On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He caught up with her mere feet from the street, grasped her elbow. "Amanda-"

She twisted her arm free. "Don't you dare!"

He blinked at the sheer fury in her eyes. "Dare?" He'd already…

The memories rose up, a tidal wave of feelings urging him to simply seize her and be damned. Just grab her up, toss her over his shoulder and cart her back to his bed… closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw, held back the impulse. When he opened his eyes, she was heading through the gate.

"For God's sake!" Hands on his hips, he glared after her. Why the devil was she so furious? He wanted to marry her, had stated it perfectly clearly. Eyes narrowing, he set out in pursuit.

Head down, Amanda bit her lip and walked-stalked-homeward. Tried to ignore the odd twinges, the heavy warmth that even now lay just beneath her skin. Luckily, home wasn't far-a few blocks would bring her to Upper Brook Street. She tried to focus on her goal-on her bedroom, her bed.

Not his. The dolt!

Muttering imprecations, she fed her wrath; she couldn't afford to face the rest of her emotions, not with him hard on her heels. It must be two or three o'clock; London lay sleeping, the pavements empty. She wasn't averse to Martin-Dexter-following her, but she'd be damned if she'd discuss their putative marriage further, not until she'd had time to consider, to recall all that had happened, all she'd heard, to determine what was the best way forward.

To determine what tack she'd need to take to uncomplicate the matter he'd just done an excellent job of complicating.

He drew alongside her; she felt him glance at her face, felt the hardness in his gaze.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly." His tone suggested great restraint. "You've had me in your sights from the first night we met. You've had one goal from the outset-to find your way to my bed. Now you've succeeded-and what? You're running home in a panic?"

They'd reached the corner of Upper Brook Street. She stopped, faced him, met his eyes with a belligerence as great as his. "I never intended to trap you into marriage."

She didn't see him move, wasn't conscious of retreating, but she was suddenly backed against the corner house wall, caged.

A street flare lit his harsh features as he looked down at her.

"If not marriage, what, then?" His gaze raked her face. "What do you want of me?"

Heart thudding, she met his gaze fearlessly. "When I succeed in getting it, I promise you you'll know."

She ducked under his arm, whisked around the corner and stalked to her home.

"I can't believe you've finally…" Perched on the end of Amanda's bed, Amelia gestured, round-eyed. "Was it truly a magnificent moment?"

"Yes." Amanda swung on her heel and continued pacing. "At least, / thought so. Who knows what he thought. Or if he thought at all."

Amelia frowned. "I thought you were sure he'd felt the same way."

"I was sure." At the time. Now, she wasn't so certain. Now, she couldn't recall why, sunk in his silken bed, awash on a sea of intense feelings, she'd felt so convinced she'd succeeded in trapping her lion in precisely the way she'd wished-not with any social constraints, but with the many-splendored ties of a true emotion.

She humphed. "Whatever the case, one way or another, he's not going to escape. We've played out the first hand, but we haven't reached the end of the game."

The note wasn't unexpected. When she descended for dinner, their butler, Colthorpe, cleared his throat and discreetly offered his salver on which a folded square of parchment lay. She accepted it with a nod, tucked it into her reticule, then proceeded into the drawing room, into t

he throes of a family dinner, the prelude to two balls and a rout.

Exercising her willpower to the utmost, she didn't fish out the note until she returned to her bedchamber in the small hours of the morning.

After changing into her nightgown and brushing out her hair, she dismissed her maid, then, retrieving the note, she curled up in the chair by the fire and opened it.

As she'd anticipated, it was a summons to ride that morning. She studied the bold, brash strokes, the sparse words that constituted nothing more than an outright order. She refolded the note. After a moment of staring into space, she glanced at the fire. One flick sent the note spinning into it.

She watched the flames rise and turn his summons to ash, then rose and went to her bed.

When the City's clocks struck five, he was waiting at the corner, no groom in sight. He sat his roan, the horse impatiently shifting, the mare saddled and held alongside.

Amanda watched him from the deserted nursery. The morning was grey, cool; the sun had yet to rise. She watched him wait as the shadows shortened, lightened, saw him turn aside as the sun topped the roofs.