On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

She needed peace to think; the Season afforded her precious little of that commodity. With the evening round of balls increasing, she had less and less time to herself, too little time to tend her increasingly tortured thoughts.

What if she'd been wrong? What if he wasn't sufficiently interested to pursue her? What if he hadn't felt the moment as she had, hadn't seen it for what it was? What if…? What if…?

Such questions seemed innumerable and equally unanswerable; determinedly, she focused on what she felt she did know. On what her senses and her instincts insisted was true.

He was the right man for her. After all her years of searching, she was absolutely sure; she knew it in her heart, in her soul. And she was the right woman for him. The thought of some less confident lady dealing with him seemed absurd; he'd rule her like the tyrant he was. Yet…

She flatly refused to accept a proposal based on social strictures. When he'd stated he'd have to marry her, she'd been aghast. She hadn't wanted to believe her ears. Then she had. Yet she didn't know-couldn't tell-whether in fact he felt more for her, but as she could imagine her cousins doing, had used society's rules to conceal his true motive. Or had the fact he felt more for her not yet occurred to him? Who knew what went on in male brains?

A mystery, but in this case, one she couldn't live without unravelling. She had to learn what he truly felt.

So what should her next move in the game be? Presuming they were still playing and he hadn't simply shrugged and already forgotten her.

The thought dragged at her spirits, then she thrust it aside. Reminded herself that lions did not behave like that. They were possessive, and usually quite obsessive about it.

That being so, she couldn't risk returning to his world. If she did, she'd be at his mercy, with him dictating the rules of their game. Handing him such an advantage was out of the question-who knew what he would do with it? Her imagination supplied a number of possibilities, all of which would result in them marrying under the guise of social necessity. No.

Their game would have to proceed as she'd thought-here, in the ton. The problem was, how to lure him from his lair.

Four days had passed since she'd stalked from his house; after that first note, she'd heard no more. After learning his story, hearing it from his lips, she understood that his antipathy to the ton might run deep, accepted that he would not readily step beyond the walls he himself had constructed.

But if she didn't go to him, he would have to come to her. Was there anything she could do to urge him on?

She formulated wild schemes and rejected them. Tried to ignore her incipient dejection; waiting with nothing but hope to warm her was simply not her style.

Long, cool fingers slid around her throat, curving about the sensitive spot where throat and shoulder met.

Reaction streaked through her; her parasol jerked.

"No. Stay where you are."

His voice drifted down to her; his fingers pressed warningly, then eased, drifted across her skin, slid away. Keeping the parasol steady, realizing it largely hid them both, she turned her head and looked up. Met his eyes.

His expression-politely impassive-said nothing; his moss-agate eyes were much more eloquent.

Where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?

She could see those questions, and others, too, crowding his mind, but he asked none of them, and she made no move to answer.

Instead, they simply looked, watched, gauged… wanted.

When he slowly bent to her, she didn't think of moving away-couldn't have done so. Her gaze fell to his lips, then her eyes closed.

The kiss started gently, but then his lips firmed; the caress became more definite, more a statement of intent. Her lips parted and he stole her breath, took it and more from her.

When he lifted his head, she was dizzy and dazed. Then she blinked, focused-hissed, "You can't kiss me in the park!"

"I just did." Rather than straighten, he hunkered down. "No one saw."

She glanced around, confirmed she'd kept the parasol in place; her sudden panic subsided.

"Why aren't you chatting with your sister and Carmarthen?"

The inquiry had her turning to face him; his tone was e

ven, but she could no longer read his eyes.

She waved and looked away. "I'm feeling a touch under the weather."