On a Wild Night (8 page)

Narrowing his eyes, he locked them on hers, then brusquely gestured down the park. “I suggest we get on.”

Her smile deepened, but she acquiesced with a nod. They set off at a trot, heading for the tan track.

He watched her as they rode, conscious of a need to simply let his gaze rest on her, uncertain from where such a need sprang. She rode well, hands and posture assured, apparently unconscious of his gaze.

As before, the park was deserted; as before, they sprang their horses the instant they gained the tan. Side by side, they thundered through the morning, the air sharp, biting as they flew through it, drawing color into her cheeks and eyes. When they slowed, the mare danced, eager for more; Amanda steadied her and brought the horse alongside his.

They turned back up the park to where the groom waited under the tree. Martin watched her still, aware to his fingertips of how alive she was, with the dawn just bringing the gold to her hair, deepening the blue of her eyes. Feminine vitality incarnate—he was conscious of the tug, the visceral attraction.

She glanced his way. He met her gaze, brimming with life and a still innocent joy in all life's pleasures, no matter how small, no matter how unsophisticated. No matter how private.

He looked ahead. “Richmond. It'll be fine tonight.” He glanced at her. “Can you steal away again?”

“Tonight?” She worried her lower lip, clearly running down her list of engagements. “My parents are attending the Devonshires' dinner, but Amelia and I cried off.”

“Amelia?”

“My sister. We often go to our own engagements these days, so tonight, indeed, I can easily be free.”

Martin reined in. “Very well. Tonight. But I have a stipulation.”

She considered him. “What stipulation?”

“That you tell no one where or with whom you're spending your evening. Furthermore”—he locked his gaze with hers—“I will agree to escort you to your four selected entertainments on condition that you will not, this Season, add to that list, and that you will not at any time tell anyone of those entertainments or of your association with me.”

Amanda didn't reply immediately, too busy evaluating the proposition, too busy keeping a too-delighted, too-victorious smile from her lips. When she was sure she could manage both, she met his gaze. “Very well. I agree.”

The roan shifted; he steadied the horse. “I'll meet you at the corner of North Audley and Upper Brook Streets. A black carriage will be waiting.”

“A closed carriage?”

“Most definitely. We'll switch to my curricle once away from fashionable eyes.”

She smiled, let her gaze dwell on him, then confidingly stated, “Such a relief to be in the hands of one who knows.”

His eyes narrowed; she smiled more brightly and saluted. “Until tonight, then. What time?”

“Nine. Everyone else will be at the dinner table then.”

She allowed her smile to widen, laughed at him with her eyes, then shook the reins and headed for the gates—before she became too flown on success and gave herself away.

 

“It's working perfectly! Absolutely
perfectly
—he can't help himself.”

“How so?” Amelia climbed onto Amanda's bed and
slumped beside her. It was late afternoon, a time when they often spent an hour alone.

“He's so like our cousins, just as I suspected. He can't stop himself from protecting me.”

Amelia frowned. “From what? You're not doing anything too dangerous, are you?”

“Of course not.” Amanda flopped back on the bed so she didn't have to meet Amelia's eyes. Attending the Corsican Consul's
soirée
had been the most risky thing she'd ever done; she'd been very much aware of that as she'd chatted to Leopold Korsinsky and prayed Dexter would come to her side. Reggie had refused to escort her there, but she'd had to go. Amelia had explained her disappearance from Lady Cavendish's drawing room on the grounds of a headache, and, thanks to Dexter, to the accuracy of her perceptions of him, all had gone well. As long as he was in the same room, she would never be in danger. “It's more a case of creating the
potential
for danger, at least in his mind. For him, that's more than enough.”

“So tell me—what exactly are you doing?”

“I can't tell—he made it a condition that I tell no one what we're about. Not even that it's him escorting me, but you already know that.”

Amelia's frown deepened, but then eased. “Well, after all these years, you should know what you're doing.” She settled deeper into the bed.

“How's your plan progressing?” Amanda asked.

“Slowly. I hadn't realized how many possible husbands exist in the ton once you disregard the matter of them actually wanting a wife.”

“I thought you already had a gentleman in your sights.” Amanda had a suspicion she knew who it was.

Amelia blew out a breath. “I do, but it's not going to be easy.”

Amanda said nothing; if it was who she suspected, that was an understatement.

“I've decided I have to be sure, beyond all doubt, that he's the one above all others I want, given snaring him is going to
take so much effort.” Amelia paused, then added, “And given I might not succeed.”

Amanda glanced at her twin, but could think of nothing to suggest.

Minutes ticked by and they simply lay, content in each others' company, their minds flitting over their hopes, their plans—all the things they never spoke of except to each other. Amanda was deep in imagining what might come of her jaunt to Richmond when Amelia asked, “Are you really sure it's safe to
encourage
Dexter's protectiveness?”

“Safe?” Amanda blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you remember all we've heard from Honoria and Patience and the others, then that protectiveness you're playing with goes hand in hand with
possessiveness
. And not just common or garden possessiveness, either. At least, not with our cousins.”

Amanda considered. “But that's what I want, isn't it?”

Amelia's voice reached her. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Amanda slipped through the side gate of her parents' house into a narrow lane. Closing the gate, wrapping her cloak about her, she walked quickly to the end of the lane and peeped out.

A black carriage stood waiting at the corner of North Audley Street.

He was watching for her; the carriage door swung open as she neared.

“Come. Quickly.”

His hand appeared; large, long-fingered, it beckoned imperiously. Hiding a smile, she placed her fingers in his and let him help her in. She sat and he leaned past her, closing the door, then he tapped on the carriage ceiling; the carriage lurched and rumbled off.

Only then did his fingers slide slowly from hers. In the light from a street flare, she saw him looking down at her. She smiled delightedly, then glanced at the passing streets.

Excitement skittered along her veins, flickered over her skin. The sensation owed more to his presence, his nearness in the dark, than to their intended destination. She felt his gaze leave her face, sweep down; she was acutely aware of him, of his heat, his sheer maleness, aware she was confined in the cocoon of the carriage with all that, and the consequent possibilities.

“At least you had the sense to wear a pelisse.”

She glanced at him. “I doubt I would enjoy the drive while shivering with cold.” She was prepared to shiver from another cause, but not cold.

The carriage slowed, then turned in through tall gateposts topped with . . . were they eagles? They'd driven around a large block and down Park Lane. A mansion appeared; the drive wended past it and on.

“My curricle's waiting.”

The carriage rocked to a stop on the words. Dexter opened his door and alighted, then helped her down.

The yard was heavily shadowed. Dexter led her to a curricle and handed her up to the seat. Two grooms were leading the coach horses away; another held the prancing pair harnessed to the curricle. Taking the reins, Dexter sat beside her. He glanced at her, then reached around and rummaged. “Here.” He dropped a thick, soft wrap on her lap. “It'll be colder driving.” Looking forward, he nodded to the groom. “Let them go.”

Releasing the horses, the boy dashed for the back of the curricle as Dexter flicked the reins. Amanda grabbed the rail as gravel crunched and the curricle rocketed forward. As they rounded the house, she scanned the massive edifice but it was shrouded in darkness and shadows. They swept on and the gates loomed ahead. Once Dexter took the turn and the wheels were rolling evenly, she released the rail and settled back.

Shaking out the wrap, she found it beyond luxurious—silk with a sumptuous weight. And the colors—deep, rich, even in the weak light. It had long fringes at both ends. She swung it over her shoulders, then tucked it about her. Dexter glanced at her, confirmed she was suitably swathed, then looked to his horses.

His house stood near the south end of Park Lane, the southeast corner of the fashionable area. Safe enough for her to ride openly beside him through the night as he steered the curricle further south and onto the Kings Road.

The horses were fresh, other carriages few and far between. Amanda sat back and enjoyed the cool air, the quiet
of the night. They made good time, crossing the river at Putney, then rolling on through villages and hamlets. During the journey, the clouds dispersed, leaving the moon to shine freely. Eventually, they came to the village of Richmond, sleeping beneath a star-spangled, black-velvet sky. Beyond the last house, running from the village to the river, lay the dark expanse of the Deer Park.

She straightened as the first huge tree, bare branches spread wide, drew near. She'd been here often over the years, recognized the area, yet all seemed different in the dark. More evocative, the promise of excitement infinitely more acute. Cool tingles prickled over her skin and she shivered.

Instantly she felt Dexter's gaze, but made no move to meet it. He was forced to look to his horses as they rolled deeper into the shadowy park.

Silence engulfed them, pervasive and profound, disturbed only by the hoot of an owl, the scurrying of some nocturnal creature and the dull clop of the horses' hooves. The moonlight was faint, enough to see shapes but not colors. The breeze was faint, too, wafting the scent of trees, grass and leaf mold. The deer were asleep, round lumps beneath the trees. Some were standing, but evinced no interest in the interlopers into their moonlit world.

They were deep in the park, out of sight of all things human, when Dexter drew the horses to a halt. The silence, the eerie quality of the night, intensified and closed about them. He tied off the reins and turned to her. Eyes wide, she drank in the sight of the parkland rolling away from the carriage drive, edged by trees and copses, empty of all save the moonlight.

“Exciting enough?”

The words reached her on a whisper; no cynicism came with them—he seemed as appreciative as she.

She drew in a breath—the air was cooler, sweeter than any she'd ever tasted. “It's . . . strange.” She glanced at him. “Come—let's walk a little way.”

His brows rose but he stood, stepped past her and jumped down. He gave her his hands, helped her down the steps, then, enclosing one of her hands in a firm grasp, he surveyed the silvered sward. “Which way?”

“There.” She pointed across the expanse before them to a pinetum.

Dexter called a command to the groom, then, her hand still locked in his, they set out.

It had been years since she'd walked hand-in-hand. She found it unexpectedly enjoyable, leaving her freer than if she'd taken his arm. Yet when her boot slipped in a dip, he pulled her up, steadied her easily. She laughed and smiled her thanks, resettled the luxurious wrap, then let him take her hand and they walked on.

Behind them, the carriage drive dwindled. The sense of being alone, the sole living beings in the quiet landscape, grew with every step. The consciousness of being isolated, one male, one female, burgeoned; there was no other living creature to distract or deflect their senses.

The magic that hung in the moonlit air was a drug. Amanda felt giddy by the time they were nearing the pines. She was aware Dexter was watching her; his thoughts were impossible to guess.

How did he see her? As an obligation, a young lady he felt honor-bound to protect? Or as a lady with whom he was happy to be walking handfasted through the moonlight?

She didn't know which, but she was determined to find out.

The pines were grouped to create a grove with a path winding through it; she glanced at Dexter. “Can we go in?”

His eyes met hers. “If you wish.”

She led the way, gazing about her as they moved into the trees' shadows. The path led to a clearing where the interested could pause and admire the individual trees. She did so. The trees hid the moon; the clearing was lit only by diffused light, even softer, less substantial, than moonlight.

Sliding her fingers from Dexter's, she adjusted the silken wrap. She paused, eyes on the trees, senses alive to the subtle promise, the elusive whisper on the night air. She turned to him. His gaze shifted from the trees to her. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then stepped closer. Lifted one hand to his shoulder, stretched up and set her lips to his.

He didn't immediately react, then he stirred; his hands locked about her waist and anchored her in the same instant
his lips firmed. He returned her caress, then his tongue touched her lips and she parted them. He surged in.

Their lips clung, their tongues twined, caressed, made artful promises. His fingers flexed against her spine, sinking deeper, as if to hold her where she was, her feet firmly on the ground. Preserving the small but definite distance between their bodies, when all she wanted was to close it.

He drew back from the kiss, lifted his head, but seemed incapable of lifting it far. His eyes searched hers. “What are you seeking?”

She slid her fingers to his nape. “I told you—excitement. You told me I could find it here.”
In your arms
. With her eyes, she dared him to misunderstand as, ignoring the pressure of his hands at her waist, she stepped closer. Her pelisse brushed his coat. She held his gaze, darkly shadowed, and prayed she struck the right note—one of blatant challenge. “Show me, then.” Her gaze fell to his lips. “I want to know—I want to feel it.”

Stretching up, she kissed him again; this time he met her from the start. Their lips melded, tongues tangled . . . then, as if she'd succeeded in getting him to open some door, the muscles of his arms unlocked. His fingers eased from her waist; his hands slid over, then under the slipping silk wrap. Slowly, deliberately, he drew her to him.

The contact, body to body, was a shock—a delicious one. The sheer strength now caging her would have had her resisting had it been any other man. Instead, she sank against him, inwardly smiled as his arms tightened and his hands shifted over her back. Gloried in the contrasts—her slenderness against his large body, the fineness of her bones against the heaviness of his. Her body reacted; she felt his react to her—felt her pulses leap. Sensed his need to seize. Was grateful that he didn't.

He felt like iron beneath his clothes—hot, resilient—male. Her breasts, flush against his coat, started to ache; her palms itched. Sliding her hand into his hair, she tumbled the thick locks, as heavy and silken as the wrap, over and through her fingers. Her other hand rested on his chest; she would have sent it wandering but he distracted her.

Drew her deep into the kiss, caught her wits, captured her senses with a sudden flare of sensual heat. With the sudden unmasking of desire, his and hers, the temptation of an unfamiliar need.

Martin angled his head and took the kiss still further, drawing her with him, holding her captive—where he needed to keep her. Where his brain had been when he'd followed her into the grove, heaven only knew. He hadn't been thinking clearly since they'd entered the deserted landscape. Which was how she'd trapped him, how she'd been able to draw him into this exchange, one he knew very well was unwise. Yet how to refuse, how to deny her . . . an impossible task in his present frame of mind.

Her lips were luscious, her mouth pure temptation, the soft, supple body trapped against his quintessentially feminine. He focused on the kiss, on exploring further, on extracting every last ounce of pleasure from the next caress, and the next . . .

Better that than allow his rakish senses time to evaluate, to consider the possibilities inherent in the lissome body filling his arms.

She murmured and pressed nearer, delicately shivered; his arms tightened reflexively, molding her to him, seeking her pleasure, and his. He took her mouth in a searing kiss, let her feel, sense, more of the fire with which she seemed so keen to play.

That lick of heat enthralled her—he sensed it in the faint tensing of her spine, the focusing of her attention, of her desire. That last was elusive, sweet when he could evoke it but veiled, cautious . . .

The welling need to lure her desire into the open shook him. An unfamiliar wish—he'd never coveted a woman's wanting before. All his life, the shoe had been on the other foot; they had always wanted him to want them. Yet now . . .

He tried to rein back—found he couldn't. The temptation was simply too great.

She met his next, more demanding kiss readily, but he still sensed a barrier, insubstantial but real, limiting how much she would show him, reveal to him—how much of herself she was prepared to give him.

Even as he took her mouth again, felt her cling, sensed her gasp, even as desire insidiously infused his frame, the realization that he couldn't press for more, not yet—if he was wise, not ever—rang through his brain.

He broke the kiss, tipped her head back, set his lips to skate her jaw, then dip lower. The slender column of her throat lured him, the skin covering it like peach-satin. His fingers drifted, senses caught, mesmerized; his lips explored, tasted, found her heartbeat thudding wildly at the base of her throat.

Her fingers were in his hair, tangling, trailing. When he finally found the strength to lift his head, she brushed back the fall of hair across his brow and looked into his face, studied his eyes. Then her fingers touched his cheek, traced down, fleetingly brushed his lips.

She smiled—pleased, satisfied. Just a little rattled—the breath she drew was shaky. It shook even more as her breasts pressed against his chest.

“Thank you.” Her eyes shone brilliantly even in the weak light. She eased back—he had to order his muscles to unlock, force his arms to loosen.

She tilted her head, her eyes still on his. “We'd better get back to the carriage. It'll be late by the time we return to town.”

That should have been his line, not hers. He resisted the urge to shake his head—shake his laggard wits into place. His expression was set, impassive; impossible to project any thought through the etched mask of desire.

She stepped back and he let her, but felt his reluctance to his bones.