So what next? A summons to ride this morning?
He glanced at the clock, considered what time she'd get to her bed. Imagined her in her bed… then in his.
Shaking aside the distracting vision, he considered waiting until the next morning-thirty hours or so-to see her again. He'd gain nothing from the wait, and very likely nothing from a ride. He needed to meet her in surrounds conducive to his arguments-in other words, conducive to seduction. He was an honorable man; surely in this case honor dictated he use every possible weapon to change her mind, to bring her to accept the socially ordained outcome of their dalliance.
Whether that was rationalization, specious argument or not, he didn't care. The fact was, he'd been spoiled. Spoiled as a wild, rich, handsome and titled youth, equally spoiled as a man. He wasn't-very definitely was not-used to hearing "No" from a lady's lips.
It seemed to be Amanda's favorite word.
He drained his glass, then looked at the pile of invitations his man, Jules, invariably stacked on the mantelpiece as if in so doing he could nudge his noble employer into returning to the sphere in which Jules fondly believed said employer belonged. Jules did not have such influence. However…
Martin sighed. Setting his empty glass down on a sidetable, he rose and reached for the stack of white cards.
Not that he intended to formally appear at such functions, but the steady stream of invitations he received made it easy to identify at least one event on any given night at which his prey would be present. Easy enough to pick a house with which, courtesy of the past, he was sufficiently familiar to enter unremarked.
The following evening, he shut the garden gate of the Caldecotts' mansion and calmly strolled to the stairs leading to the ballroom terrace. A waltz was playing as he neared; a couple appeared, whispering as they descended to the gardens, passing him with no more than a glance.
The long windows of the ballroom stood open to the night; he stepped through and surveyed the room, confident that few would recognize him. The majority hadn't seen him for ten long years. Although he would recognize some from the ton's less aristocratic venues, he'd kept a low profile; the few ladies who had reason to remember him well had cause enough to keep their acquaintance secret. While braving the bright light of the chandeliers would be foolhardy, passing briefly through the fringes of social gatherings held minimal risks.
His memory had not failed him; the Caldecotts' ballroom had a gallery circling the room, reached by stairs from each corner. Tacking through the edges of the crowd, he gained the nearest stairs and went up.
The gallery was wide, built for promenading; a number of couples were doing so. With the only light coming from the ballroom's chandeliers, the areas away from the balustrade were wreathed in shadows. The perfect place from which to watch the activity on the dance floor, to track his quarry through the throng of dark coats and bright gowns.
He located Amanda easily-her curls shone like real gold and she was wearing a gown of the same cornflower blue as her eyes.
And arguing with a fair-haired gentleman.
As Martin watched, the gentleman captured Amanda's hand, tried to draw it through his arm. Martin's grip on the balustrade tightened.
Amanda jerked her hand free; furious, she heaped heated epithets on the gentleman's head, then swung on her heel and stormed off through the crowd. While one part of his mind tracked her, Martin watched the gentleman, noted his supercilious shrug, the way he resettled his sleeves, to all appearances not greatly put out by the nature of his dismissal.
Frowning, Martin turned to watch Amanda, saw her reach the foot of one of the gallery staircases.
A minute later, she stepped into the gallery; from behind a large column, he watched her scan the area, then she drifted to the alcove at the end, where wide windows overlooked the gardens. Less than six feet from her, he stood utterly still in the deep shadow of the column. She searched the lawns, then pressed close to the glass, squinting down at the terrace.
Where was he? If he didn't catch up with her here, Amanda didn't think he'd be able to gain access-not without coming through the main door-at the other ball she was to attend that night. She no longer worried that he might give up, leave her and return to his prior existence; she did, however, wonder what tack he'd take next, what argument he'd offer to convince her she should marry him-
She sensed his presence in the instant before his fingertips traced the curve of her hip. Down, around.
Her senses leapt; her lungs seized-then she drew in a quick breath. Remaining, quivering, where she was, she inclined her head. "Good evening, my lord."
The artful fingers stilled. "What-no curtsy?"
Curtsying would shift her silk-clad bottom against those bold fingers. He was standing directly behind her; anyone glancing their way now would see only her skirts, nothing that could identify her. Glancing back, she murmured, "I believe we've gone beyond such formalities." She'd softened her tone to a sultry purr; she saw his lips twitch before she faced the gardens again.
"Indeed." His fingers stroked sensuously-lightly, tantalizingly-impossible to ignore. Illicit, sexually explicit, yet difficult to take umbrage at. Streaks of sensation slithered down her spine, spread beneath her skin.
With his other hand, he brushed her curls from her nape; bending his head, he touched his lips to the sensitive spot, lingered for an instant, breathing in her perfume, then licked.
Straightening, he let his fingers firm on her bottom, then ease, deliberately shifting the silk of chemise and gown against her skin. His words caressed her ear. "Do you know what I want… what I'd like to do to you now, this very minute?"
She suspected that if she leaned back against him, he'd be rigid as a rod. "No. What?"
A rumble of laughter greeted her studiously innocent reply. "Just imagine, if you can…"
Her mind streaked in a dozen directions, then he spoke again, his voice deeper, lower, "Imagine we're here but no one else is-that the ballroom behind us is empty, silent. The chandeliers are unlit. There's no music except for the wind sighing outside. It's night-dark-just as it is now. The only light comes from the moon, shining down."
"As it is now."
"Exactly." His voice breathed past her ear, sank into her senses. The hand cupping her bottom remained where it was; his other hand lightly brushed her bare shoulder. "You wait here, for me, knowing I'll come to you. That I'll come in the dark of the night to have you."
"Will you come?"
"I'm here now."
It was impossible to draw breath. "And then?"
"And then… I'll raise your skirts, only at the back. If there's anyone watching from the garden, they'll see nothing amiss." The fingers on her bottom shifted as if inching up the silk; he didn't actually raise it, just led her senses to imagine he had. "Then I'll touch you, caress you, raise the back of your chemise to your waist." He paused, then whispered, "You don't wear pantaloons."
"Within the ton, pantaloons are still considered unquestionably fast."
"Ah." Humor warmed his voice, then he continued in the same mesmerizing tone, "So I'll then have you naked, exposed, and I'll caress you, arouse you." His hand at her back mimicked the motions; his hand at her nape closed gently, as if holding her steady. Even though her skirts still covered her completely, her body reacted to the suggestive touch. "And then…"
She wasn't sure her legs would hold her. "Then?"
His hand at her nape eased; slowly, he ran his index finger down her spine, all the way down to her bottom. "Then I'll bend you forward, have you hold onto the sill-"
He broke off. She sensed his head rise, felt the immediate change in the large body behind hers. A heartbeat later, his hands left her-and he was gone; the sudden loss of his heat at her back was startling.