At least she knew exactly what she wanted, what she would demand before she agreed to any wedding. She wanted his heart, acknowledged and freely offered, before she agreed, body and soul, to be his.
The library fire was still burning when Martin returned from Richmond. Crossing to the sideboard, he poured brandy into a glass, then sprawled on his favorite couch. The daybed where he'd first had Amanda Cynster.
Deflowered her-that was the correct, socially acceptable term. Ergo, he should marry her. That equation seemed perfectly logical to him.
Not, apparently, to her.
Swallowing a growl with a mouthful of brandy, he turned his mind to his next attempt to change her mind. He didn't waste a second on deciding whether or not he would take another tilt at her-that point wasn't in question.
He wanted to marry her. The situation decreed he should.
Therefore he would.
As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough. Whatever she'd meant by her nonsensical question could remain veiled in obscurity-it was bound to be some peculiarly feminine, totally impractical ideal.
So what next? A summons to ride this morning?
He glanced at the clock, considered what time she'd get to her bed. Imagined her in her bed… then in his.
Shaking aside the distracting vision, he considered waiting until the next morning-thirty hours or so-to see her again. He'd gain nothing from the wait, and very likely nothing from a ride. He needed to meet her in surrounds conducive to his arguments-in other words, conducive to seduction. He was an honorable man; surely in this case honor dictated he use every possible weapon to change her mind, to bring her to accept the socially ordained outcome of their dalliance.
Whether that was rationalization, specious argument or not, he didn't care. The fact was, he'd been spoiled. Spoiled as a wild, rich, handsome and titled youth, equally spoiled as a man. He wasn't-very definitely was not-used to hearing "No" from a lady's lips.
It seemed to be Amanda's favorite word.
He drained his glass, then looked at the pile of invitations his man, Jules, invariably stacked on the mantelpiece as if in so doing he could nudge his noble employer into returning to the sphere in which Jules fondly believed said employer belonged. Jules did not have such influence. However…
Martin sighed. Setting his empty glass down on a sidetable, he rose and reached for the stack of white cards.
Not that he intended to formally appear at such functions, but the steady stream of invitations he received made it easy to identify at least one event on any given night at which his prey would be present. Easy enough to pick a house with which, courtesy of the past, he was sufficiently familiar to enter unremarked.
The following evening, he shut the garden gate of the Caldecotts' mansion and calmly strolled to the stairs leading to the ballroom terrace. A waltz was playing as he neared; a couple appeared, whispering as they descended to the gardens, passing him with no more than a glance.
The long windows of the ballroom stood open to the night; he stepped through and surveyed the room, confident that few would recognize him. The majority hadn't seen him for ten long years. Although he would recognize some from the ton's less aristocratic venues, he'd kept a low profile; the few ladies who had reason to remember him well had cause enough to keep their acquaintance secret. While braving the bright light of the chandeliers would be foolhardy, passing briefly through the fringes of social gatherings held minimal risks.
His memory had not failed him; the Caldecotts' ballroom had a gallery circling the room, reached by stairs from each corner. Tacking through the edges of the crowd, he gained the nearest stairs and went up.
The gallery was wide, built for promenading; a number of couples were doing so. With the only light coming from the ballroom's chandeliers, the areas away from the balustrade were wreathed in shadows. The perfect place from which to watch the activity on the dance floor, to track his quarry through the throng of dark coats and bright gowns.
He located Amanda easily-her curls shone like real gold and she was wearing a gown of the same cornflower blue as her eyes.
And arguing with a fair-haired gentleman.
As Martin watched, the gentleman captured Amanda's hand, tried to draw it through his arm. Martin's grip on the balustrade tightened.
Amanda jerked her hand free; furious, she heaped heated epithets on the gentleman's head, then swung on her heel and stormed off through the crowd. While one part of his mind tracked her, Martin watched the gentleman, noted his supercilious shrug, the way he resettled his sleeves, to all appearances not greatly put out by the nature of his dismissal.
Frowning, Martin turned to watch Amanda, saw her reach the foot of one of the gallery staircases.
A minute later, she stepped into the gallery; from behind a large column, he watched her scan the area, then she drifted to the alcove at the end, where wide windows overlooked the gardens. Less than
six feet from her, he stood utterly still in the deep shadow of the column. She searched the lawns, then pressed close to the glass, squinting down at the terrace.
Where was he? If he didn't catch up with her here, Amanda didn't think he'd be able to gain access-not without coming through the main door-at the other ball she was to attend that night. She no longer worried that he might give up, leave her and return to his prior existence; she did, however, wonder what tack he'd take next, what argument he'd offer to convince her she should marry him-
She sensed his presence in the instant before his fingertips traced the curve of her hip. Down, around.
Her senses leapt; her lungs seized-then she drew in a quick breath. Remaining, quivering, where she was, she inclined her head. "Good evening, my lord."