There would be no alternative. If he'd been wrong in his assessment of her-if he could convince himself she'd just been intent on a dangerous liaison purely for the hell of it-then acceptance would come much more easily.
Stepping out, he continued his search. The Season proper was about to begin; the crowd was substantial enough to provide camouflage, yet not so dense he wouldn't be able to spot Amanda. The day was fine; a light breeze flirted with ribbons and curls.
Then he saw her.
She was walking with another girl who had to be her twin. Seen together, they were too much alike for it to be otherwise, yet they were not identical. Reggie Carmarthen was with them; her parasol up, shading her face, Amanda walked in the middle of the trio.
Sliding into the shadows of a nearby tree, Martin watched. The sister and Carmarthen were conversing freely, smiling and gesticulating. Whenever they turned to Amanda, she beamed, nodded, effervescently charming, even more so than her sister. She would throw in a word or two, then pause. As the other two took up the conversational reins, she'd look down.
The effervescent brightness would drain away; her expression haunted, reserved, she would walk quietly along until appealed to again.
Martin watched the transformation three times, then Amanda's sister, clearly aware, linked her arm in Amanda's. The golden heads dipped close; Reggie was nodding, his attention focused on Amanda.
They were trying to cheer her up.
Then Reggie pointed to a group ahead of them. Amanda looked, and shook her head. A discussion took place, then Amanda pointed to an empty bench set under a tree. The others argued, but she was adamant; waving them on to join the group they'd spotted, she retired to the bench and sat.
Amanda deployed her parasol to screen herself, not from the sun but from idle glances. She'd seized the chance for a moment of peace; the last thing she wanted was to be approached by anyone, especially not Percival Lytton-Smythe, who she'd glimpsed earlier.
She needed peace to think; the Season afforded her precious little of that commodity. With the evening round of balls increasing, she had less and less time to herself, too little time to tend her increasingly tortured thoughts.
What if she'd been wrong? What if he wasn't sufficiently interested to pursue her? What if he hadn't felt the moment as she had, hadn't seen it for what it was? What if…? What if…?
Such questions seemed innumerable and equally unanswerable; determinedly, she focused on what she felt she did know. On what her senses and her instincts insisted was true.
He was the right man for her. After all her years of searching, she was absolutely sure; she knew it in her heart, in her soul. And she was the right woman for him. The thought of some less confident lady dealing with him seemed absurd; he'd rule her like the tyrant he was. Yet…
She flatly refused to accept a proposal based on social strictures. When he'd stated he'd have to marry her, she'd been aghast. She hadn't wanted to believe her ears. Then she had. Yet she didn't know-couldn't tell-whether in fact he felt more for her, but as she could imagine her cousins doing, had used society's rules to conceal his true motive. Or had the fact he felt more for her not yet occurred to him? Who knew what went on in male brains?
A mystery, but in this case, one she couldn't live without unravelling. She had to learn what he truly felt.
So what should her next move in the game be? Presuming they were still playing and he hadn't simply shrugged and already forgotten her.
The thought dragged at her spirits, then she thrust it aside. Reminded herself that lions did not behave like that. They were possessive, and usually quite obsessive about it.
That being so, she couldn't risk returning to his world. If she did, she'd be at his mercy, with him dictating the rules of their game. Handing him such an advantage was out of the question-who knew what he would do with it? Her imagination supplied a number of possibilities, all of which would result in them marrying under the guise of social necessity. No.
Their game would have to proceed as she'd thought-here, in the ton. The problem was, how to lure him from his lair.
Four days had passed since she'd stalked from his house; after that first note, she'd heard no more. After learning his story, hearing it from his lips, she understood that his antipathy to the ton might run deep, accepted that he would not readily step beyond the walls he himself had constructed.
But if she didn't go to him, he would have to come to her. Was there anything she could do to urge him on?
She formulated wild schemes and rejected them. Tried to ignore her incipient dejection; waiting with nothing but hope to warm her was simply not her style.
Long, cool fingers slid around her throat, curving about the sensitive spot where throat and shoulder met.
Reaction streaked through her; her parasol jerked.
"No. Stay where you are."
His voice drifted down to her; his fingers pressed warningly, then eased, drifted across her skin, slid away. Keeping the parasol steady, realizing it largely hid them both, she turned her head and looked up. Met his eyes.
His expression-politely impassive-said nothing; his moss-agate eyes were much more eloquent.
Where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?
She could see those questions, and others, too, crowding his mind, but he asked none of them, and she made no move to answer.
Instead, they simply looked, watched, gauged… wanted.
When he slowly bent to her, she didn't think of moving away-couldn't have done so. Her gaze fell to his lips, then her eyes closed.
The kiss started gently, but then his lips firmed; the caress became more definite, more a statement of intent. Her lips parted and he stole her breath, took it and more from her.
When he lifted his head, she was dizzy and dazed. Then she blinked, focused-hissed, "You can't kiss me in the park!"
"I just did." Rather than straighten, he hunkered down. "No one saw."
She glanced around, confirmed she'd kept the parasol in place; her sudden panic subsided.
"Why aren't you chatting with your sister and Carmarthen?"
The inquiry had her turning to face him; his tone was even, but she could no longer read his eyes.
She waved and looked away. "I'm feeling a touch under the weather."
Silence met the comment; she glanced back, met his eyes-knew precisely what he was thinking. She blushed fierily. "Not that. I'm not… indisposed." She looked away, lifted her chin. "Just a trifle jaded."
He'd thought she'd meant she was unwell, as ladies frequently were once a month. But she wasn't. Which meant there was a possibility… a possibility that hadn't occurred to her before, one that had her eyes widening, her wits whirling, her emotions seesawing.
"We have to talk." His murmur was definite. "But not now, not here."
"Definitely not here, not now." She fought an urge to fan herself. Drawing breath, she faced him.
He was watching her closely; he studied her face, then said, "Meet me tomorrow morning at five o'clock at the end of your street, as before." He hesitated, then smoothly rose.
She looked up at him. "And if I don't?"
He looked down at her. "If you don't, I'll come knocking at your father's door."
Voices reached them. He looked up; Amanda swivelled, peeked around her parasol. Reggie and Amelia were approaching, arguing. She looked back.
Dexter-Martin-had disappeared. Pushing away from the seat, she stood, searching the surrounding lawns, but he'd vanished.
Amelia and Reggie drew near; she turned to greet them.
And wondered if the victory had been Dexter's, or hers.
Chapter 10
Neither, she decided, as she slipped from the house at five o'clock the next morning. True, he'd come into society to seek her out-she considered that hugely encouraging. But even there, he'd insisted on clinging to the shadows; it seemed prudent to meet him halfway.