Edward, however, stood back, features pinched in what appeared to be disapproval. It took Martin a moment to realize that it was he Edward most disapproved of.

Then the musicians struck up, and the girls and their cavaliers left for the dance floor. Martin turned to Edward.

Before he could speak, Edward asked, "I understand you have an interest in Amanda Cynster."

Edward had clearly not yet heard of his formal offer. Martin inclined his head. "I do have to marry."

"Ah, yes." Edward's lip all but curled. "The title, the estate."

Those had been the reasons Martin had been spared a trial; he again inclined his head. "As you say."

Edward tugged down his waistcoat; head high, he surveyed the crowd. "You should know that I, at least, have been upholding our family's name in the years you've been absent. I flatter myself that all know me as a man of unimpeachable honor and steadfast character. In due course, I will marry well, once I've seen my sisters suitably joined as befits the family."

As if suddenly remembering he was in the presence of both the head of his family and the head of a senior line, he flushed, threw a narrow-eyed glance at Luc, then stiffly nodded to Martin. "Now my watch over my sisters has ended, I believe I will circulate."

The implied message was: he did not wish to be seen with Martin, to give Martin the imprimatur of his presence.

Martin said nothing, merely watched him go, then glanced at Luc.

Who met his gaze. "No, he hasn't improved with the years."

"Obviously. Weren't you tempted to thrash it out of him?"

"Frequently. But he's such a bore, I couldn't stand the whining."

Martin caught a flash of gold-Amanda's curls as she rose from the chaise and took her leave of its occupants. He tensed, aware of a need to follow her, watch over her at the very least.

Luc had tracked his gaze; he murmured, "If you do have your eye on Amanda, I can only wish you luck."

Martin glanced at him, raised a brow.

"She's a harridan," Luc supplied. "And the very opposite of biddable." He paused, then added, his tone softer, "Come to that, they both are."

Martin asked, "She and her sister?"

"Hmm." Luc was absently searching the crowd. "God only knows why any sane man would want to saddle himself with either."

Chapter l6

The arrival of three white orchids every morning had become a regular feature in her life. When they didn't appear the next day, Amanda felt it like a blow. Yet, after their discussion the previous night, shouldn't she have expected something of the sort? He'd told her it was her call, up to her to accept or reject what he offered. The halting of the orchids presumably meant he'd stopped arguing, stopped trying to seduce her.

Then again, perhaps he'd run out of orchids.

Through the long day filled with social engagements-a morning tea, a luncheon, a drive in the park, an at-home-she vacillated between the two explanations. Her mood swung like a pendulum, even-tempered one moment, deadeningly depressed the next.

When she arrived at Lady Arbuthnot's ball and Martin failed to appear, she plastered on a bright smile while her heart sank to her slippers.

Then she got the note. A footman delivered it-an ivory square inscribed in Martin's strong hand.

Look on the terrace.

That was all it said.

Tucking the note into her pocket, she excused herself from the group with whom she'd been conversing and crossed the crowded ballroom. That took time; when she finally gained the long windows giving onto the terrace, the room behind her was full. The night was mild; the terrace doors stood ajar, but no one was presently availing himself of the moonlight.

The moonlight that glowed on the petals of a white flower lying at the top of the steps leading to the gardens. Amanda picked up the blossom, a single white orchid. If he was adhering to his usual practice, there should be two more. She looked but could see no other white splashes on the terrace. Then she looked down the steps, wondered…

She glanced back at the ballroom, then quickly descended. The gravel path bordering the lawn led away to left and right. Glancing left, she saw the second bloom lying in a shaft of moonlight at the intersection of two paths.

Her slippers scrunched on the gravel, then she added the second bloom to the first, and looked around for the third. The path leading further away from the house lay empty and dark, but the path following a hedge angling around the side of the house… along that gleamed another splash of white.

The third orchid lay just before an archway in the hedge, the opening to a courtyard. Adding that bloom to the others, Amanda stepped into the archway; pausing, she looked around.

It was a magical scene. The courtyard was filled with box-hedged beds of summer plants and roses, weeping cherries and iris, separated by paved paths all ultimately converging on a semicircular area before the steps of a white summer-house. The summerhouse acted as a gatehouse linking the courtyard with the shrubbery beyond. It was set into and through the first high hedge of the shrubbery which formed the back wall of the courtyard.

Moonlight shimmered on the summerhouse, the only white object in a sea of black-greens and faded red paving. From where she stood, she couldn't see if there was anyone inside; the shadows within were impenetrable.

Drawing in a breath, grateful for the mild evening that made it possible to wander outside without a shawl, she lifted her head and walked boldly forward. The three orchids bobbed in her hand.

He was there, waiting for her, a denser shadow in the dark, lounging on one of the wide benches that lined the interior walls, interrupted by the twin arches, one looking out on the courtyard, the other into the shrubbery.

She halted at the bottom of the four steps leading up; he rose, but then remained, silent and still in the night.

A predator-that her senses acknowledged, yet they leapt in giddy delight. He said nothing; neither did she. For a long moment, she stood looking up at him-she in the moonlight, he in deep shadow. Then, gathering her skirts, she went up the steps.

To him.

He took her hands, removed the orchids from her fingers, laid them aside. He turned to her, studied her face in the dimness, then reached for her. Drew her into his arms, slowly. Bent his head-gave her plenty of time to draw away if she would.

She lifted her face, invited the kiss, sensed the growl of satisfaction that rumbled through him as he covered her lips with his. Took her mouth as she gave it, pressed on her the promise of joy in return.

I want you.

Whether the words whispered in her head or fell from his lips, she couldn't tell. She flexed her fingers against his chest, then eased her hands up until she could twine her arms about his neck and arch against him. Glory in the shift and lock of his arms about her, hands spreading on her back, across her hips, holding her to him while their mouths feasted, eager and greedy for the taste they'd come to crave, for the passion, the heady rush of desire so potent they reeled. They let it well and flood through them, let it sweep them away on its well-remembered tide.

The kiss ended only when they were both gasping, burning with need, with one simple desire. Without thought, without deliberation, they fell on the padded cushions in a tangle of clothes, a tangle of hands grasping, wanting, a tangle of limbs, some hard and hot, others soft and yielding.

Their clothing was an obstacle; fingers flying, they fought to overcome it. Then her bodice was open and his lips were on her breast.

She cried out, rocked by the sheer intensity of sensation, by the streak of sensual lightning that forked from her breast to her loins. She panted, gasped, tried to stifle her reaction.

"Ssshh," he warned.

She hauled in a breath, managed to whisper, "Here?"

For answer, he shifted his lips, his hot mouth to her other breast; under her skirts, she felt his hands slide up her thighs.

"How?" She'd intended the word to be horrified, to illustrate the impossibility. Instead, it hovered in the air, a flagrant evocation, an acknowledgement of her need as her eyes closed tight, as his wicked fingers found her. Stroked, opened, pressed in.

"Easy." She could hear the satisfaction, the anticipation in his gravelly growl. "You on top."

It sounded intriguing. She knew he knew what he was doing. She reached for him; her questing fingers found and traced the rampant ridge of his erection, then she stroked, fondled… he tensed, then cursed and swung back to sprawl on the cushions, his shoulders against the summerhouse's sill, simultaneously pulling her over him so she ended astride him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders.

His fingers pressed deep and she gasped. His other hand gripping one globe of her bottom, he urged her forward so he could continue torturing her swollen breasts.

With wicked lips, wicked tongue-and even wickeder fingers-he seized and captured her senses, blocked out every other reality but the heat that beat in their blood, the urgent need to join, to be whole.

The hot tide welled, rose higher, higher; his hand, his fingers, rhythmically stoked it, ruthlessly drove her on. She gasped, writhed, panted, until she was sure she would melt with the next deliberate penetration, explode with the next excruciating tug at her nipple. Her breasts burned; her skin felt too tight. The flames inside raged, leaving her hot and wet and empty.

Aching. For him.

"Now-please." She barely recognized her own voice, but he heard. His hand left her; she felt him wrestling with his waistband.

Then she felt the hot velvet skin, the heavy weight of his erection beneath her; she reached under her skirts, found him, stroked. Closed her hand about him as he groaned. Then he pushed her hand away-gripped her hips and guided her-

"Oh! Isn't it beautiful!"

"Utterly magical!"

"That gentleman was right. It's a jolly place, isn't it?"

"And with such a pretty summerhouse."

It was just as well she didn't have breath left to groan-to rant, to order the gaggle of young ladies piling into the courtyard back to the ballroom where they belonged. They started up the path, then stopped to admire the flowers.

Martin was rigid beneath her. She looked down, helpless.

Even in the dim light, she could make out his grim expression. "Ssshh."

The whisper barely reached her, then he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her, set her on her feet, grabbed her hand as he stood-and dragged her out of the summer-house, down the steps into the shrubbery.

"Ooooh! Look!"

Martin yanked her sideways, out of the archway; she landed against him as he paused, his back to the hedge. Shrill giggles followed them.

"I say! Who was it? Did you see?"

Luckily, they'd moved so fast, no one had seen enough to recognize-they would have been no more than two silhouettes briefly glimpsed in the frame of the summerhouse, protected by the darkness within, and the shadows of the shrubbery beyond.

Martin looked around, fiddling with the buttons at his waist, then he tugged her hand. "Come on-we're not out of the woods yet."

"I'm nearly out of my gown!" she hissed, struggling to hold the bodice closed with one hand.

He glanced back at her, but continued towing her behind him. He stopped when they gained the privacy of a more distant hedge-spun her around, backed her into it, bent his head and found her lips, raised his hands and filled them with her breasts.

The heat was still there, simmering, more potent for the wait, like a volcano dammed, pressure building to break free-

"Is it this way, do you think?"

Martin drew his lips from hers, cursed viciously. The sound of feet on the gravel at the end of the path reached them.

Affected them both like a dash of cold water, effectively dousing their fire. Their eyes met; she let her gaze drop to his lips.

He looked at hers, drew a shuddering breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then he straightened, stepped back. Steadied her. Then reached for her bodice, deftly closing it.

"I want you." His hands dropped to his waistband, fully securing the buttons as she quickly tied her side laces. "But not like this. I want you in my house, in my bed. I want you mine."