For one instant, he stared, then, reaching out, twitched the cloak closed. "It would be wise to remain incognito. One look at that gown and the cogniscenti will be rabid to learn who you are."
An angel slumming in hell. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, Martin escorted her down the stairs to the vestibule. As they reached the pit and the noise engulfed them, he reminded himself it wasn't truly hell; if it had been, he'd never have brought her here.
Here, however, was a place she didn't need to be, didn't need to see-she didn't need to be exposed to this kind of company. At least in his opinion.
He knew better than to argue. Jaw set, he guided her into the throng, intent on ensuring that what she did see was, if not acceptable, then at least not shocking. He was counting on the fact he had a woman on his arm to ward off any approaches; nevertheless, numerous arch glances, come-hither pouts and knowing winks were directed his way. A fact his partner didn't miss.
She stiffened; her fingertips sank into his arm. But as they penetrated further into the crowd, her tension gradually eased.
He glanced at her face, but with her mask on and her gaze on the crowd, he couldn't see her expression, couldn't guess her thoughts.
Didn't foresee her direction.
Amanda's open-mindedness over the women parading the pit ended the instant she realized they were as aware of her escort's potential as she. Fifteen feet of slow progress, however, demonstrated that he had no interest in them-his attention remained firmly riveted precisely where she wanted it.
On her.
Which left her free to take in all she would, to catalogue the flourishes, the teasing glances, the flirting whisk of a fan, to glean all she could from experts in the field. Yet the fact he seemed immune suggested that she would need more subtle weapons.
She'd turned her mind to evaluating exactly what subtle weapons she possessed when a jocularly jostling couple bumped her, sent her careening-
Dexter hauled her to him-she fetched up against his chest, breathlessly locked against him. Protectively shielded.
She glanced up. His face was a stony warrior's mask, his gaze fixed beyond her. She could hear some gentleman gabbling his apologies. Beneath her hands, in the arms around her, she felt tension swell, muscles flex. Dragging in a breath, she fought to turn-but only succeeded in turning her head. "That's quite all right." She glanced up as Dexter looked down.
He looked ready to argue.
She smiled. Patted his chest. "No harm done."
The couple took advantage of his distraction to melt into the crowd; Martin looked up and they were gone-he felt as if he'd been deprived of his rightful prey. It took an instant more to shackle his instincts. To quell his reaction enough so he could ease his arms from…
Damn! He refused to meet her gaze as he forced his arms from her. Closing one hand about hers, he twined her arm with his and anchored her hand on his sleeve. "What now?"
The growled words were barely polite, but… she was the one who had wanted to come here.
He felt the glance she threw him, declined to meet it.
"Let's amble. I want to see all there is to be seen."
There was not a chance of him permitting that. He steered her through sections of the crowd that he'd first ascertained were safe, avoiding any group whose behavior he considered too lewd for her angelic blue eyes.
And reminded himself why he was here.
Because he'd agreed to bring her here, because he'd extraded a promise that if he did, she'd return to the ballrooms where she belonged. The years had taught him wisdom; he knew she'd keep her word. She had her own brand of honor, as did he. His demanded that once this night was over, he retire from her life. And he would. Regardless. All he had to do was survive tonight, and all would be well.
The shrill shrieks, the high-pitched gibber of excitement that always seemed to occur beyond her view, informed Amanda that she was missing a good deal of what she had ostensibly come to see.
She no longer cared. The game she and Dexter were engaged in demanded her entire attention. Tonight would be her last chance to breach his walls. While he might be a superior card player, in this particular game they were more evenly matched. All she had to do was tip the scales her way.
As the crowd grew more unruly, she considered every opportunity, ready to seize any advantage. Before the stage, they came upon an area filled with waltzing couples. Abruptly stopping, she turned. Into Dexter's arms.
"Can we dance?" Suppressing her reaction at the sudden contact, breast to chest, hip to thigh, she ignored the tension locking his frame, the possessive grip of his hand at her waist. Eyes wide, she looked up at him.
He glanced at her, then at the dancers. His jaw hardened. "If you wish."
Smiling, she lifted her hand to his shoulder. He gathered her close and steered her into the twirling couples. Here, the waltz was a different dance to that performed in the ballrooms. Slower, more intimate. Infinitely more useful.
He'd used the dance for seduction before-the moves came too easily, second nature to him. Even now, when she knew he wished it otherwise. They slowly revolved; the floor was too crowded for him to hold her at any distance. The domino he'd brought for her shifted constantly against his coat, against her silk gown, making it hard for him to hold her firmly. Then she misread his direction and was jostled again. Jaw set, he flicked the domino open and slid his hand beneath, to rest at the back of her waist, firm against her gown. He drew her to him-not close so that their bodies shifted against each other, teasing and tantalizing-but all the way, so she was locked flush against him, held, trapped. His.
For one instant, she couldn't breathe, then she leaned closer, rested her temple against his shoulder. Lips curving, she relaxed into his tight embrace, let her body flow with the suddenly intense tide. He felt like hot rock against her; they slowly whirled, hips and thighs caressing, pressing close.
Excitement, a hot streak of sensation, raced through her, then pooled, liquid heat, deep inside. Barely able to breathe, she raised her head, looked up-fell into his mesmerizing eyes. Soft, deep green flecked with gold, they burned with the promise of limitless passion, limitless but restrained. She couldn't look away, wondered what he could read in her eyes.
That he wanted her was plain; the desire she'd sought to evoke was there, and even more potent than she'd guessed. The knowledge thrilled her-unexpectedly scared her. This was what she'd plotted to get; now she'd got it… the thought of what came next set her heart pounding.
Shifting her hand, she grazed her fingertips through his silky locks, then, wonderingly, ran the backs of her fingers along his jaw. With his habitual languor, he bent his head; her heart stood still, her lips throbbed, parted.
As he had once before, he touched his lips to the very corner of hers. "Don't worry." His voice was deep, a rumbling purr. "I won't eat you."
Damn! She rapidly reassessed, read again the tension holding him, the strength of his restraint. He was going to spare her. Noble of him, but not what she had in mind. How to explain-
"Oh! You dreadful man!"
The words and the slap that followed had them glancing to their right. Raucous laughter engulfed a group surrounding the protesting woman. She was smiling and laughing, too-she'd merely slapped a gentleman's straying hand away.
Amanda's eyes nearly started from her head. The woman's gown… the bodice was transparent. Her breasts, nipples erect, were displayed for all to see. A number of gentlemen were looking.