She slowed; ahead the tan ended. They eased from gallop to canter, finally dropping to a walk; their mounts blew horsey breaths in the quiet stillness. Harness jingled as the roan shook his head; Martin turned back toward Mount Gate, running an expert eye over the mare as he did.
She'd pulled up well. So had her rider.
He'd seen too much feminine beauty to be easily susceptible, yet luxurious colors and even more textures never failed to catch his eye. Her velvet habit was the color of her eyes; he hadn't been able to appreciate the shade earlier but the light was strengthening-as she turned to him, smiling, dizzy with delight, he saw her clearly.
Under a jaunty cap the same color as the habit, her hair caught the first light of dawn and reflected it in shades of pure gold. Last night, when the curls had been piled high, he'd imagined her hair to be shoulder-length. Now he could see it had to be longer-mid-back, at least. A display of sheening, lustrous curls, the mass was caught up, anchored under her cap, loose ends brushing her throat, wisps curling lovingly about her small ears.
Her hair made his palms tingle.
Her skin made him ache.
The ride had tinged the flawless alabaster a delicate rose. He knew if he touched his lips to her throat, if he skated his fingers over her bare shoulder, he would be able to feel the heat of her blood coursing beneath that sumptuous skin. Knew desire would evoke the same effect. As for her lips, parted, rosy red…
He dragged his eyes from her, looked across the park. "We'd better get back. The regulars will soon be arriving."
Still catching her breath, she nodded and brought the mare in beside the roan. They walked, then trotted. They were within sight of the groom, waiting by the gates, when she murmured, "Lady Cavendish is hosting a dinner tonight-one of those affairs one has to attend."
Martin told himself he was relieved. No need to feel obliged to play knight-protector tonight.
"But later, I'd thought to look in on the soiree at the Corsican Consulate. It's just around the corner from Cavendish House, I believe."
He fixed her with a stony look. "Who sent you an invitation?" The Corsican Consulate's "soirees" were by invitation only. For a very good reason.
She glanced at him. "Leopold Korsinsky."
The Corsican Consul. And when had she met Leopold? Doubtless during her travels through the underside of the ton. Martin looked ahead, jettisoning any thought of dissuading her. The woman was intent on tasting the wilder side of life; attending Leopold's soiree unquestionably fitted her bill.
"I'll leave you here." Gentlemen were emerging, ambling down the streets of Mayfair heading for their morning ride. He reined in. "The groom will ride with you to Upper Brook Street, then bring away the horse."
She smiled. "Then I will thank you for your company, my lord."
A polite nod and she turned away, with not a hint, not a wink, not the slightest indication that she expected to meet him that night.
Martin narrowed his eyes on her departing back. Once she'd joined his groom and, without a single glance back, quit the park, he trotted back down to the Stanhope Gate, crossed Park Lane and rode in between the pair of huge gates that guarded the drive to Fulbridge House.
He entered through the kitchens and headed into the huge house. Ignoring the furniture draped in holland covers, the many closed doors and the sense of pervasive gloom, he strode for the library.
Other than the small dining parlor, of the many rooms on the ground floor, the library was the only one he used. He flung open the door and entered, into a den of decadent luxury.
Like any library, the walls were covered with bookshelves packed with books. Here, the display, by its diversity and order, demonstrated wealth, pride and scholarship, a deep respect for accumulated wisdom. In all other respects, the library was unique.
Velvet curtains were still drawn over the long windows. Martin crossed the parquet decorated with exquisite inlays partly concealed by deep-toned rugs and flung the curtains wide. Beyond the windows lay a walled courtyard, a fountain rising from a circular pool at its center, stone walls hidden by the rampant growth of ivys and creepers.
Martin turned, his gaze skating over the satin-covered chaise and the daybed draped with brightly colored silk shawls, over the jewel-hued cushions piled here and there, over the ornately carved tables standing amidst the glory. Everywhere his eye touched, there was some delight of color and texture, some simple, sensual gratification.
It was a room that filled his senses, compensation for the bleak emptiness of his life.
His gaze came to rest on the pile of invitations stacked on the end of the marble mantelpiece. Crossing the room, he grabbed them, swiftly sorted through the pile. Selected the one he sought.
Stared at it.
Returning the others to the mantelpiece, he propped the selected card on a mahogany side table, dropped onto the daybed, propped his feet on an embossed leather ottoman-and scowled at Leopold Korsinsky's invitation.
Chapter 3
If the minx was setting her cap at him, she was going about it in a damned unusual way.
From a corner of the Consulate ballroom, one shoulder propped against the wall, Martin watched Amanda Cynster as she stood on the threshold, looking about. No hint of expectation colored her fair face; she projected the image of a lady calmly considering her options.
Leopold swiftly came forward. She smiled charmingly and held out her hand; Leopold grasped it eagerly, and favored her with a too-elegant, too-delighted bow.
Martin's jaw set. Leopold talked, gestured, clearly attempting to dazzle. Martin watched, wondered…
He'd been the target for too many ladies with matrimonial intentions not to have developed a sixth sense for being stalked. Yet with Amanda Cynster… he wasn't sure. She was different from other ladies he'd dealt with-younger, less experienced, yet not so young he could dismiss her as a girl, not so inexperienced he was daft enough to think her, or her machinations, of no account.
He hadn't amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasn't even sure the damned female had him in her sights.
Two other gentlemen approached her, bucks of the most dangerous sort on the lookout for risky titillation. Leopold sized them up in a glance; he introduced them to Amanda, but gave no indication of leaving her side, far less of relinquishing her attention. The bucks bowed and moved on.
Martin relaxed, only then realizing he'd tensed. He fixed his gaze on the cause, taking in her tumbling curls, glossy gold in the strong light, let his gaze linger on the lissome figure draped in soft silk the color of ripe peach. Wondered how succulent the flesh beneath the silk would be…
He caught himself up, wiped the developing image from his mind.
Focused on the reality, on the conundrum before him.
Thus far, every time he'd appeared, she'd clearly been pleased to see him, willing-even glad-to accept the protection he offered. However, he'd yet to see any sign that she was specifically interested in him. She was used to protective males-like her cousins; the possibility existed-lowering thought-that she would with equal ease accept the protection of some other, similar gentleman. He couldn't offhand think of any other who might appear to squire her platonically, but the prospect remained. Her transparent liking for and encouragement of his company might simply reflect a natural gravitation toward the sort of male in whose company she felt comfortable.
She wasn't stalking him-she was haunting him. An entirely different circumstance, for as of that moment, he had no idea if she intended to or not.