Her arms were waiting to slide about him when he straightened. She came into his arms and he closed them about her; she lifted her face and he bent his head, covered her lips. Surged into her mouth, traced her tongue, tangled with it, and felt her sink against him. Press nearer. Hot body to hot body, naked flesh to naked flesh.
Passion surrounded them, wings of heat beating steadily, slowly closing in.
He reached out and hauled back the bedcovers, urged her the last step to the bed. She hitched herself up to sit on the silk sheet. He followed, one knee on the bed; she let him tumble her back so she lay with her head on the pillows, golden curls spilling across his ivory sheets.
He knew just how he wanted her, knew the position that would most suit their need. Stretching out beside her, the covers pushed back behind him, he ran his hands over her arms, her shoulders, down her back, around her hips, down her legs, settling her half beneath him in the accommodating comfort of the thick featherbed so its support would cushion her against his thrusts, so their bodies could entwine and merge without restraint.
The firelight shed a warm glow over her milk-white skin, sent flickering fingers to dance across her full breasts, already peaked and swollen. He savored the contrast as he closed his tanned hand about one firm mound, then traced possessively down, over her sleek curves, over the sumptuous flesh, over the curve of her hip, down the long line of her thigh. To her knee.
Her body was soft, supple, receptive; his was hard, musclebound, menacingly strong.
They were both burning, barely holding the urgency at bay, both struggling to harness the driving need just this much—enough to savor the moment, to know it, see it, feel it all.
Closing his hand, he looked into her face, into the blue eyes, brilliant and dark, that watched him from beneath heavy lids. Their faces were close, his above hers as he lay propped half over her. His gaze shifted to her lips, bruised and yearning, waiting; he felt her breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.
Desire welled like a tide; passion closed in, ever tighter, around them. If he kissed her, they would both be swept away . . .
He locked his gaze with hers, pressed her knee outward, then let his hand slide up the inner face of her thigh. Eyes on hers, he cupped her, waited through her reaction—her quick intake of breath, her instinctive shift against him—then he parted her, touched her. Probed, caressed, until her breath shuddered, until her fingers gripped and tugged.
Still holding her gaze, he drew his fingers from her, lifted against her, set his erection to her entrance, pressed in.
Slowly. Inch by inch, he sank into her softness, steadily merged their bodies until, with a last little thrust, he seated himself fully within her. She shivered, closed her eyes—her body gripped him. With a guttural murmur, he touched his lips to her closed lids, ran his hand down and around her hip, down her thigh, gripping, lifting, wrapping her leg about his hip.
Then he moved—upon her, inside her. She gasped, arched, breasts caressing his chest, fingers gripping. The repetitive, intimate rocking captured her senses; her body softened, accepted, adjusted, tentatively, then with greater assurance, met and joined with his.
Her lashes flickered, parted—she studied his face, then glanced down, watched her body fluidly shift with each rhythmic thrust as he possessed her.
Her gaze lifted again to his face. Her fingers trailed from his shoulder to his cheek, then slid into his hair.
She drew his lips down to hers, opened her mouth beneath his. Drew him deep when he boldly surged in. Drew them both into the fire.
They burned and bathed in the heat, in the passion, in the elemental tide of desire. Amanda knew nothing beyond the moment, nothing beyond the sensations of his body and hers sliding, merging, cocooned in his silk sheets. The pressure of his chest against her breasts, the rasp of crisp hair against her sensitized skin, the wanton arching of her body, the surrender as she took him in—deeper and yet deeper—all these were imprinted on her mind.
Along with the caress of his hands, the reverence with which he soothed her, eased her into the ever deepening intimacy, the warm brush of his breath across her lips when they paused, fighting for breath, for a moment of sanity, before sinking back into the addictive heat.
Even through the flames, even through her own yearning, she was aware of his, of the way he moved upon her, around her, within her, caressing her in every way a man could, lavishing pleasures, taking his own but not seizing. Accepting all she gave, but not demanding, not commanding as he might have done—as he had the ability to do . . .
Worshipful. The word whispered through her mind as he drew back a fraction, lifted slightly from her to drive deeper still into her pliant body.
Supplicant . . . him or her? She couldn’t work it out. Couldn’t think, could only spread her hands on his back and hold him to her as the fire rose and took them both.
Yet still there was no hint of desperation, of that familiar all-consuming urgency, only the steadily escalating rise, the inexorable build of that indescribable need.
Until, at the last, they crested, thrown high on a wave of heat and mindless pleasure. Ecstasy swept her; delight and so much more rushed through her veins, turned her body incandescent with glory. She heard her own cry; he bent his head and drank it from her. Moments later, his body stiffened; she wrapped her arms about him, held tight as he thrust deep, then the shuddering wave of his release swept through him.
She held him cradled between her thighs; as his locked muscles eased, she drew him down. Felt his hands, gentle, reverent, settling her beneath him. She closed her eyes and drifted with the tide.
It couldn’t have been that long before she opened them again, yet so much had changed. Not on the physical plane—he still lay beside her, stretched out alongside, large, warm and naked, his hand drifting lazily over her, his gaze on his fingers, on the skin they caressed.
His touch was the same as before—reverent. She let her gaze dwell on his face, on the hard planes that gave so little away, that shielded his secrets so well.
She was the one who had changed. Physically in that, having tasted such glory, she would forever want it again. He might as well have branded her, so completely physically his did she feel. But those were the more minor revelations, the lesser adjustments. The knowledge she’d gained in the last hour far transcended that.
It was inherent in the golden glory that held her, and him. That stretched between them, lapped about them—linked them. All she’d felt, all she’d sensed—all she could still not see in his face, but could feel in his touch.
She watched him, felt her heart swell, yet she reined her triumph back. Wondered . . . she might have won the last hand, but it was up to him to provide the next lead.
He’d moved lower in the bed when he’d lifted from her; his shoulders level with her chest, one leg bent, anchoring hers, he watched his fingers trace the curve of her stomach. Spread his hand, as if gauging . . .
She suddenly knew what he was thinking. “I’m not pregnant.” Suddenly giddy, she pushed up onto her elbows the better to see his face.
The mossy green eyes that rose to meet hers had one word blazoned in them: mine.
“How do you know?” His tone was even. His fingers kept tracing; his gaze remained on hers.
She stared at him, at what she could read in his eyes—he looked exactly like a thoroughly satisfied lion, tail twitching as he surveyed his prize . . .
He was watching her carefully. “You may as well agree to marry me.”
She wanted to marry him—the revelation burned her tongue: I’ll marry you if . . .
If he told her he loved her?
That wouldn’t work, wouldn’t convince her heart. There were at least ten gentlemen searching Lady Montacute’s ballroom for her, all of whom would be only too willing to go down on their knees and swear to eternal love despite the fact none of them knew what it was.
She needed to know Martin loved her, completely, utterly, beyond all reservation.
But that wasn’t the principal reason she needed to hear the words, volunteered, freely offered. She needed to know that he knew.
The soft thud of her heart still filled her ears, the warm glow of aftermath still held her as she studied his eyes, considered his direction, and what he wanted her to believe. If she asked for a declaration of love, made her acceptance of his suit conditional on hearing one, he might well oblige—without actually meaning it, without truly facing the fact.
“No.” She slumped back onto the pillows, stared up at the canopy. Tried to blot out his nakedness, and hers.
Silence, then he stirred, came up on his hands and knees over her—prowled up to look down at her face.
His was a mask of utter implacability. “I won’t give up.”
A growl—a warning. She glared up at him. “Neither will I.”
The comment took him aback—clearly mystified him—which only added to her ire. “Let me up.” Twisting, she bent her knees, pushed at his left arm; he let her slide from beneath him, but swung up and followed on her heels.
“This is ridiculous!” When she didn’t pause but, spying her chemise, headed for it, Martin reached out, wrapped his hand in the curls at her nape, and drew her back to him. All the way back, finally looping an arm around her and drawing her flush, once more, against him.
Her eyes snapped at him. “I couldn’t agree more.”
She tried to free her hair, but he declined to unclench his fist. Looking into her face, he tried to ignore the immediate reaction of his body to the silken caress of hers, knew by her breathing that she was perfectly aware of it, too. “We’ve been intimate on three occasions.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Four.”
He counted. “Four. Which only increases the odds that you’re carrying my child.”
“Possibly.”
“If you are, we’re getting married.”
Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn’t define them.
She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go. “If,” she stated, “it proves to be so, then we can discuss marriage.” She turned away, swiped up her chemise. “Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Amanda.”
He argued, and swore, then argued some more.
It did no good. And by then she was dressed.
Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his paramour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.
He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. “Why?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. “I told you before, I want more. There’s something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you.”
“What is this thing?” He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.
“That,” she replied, her tone turning glacial, “is what you”—she jabbed his chest—“have to discover! I’m only assuming you have what I need. If you don’t . . .”
Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. “If you don’t, then you haven’t, and that will be that.”
He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips—probably on unwise words—
Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. “I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord.”
He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. “As you please, my lady.”
His. She was, very definitely, that.
If it hadn’t been for the hours they’d spent in his bed, he might have wondered if she’d played him for a fool, if she’d been interested only in an illicit interlude, or four, with one whom her circle would dub seriously dangerous. Even now, he wasn’t sure his reputation hadn’t, in part, contributed to the attraction, at least at first. But now . . . now, there was more to her motives than simple lust.
Returning to his bedchamber an hour later, having seen her back into the chaos of the masquerade, watched until she’d found her sister and Carmarthen and left, he exhaled. He was relaxed but not at peace, tired but not sleepy. Shutting the door, he headed for the huge armchair before the fire. A splotch of white glowing against the rich hues of the rug caught his eye.
The orchids he’d sent her, the orchids she’d worn at her throat so he’d known her instantly; he picked them up.
She’d left the masquerade as soon as she’d rejoined her sister and Carmarthen; at the time, he’d wondered if that was because she’d known he was watching and he wouldn’t allow her to flirt with other gentlemen, or because she’d only attended the masquerade to meet with him. Dropping into the armchair, he turned the orchids between his fingers. His frame of mind, then, had not been all that rational.
Looking back on their encounters, studying the orchids, he knew full well it was the latter—she’d come to meet him, as she had so often before.
Aside from anything else, she was not that sort of woman—the sort who went easily, without thought or affection, to a man’s bed. She was a Cynster—he understood her type well. She came from the same stock as he, but he’d never known a Cynster female, one born and bred, only Cynster males. His experience of her thus far suggested he’d be wise to extrapolate.
Thus far, he’d underestimated her at every turn.
He’d known from the first that she was playing some game, yet he hadn’t been able to perceive her goal—what she’d wanted to win. He’d let himself be cajoled into playing with her, let himself fall under her spell, all the while confident that she—an innocent no matter her years—could not possibly wring from him anything he didn’t wish to give.
He considered the orchids, the thick, milky-white petals soft, smooth, like her skin, then curled his fingers, closed his hand about the flowers.
Breathed in their scent.
Closed his eyes, let his head rest against the chair’s back.
He knew what she wanted.
He’d hoped to avoid having to play for that stake, having to defend it, yet she’d taken every trick thus far, and left him with little else to toss on the table to avoid having to risk his heart.
A log in the fireplace cracked, broke. Opening his eyes, he watched the flames leap, felt their warmth roll over him.
Considered his last remaining option.
For there was one thing more, one trump he yet held, a penultimate card that just might see him through, might let him turn the tide and seize her hand—and her—without having to risk his heart’s defenses.
The question was: was he willing to play it?
“These arrived for you a few minutes ago, Miss Amanda.”
Reaching the front hall, Amanda looked up as Colthorpe offered a tissue-wrapped spray of flowers on his salver. “Thank you, Colthorpe.”
Amelia joined her as she picked up the spray. Together with Louise, presently descending the stairs, they were about to leave for Lady Matcham’s grand ball. “That ribbon’s gold thread,” Amelia murmured.
Amanda studied the spray. The tissue protecting the blooms was caught in the ribbon so it could easily be freed. Holding the beribboned stems, she tugged; the tissue came away, revealing three perfect white orchids.
Amelia stared; Amanda did, too.
Louise arrived beside them. “How lovely!” She picked up the spray, examined the blooms. “Incredibly exotic.” She returned the spray to Amanda. “Who are they from?”
Amanda glanced at Colthorpe. “There wasn’t a note.”
Colthorpe shook his head. “Delivered by a groom in dark brown livery, green-and-gold piping. I didn’t recognize the house.”
“Well.” Louise headed for the front door
. “You’ll just have to carry it and see who comes to claim your hand.”
Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia stared back.
“Come along now, or we’ll be late.”
“Yes, Mama.” Amelia linked her arm with Amanda’s and urged her forward. “Come on—you’ll have to go and see.”
“Indeed.” Amanda fell in beside her, her gaze locked on the three delicate blooms.
She would have to go and face her lion.
Martin waited until the very last minute, until the last stragglers had arrived and Lady Matcham and her spouse were about to abandon their post at the top of their ballroom stairs. When he handed the butler his card, the man nearly dropped it, but he recovered well enough, stepping forward to announce to the assembled company that the Earl of Dexter had arrived.
If he’d announced the plague, the butler couldn’t have gained greater notice. Silence spread, rippling out from the foot of the stairs until it engulfed the entire ballroom. Conversation died as every head turned, necks craning to get a better look.
Martin walked forward. Taking her ladyship’s instinctively extended hand, he bowed easily. “Ma’am.”
For one instant, Lady Matcham simply stared, then triumph wreathed her features. “My lord. Might I say that it’s a signal . . .”—she ran an eagle eye over him, from his elegantly cropped locks, over shoulders encased in fashionable evening black, over perfectly tied cravat and impeccable waistcoat—after all, she had been one of his mother’s bosom-bows—then she nodded in approval—“pleasure to see you finally out of your lair?”
In the ballroom below, the whispers commenced—ferociously.
Martin nodded to Lord Matcham, who nodded back, clearly intrigued by Martin’s unexpected attendance. Martin replied, “It was time and the arrival of your invitation seemed a stroke of fate.”
“Indeed?” With a wave, Lady Matcham dismissed her spouse, took Martin’s arm and turned to the stairs. “As I recall you always did have a silver tongue—be warned, you’re going to need it. I intend to introduce you to every hostess you’ve spent the last year hiding from.”