Footsteps entered the room. After a moment, Lady Jersey inquired, somewhat disgruntled, "Now what?"
Above his hand, Amanda's eyes were huge. She tugged his hand from her face, mouthed, "Who?"
Martin shook his head slightly. Wondered how long they could stand as they were without making the slightest sound. The faintest rustle.
Who the devil was Sally Jersey, the ton's greatest gossip, talking to? And why were they here? More important, when would they leave?
Heels tapped as Sally wandered the room; luckily, she'd headed for the fireplace.
Then a firm footstep sounded in the corridor; an instant later, someone else paused on the threshold.
"Sally? What are you doing here, all by yourself?"
Amanda stiffened. It was Devil's drawl.
"Truth to tell, St. Ives, I really don't know." They heard the crackle of paper. "I received a note asking me to come here-well, to the library. There isn't another in this house, is there?"
"Not that I know of."
"How strange."
"Are you planning to wait, or can I escort you back to the ballroom?"
"You may give me your arm-and the next dance, too, come to that."
Devil chuckled. "If you wish."
An instant later, the door closed-and they were, once more, alone.
"Great heavens!" Amanda wriggled.
Martin winced, and set her back on her feet.
"That was…" She blinked at the desk, remembered all that had happened, and what, just, had not. She blushed. "A very near-run thing."
Tight-lipped, she shook out her skirts, rearranging them, the action and her expression stating louder than words that the interlude was over.
Martin dragged in a huge breath, exhaled through his teeth.
When she threw him a suspicious glance, he offered his arm. "We'd better return to the ballroom."
"Heaven knows what would have happened if Silence hadn't walked in!" Amanda halted, frowned. "No-that's not true. I do know what would have happened, and it would have worked more to his advantage than mine."
On a Wild Night c-8 Page 27
