Drew her deep into the kiss, caught her wits, captured her senses with a sudden flare of sensual heat. With the sudden unmasking of desire, his and hers, the temptation of an unfamiliar need.
Martin angled his head and took the kiss still further, drawing her with him, holding her captive-where he needed to keep her. Where his brain had been when he'd followed her into the grove, heaven only knew. He hadn't been thinking clearly since they'd entered the deserted landscape. Which was how she'd trapped him, how she'd been able to draw him into this exchange, one he knew very well was unwise. Yet how to refuse, how to deny her… an impossible task in his present frame of mind.
Her lips were luscious, her mouth pure temptation, the soft, supple body trapped against his quintessentially feminine. He focused on the kiss, on exploring further, on extracting every last ounce of pleasure from the next caress, and the next…
Better that than allow his rakish senses time to evaluate, to consider the possibilities inherent in the lissome body filling his arms.
She murmured and pressed nearer, delicately shivered; his arms tightened reflexively, molding her to him, seeking her pleasure, and his. He took her mouth in a searing kiss, let her feel, sense, more of the fire with which she seemed so keen to play.
That lick of heat enthralled her-he sensed it in the faint tensing of her spine, the focusing of her attention, of her desire. That last was elusive, sweet when he could evoke it but veiled, cautious…
The welling need to lure her desire into the open shook him. An unfamiliar wish-he'd never coveted a woman's wanting before. All his life, the shoe had been on the other foot; they had always wanted him to want them. Yet now…
He tried to rein back-found he couldn't. The temptation was simply too great.
She met his next, more demanding kiss readily, but he still sensed a barrier, insubstantial but real, limiting how much she would show him, reveal to him-how much of herself she was prepared to give him.
Even as he took her mouth again, felt her cling, sensed her gasp, even as desire insidiously infused his frame, the realization that he couldn't press for more, not yet-if he was wise, not ever-rang through his brain.
He broke the kiss, tipped her head back, set his lips to skate her jaw, then dip lower. The slender column of her throat lured him, the skin covering it like peach-satin. His fingers drifted, senses caught, mesmerized; his lips explored, tasted, found her heartbeat thudding wildly at the base of her throat.
Her fingers were in his hair, tangling, trailing. When he finally found the strength to lift his head, she brushed back the fall of hair across his brow and looked into his face, studied his eyes. Then her fingers touched his cheek, traced down, fleetingly brushed his lips.
She smiled-pleased, satisfied. Just a little rattled-the breath she drew was shaky. It shook even more as her breasts pressed against his chest.
"Thank you." Her eyes shone brilliantly even in the weak light. She eased back-he had to order his muscles to unlock, force his arms to loosen.
She tilted her head, her eyes still on his. "We'd better get back to the carriage. It'll be late by the time we return to town."
That should have been his line, not hers. He resisted the urge to shake his head-shake his laggard wits into place. His expression was set, impassive; impossible to project any thought through the etched mask of desire.
She stepped back and he let her, but felt his reluctance to his bones.
Her hand slid down his arm-he caught it, held it. Eyes on hers, he raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to her trapped fingers.
"Come." He kept hold of her hand. "The carriage awaits."
The return journey was as uneventful as their outward leg, but differed in one notable respect. Amanda prattled. All but continually; despite the fact she constantly made sense-a feat, considering the distance-Martin was not deceived.
She'd gained more than she'd expected; the degree of excitement she'd experienced had shaken her.
Leaving his carriage and horses to his grooms, he strode into his house. Serve her right if she was shaken-just look what she'd done to him.
Carrying the silk wrap, still warm from her body, he entered the house and headed for his library. Only when he was ensconced in its luxurious embrace, slumped on the daybed, the silk wrap flung beside him, a glass of brandy in his hand, did he allow his thoughts to drift back over the night.
The embers glowing in the grate slowly died as he revisited their earlier meetings, comparing, analyzing. Two things seemed certain: she was following some plan. And that plan now involved him.
Two aspects remained hidden, unknown. Had she from the first intended him to be the one to assist her in her quest for excitement, or did she only settle on him later as the best choice available? A supremely pertinent point, given the other aspect of her plan of which he remained in ignorance.
Where was she heading? What was her ultimate goal?
Was she simply pursuing a final fling before settling to marriage with some socially acceptable peer? Her citing of the start of the Season proper as the limit for her adventures suggested that might be the case.
But what if it wasn't? What if, behind her artlessness, which he accepted not at all, she was focused on achieving rather more?
What if her goal was marriage… to him?
He frowned, waited, took a long sip of brandy, savored it-and still his expected reaction didn't show. The determination to cut her off, keep her at a distance… where was his instinctive, never-before-in-abeyance response?
"Good God!" He took another swig of brandy. That's what she'd done to him-tempted that part of him he'd thought buried long ago.
He shied from thinking too far along that line, but the sensation of his mind clearing, thoughts settling, told him he was right. He waited, sipping, eyes on the nearly dead embers, until he could, with some degree of impassivity, view the question of where he-they-now were.
They were playing some game, one of her choosing, in which, despite all, he was now a committed player. Stepping back, quitting the game, was not an option he wished to pursue. So much for that. As for where they were headed, he didn't know, couldn't see-he would have to follow her lead. That was part of the game. She'd managed to take the reins into her small hands, and he could see no way of getting them back just yet.
Which meant he was being driven, managed, manipulated by a woman.
Again he waited for his inevitable reaction; again, it didn't materialize. For the first time in his life, he wasn't totally averse to running in a woman's harness. At least, for a time.
With a self-deprecatory grimace, he drained his glass.
Given the field on which their game was to be played, given his expertise in that sphere, ultimate control-the ability to stop, redirect the play, even rescript the rules-lay in his hands. And always would.
He wondered if she'd realized that.
After strolling in Richmond Park by moonlight, Amanda found it hard to pretend to any great interest in such a mundane event as a ball.
"I wish I could escape," she whispered to Amelia as they promenaded down Lady Carmichael's ballroom in their mother's wake.
Amelia shot her a worried glance. "You can't have another headache. I only just stopped Mama from sending for Doctor Graham last time."
Amanda eyed the flower of the ton with a jaundiced eye. "It'll have to be another party, then. Aren't the Farthingales entertaining tonight?"
"Yes, but you'll have to do the pretty for another hour before you can leave. And you'll have to find Reggie."
"True." Amanda scanned the crowd in earnest. "Have you seen him?"