When he stalked into his house two hours later, Martin recalled those words with a certain savage irony. He'd succumbed to her plea with the sole intention of pleasuring her, of easing the ache his kisses had caused.
He'd ended lost, fascinated, enthralled to his bones by the simple act of touching her. Caressing her. Savoring the different textures, the incredibly fine skin of her breasts, her tightly niched nipples, the silken fall of her hair.
He'd enjoyed her far too much. He'd wanted to enjoy her a great deal more. And that way lay madness.
&nbs
p; More specifically, that way led beyond the narrow confines of the world in which he'd chosen to live.
She'd already made him want, made him start to yearn for things he couldn't have. The longer he let her remain in his life, the more she'd undermine his defenses.
Slumping onto the daybed in the library, he took a long sip of brandy and stared into the fire. Her presence lingered, imprinted on his hands, on his senses; her taste was addictive, remembered and desired.
He directed his mind to the problem of how-how to sever all contact.
Chapter 6
Two mornings later, Amanda tiptoed around her bedchamber, wriggling into her chemise and petticoats, then donning her riding habit. She performed the actions by rote, her mind engrossed with thoughts of Dexter, or more correctly, Martin Fulbridge, the man behind the wall. Their last interlude had confirmed that her instincts had been right; the man within was precisely as she'd guessed, and more. There were deeper currents there, deeper wants, deeper needs. A character more complex than she'd expected.
A conquest more challenging than any man she'd met.
Contentment warmed her. She now knew she could succeed; she'd sighted her true quarry-the elusive man. On the boat, he'd revealed himself more clearly than at any time previously. He'd dropped his guard long enough for her to recognize the difference, to feel it in his kiss, sense it in his touch.
A wish, a need, a wonderment that was only partly sensual, although his overt sensuality provided a distracting screen. She had something the elusive lion wanted, something with which she could lure him out of his lair.
That evening had confirmed that all she dreamed of could truly be.
His control, absolute and unwavering, was the next hurdle she needed to overcome; twisting up her hair, she considered how that might best be done, how she might strengthen her hold on him. Rewarding though their dual adventures had proved, she now had only one more outing to which he was committed, one more chance to work her wiles. What possibilities might a Covent Garden masquerade throw her way?
She continued to think, to plot, to plan as she slipped through the silent house and out through the side door. How far would she need to go to trap him, to snare his senses and overthrow his will? What actions on her part were most likely to evoke the desired reaction on his? Protectiveness. Pride. Ultimately, possessiveness, as Amelia had warned. Strong emotions all. Which was it safe to prod, which wiser to let be?
Which did she dare provoke? Where would she draw her line?
Ten minutes later, she rode into the park.
There was no one waiting under the oak by the gates-no roan, no large, dangerous rider.
She felt his absence like a slap. A shock. A sudden emptiness.
She didn't know what to think. After a minute of simply sitting the mare, staring at the empty space, she gathered the reins and set off down the park. Dexter's groom trailed after her.
Her heart, so light mere minutes ago, buoyed by the expectation of seeing him again, had plummeted. A constriction tightened about her chest; inside, she felt hollow. Skittering from one recollection to the next, her mind again and again returned to one question: how much had he guessed?
She reached the tan track; without thought, she sprang the mare. The groom stopped under the trees and watched.
Halfway along with the mare in full stride, the wind whipping her cheeks and tangling her curls, desolation swept her as realization struck. She did not enjoy the moment-the excitement, the thrill-half as much alone.
On the thought, she heard thunder. The thudding of heavy hooves closing rapidly. She flung a glance behind; the roan with its familiar rider was quickly making up lost ground. Facing forward, she smiled ecstatically, knowing he couldn't yet see.
Seconds later, he ranged alongside; she met his eyes, smiled in easy welcome, and prayed no hint of the triumph she felt showed in her face.
He might be here, but he was far from tame. And she wasn't fool enough to think he didn't, at least in part, have her measure.
The end of the track neared; Martin slowed, then they turned aside onto the sward. He drew rein, noting the color the wind had brought to her cheeks. They were both breathing rapidly, courtesy of the ride; he fought not to let his mind focus on the rise and fall of her breasts.
The same breasts that had filled his dreams, not just with sensual images but with sensual longings, with the simple need to experience the sensations again, to sate his tactile senses with a feast more sumptuous, more enthralling than any before.
Signalling the groom back to the gate, he gathered his reins and nodded to a path wending through the trees. "Let's return this way."