On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Martin glanced at him, raised a brow.

"She's a harridan," Luc supplied. "And the very opposite of biddable." He paused, then added, his tone softer, "Come to that, they both are."

Martin asked, "She and her sister?"

"Hmm." Luc was absently searching the crowd. "God only knows why any sane man would want to saddle himself with either."

Chapter l6

The arrival of three white orchids every morning had become a regular feature in her life. When they didn't appear the next day, Amanda felt it like a blow. Yet, after their discussion the previous night, shouldn't she have expected something of the sort? He'd told her it was her call, up to her to accept or reject what he offered. The halting of the orchids presumably meant he'd stopped arguing, stopped trying to seduce her.

Then again, perhaps he'd run out of orchids.

Through the long day filled with social engagements-a morning tea, a luncheon, a drive in the park, an at-home-she vacillated between the two explanations. Her mood swung like a pendulum, even-tempered one moment, deadeningly depressed the next.

When she arrived at Lady Arbuthnot's ball and Martin failed to appear, she plastered on a bright smile while her heart sank to her slippers.

Then she got the note. A footman delivered it-an ivory square inscribed in Martin's strong hand.

Look on the terrace.

That was all it said.

Tucking the note into her pocket, she excused herself from the group with whom she'd been conversing and crossed the crowded ballroom. That took time; when she finally gained the long windows giving onto the terrace, the room behind her was full. The night was mild; the terrace doors stood ajar, but no one was presently availing himself of the moonlight.

The moonlight that glowed on the petals of a white flower lying at the top of the steps leading to the gardens. Amanda picked up the blossom, a single white orchid. If he was adhering to his usual practice, there should be two more. She looked but could see no other white splashes on

the terrace. Then she looked down the steps, wondered…

She glanced back at the ballroom, then quickly descended. The gravel path bordering the lawn led away to left and right. Glancing left, she saw the second bloom lying in a shaft of moonlight at the intersection of two paths.

Her slippers scrunched on the gravel, then she added the second bloom to the first, and looked around for the third. The path leading further away from the house lay empty and dark, but the path following a hedge angling around the side of the house… along that gleamed another splash of white.

The third orchid lay just before an archway in the hedge, the opening to a courtyard. Adding that bloom to the others, Amanda stepped into the archway; pausing, she looked around.

It was a magical scene. The courtyard was filled with box-hedged beds of summer plants and roses, weeping cherries and iris, separated by paved paths all ultimately converging on a semicircular area before the steps of a white summer-house. The summerhouse acted as a gatehouse linking the courtyard with the shrubbery beyond. It was set into and through the first high hedge of the shrubbery which formed the back wall of the courtyard.

Moonlight shimmered on the summerhouse, the only white object in a sea of black-greens and faded red paving. From where she stood, she couldn't see if there was anyone inside; the shadows within were impenetrable.

Drawing in a breath, grateful for the mild evening that made it possible to wander outside without a shawl, she lifted her head and walked boldly forward. The three orchids bobbed in her hand.

He was there, waiting for her, a denser shadow in the dark, lounging on one of the wide benches that lined the interior walls, interrupted by the twin arches, one looking out on the courtyard, the other into the shrubbery.

She halted at the bottom of the four steps leading up; he rose, but then remained, silent and still in the night.

A predator-that her senses acknowledged, yet they leapt in giddy delight. He said nothing; neither did she. For a long moment, she stood looking up at him-she in the moonlight, he in deep shadow. Then, gathering her skirts, she went up the steps.

To him.

He took her hands, removed the orchids from her fingers, laid them aside. He turned to her, studied her face in the dimness, then reached for her. Drew her into his arms, slowly. Bent his head-gave her plenty of time to draw away if she would.

She lifted her face, invited the kiss, sensed the growl of satisfaction that rumbled through him as he covered her lips with his. Took her mouth as she gave it, pressed on her the promise of joy in return.

I want you.

Whether the words whispered in her head or fell from his lips, she couldn't tell. She flexed her fingers against his chest, then eased her hands up until she could twine her arms about his neck and arch against him. Glory in the shift and lock of his arms about her, hands spreading on her back, across her hips, holding her to him while their mouths feasted, eager and greedy for the taste they'd come to crave, for the passion, the heady rush of desire so potent they reeled. They let it well and flood through them, let it sweep them away on its well-remembered tide.

The kiss ended only when they were both gasping, burning with need, with one simple desire. Without thought, without deliberation, they fell on the padded cushions in a tangle of clothes, a tangle of hands grasping, wanting, a tangle of limbs, some hard and hot, others soft and yielding.