On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

The perfect spot to skulk and think.

Slipping behind the palm fronds, she inwardly sighed. There were more gentlemen than just Percival who had her in their sights. It was well known that she and Amelia were well dowered; it was equally well known that they were now twenty-three. Almost on the shelf. Certain gentlemen had concluded that this would make them desperate.

Said gentlemen were right, but their responses to desperation were not as those gentlemen supposed.

"Humph!" She peeked through the fronds. Through an archway giving onto the ballroom, she saw Amelia waltz past in Lord Endicott's arms. Her twin had thrown herself into her own plans; she was set on assessing every eligible-to-them gentleman in the ton.

Mentally wishing Amelia luck, fleetingly wondering if Luc Ashford had yet arrived, Amanda turned her thoughts to her own plan. Would Martin come after her, even into the ton? If so, how long would it be-

A steely arm locked about her waist; a hard palm clapped over her lips. In the space of a heartbeat, she was lifted and whisked back-through the lace curtains, over the threshold of the long windows, onto the terrace beyond.

When her assailant set her on her feet and released her, she whirled, already knowing who it was. Even so, her breath caught, her eyes widened.

He was indeed a sight for sore eyes. She'd seen him in evening dress before, but in a drawing room, not on a terrace in the moonlight. The severe black and white, the stark silvery light, emphasized his contrasts-his harshly angular face, the hardness that was an integral part of him, the strength that gave promise of implacability, set against the tawny fire of his elegantly tumbled locks, the heavy-lidded eyes with their soft, mossy shade, the blatantly sensual cast of his lips.

She took it all in in one glance. Then she raised her arms, beckoned with her fingers. "Come. Dance with me."

In a blink, he'd gathered her into his arms, started slowly revolving to the music drifting out through the windows. He held her a great deal closer than Percival had, a great deal more possessively. The hand at her back, riding low, below her waist, burned through the fine silk of her dress. As they revolved, she was aware of the reined strength with which he steered her, knew, as she gazed into his shadowed eyes, that he was a great deal more powerful, more intrinsically dominant, than Percival could ever be.

At the end of the terrace, he turned them, gathering her even closer. Her body brushed his; instead of stiffening missishly, she moved into him, let her body flow into the dance, gave herself into his embrace.

He held her easily, close, yet so comfortably. Lowering her lids, she rested her temple against his shoulder, and let him steer her back up the flags.

"I didn't expect you to be here tonight." She murmured the words as they neared the end of the terrace and the music died.

"Didn't you?" He halted but made no move to release her.

She looked up at his tone, looked into his eyes. "No. I hoped you might appear one night, but I didn't think you'd come here."

Martin studied her eyes, saw simple honesty looking back, and inwardly marvelled. Did she truly have no idea of the attraction-the sheer compulsion-she now exerted over him? Having her in his arms again, he was supremely conscious that he didn't-ever-want to let her go.

He'd been prepared to walk into the ballroom and draw her out, but then he'd seen her through the windows. He'd mentally called to her, had barely believed his luck when she'd obeyed.

She was studying his face, his eyes, her own narrowing. "Tell me, does our hostess know you're here?"

He smiled, the gesture tight with intent. "No." He lowered his head. "No one knows I'm here… bar you."

His lips closed over hers; Amanda opened to him, curled her fingers on his lapel and clung tight.

Just as well. He was ravenous-he took her breath and left her dizzy, sent her senses spinning with a too-knowing hand. Held her tight, his hands hard and possessive on her back, his arms a steel cage about her.

And she knew why he was here, why he'd followed her so close to the bright lights he despised. He wanted her, desired her, wanted her to want him. God help her, she did; the rush of pure need he evoked shook her, drove her on. Drove her to return his kisses avidly, hungrily; the exchange quickly turned greedy. They both wanted more, much more.

Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, then bent his head again, brushed her lips until they clung. "Come with me," he whispered. "There's something I want to show you."

One arm fell from about her as he lifted his head. Releasing his coat, she turned, felt his hand, large, hard and hot in the small of her back as he urged her to the terrace's end.

Steps gave access to another terrace which continued past darkened rooms not open for guests. Rounding the mansion's corner, they came to stone steps leading down to a conservatory. It abutted the house, but was not directly connected. They were well away from all the guests.

Martin opened the conservatory door and she ventured into the cool quiet. The moonlight illuminated a winding path leading down the long room, linking a small fountain just a few steps further in and an alcove at the room's other end. There, a bow window looked over the lawns; a cushioned wrought-iron bench faced the conservatory's splendors.

Those splendors glowed softly in the moonlight, held on green spikes all along the low benches flanking the path and circling the alcove. Ferns and palms provided a dark backdrop for the multihued wonders that bobbed gently as Martin closed the door.

"Orchids." Eyes wide, she bent to sniff one cascading bloom. With an appreciative sigh, she released it. "Aren't they beautiful?"

Straightening, she glanced back.

Martin dragged his gaze up to her face. "Yes." Closing the distance, he bent his head and ran his lips over her exposed nape.