She watched him, felt her heart swell, yet she reined her triumph back. Wondered… she might have won the last hand, but it was up to him to provide the next lead.
He'd moved lower in the bed when he'd lifted from her; his shoulders level with her chest, one leg bent, anchoring hers, he watched his fingers trace the curve of her stomach. Spread his hand, as if gauging…
She suddenly knew what he was thinking. "I'm not pregnant." Suddenly giddy, she pushed up onto her elbows the better to see his face.
The mossy green eyes that rose to meet hers had one word blazoned in them: mine.
"How do you know?" His tone was even. His fingers kept tracing; his gaze remained on hers.
She stared at him, at what she could read in his eyes-he looked exactly like a thoroughly satisfied lion, tail twitching as he surveyed his prize…
He was watching her carefully. "You may as well agree to marry me."
She wanted to marry him-the revelation burned her tongue: I'll marry you if…
If he told her he loved her?
That wouldn't work, wouldn't convince her heart. There were at least ten gentlemen searching Lady Montacute's ballroom for her, all of whom would be only too willing to go down on their knees and swear to eternal love despite the fact none of them knew what it was.
She needed to know Martin loved her, completely, utterly, beyond all reservation. But that wasn't the principal reason she needed to hear the words, volunteered, freely offered. She needed to know that he knew.
The soft thud of her heart still filled her ears, the warm glow of aftermath still held her as she studied his eyes, considered his direction, and what he wanted her to believe. If she asked for a declaration of love, made her acceptance of his suit conditional on hearing one, he might well oblige-without actually meaning it, without truly facing the fact.
"No." She slumped back onto the pillows, stared up at the canopy. Tried to blot out his nakedness, and hers.
Silence, then he stirred, came up on his hands and knees over her-prowled up to look down at her face.
His was a mask of utter implacability. "I won't give up."
A growl-a warning. She glared up at him. "Neither will I."
The comment took him aback-clearly mystified him-which only added to her ire. "Let me up." Twisting, she bent her knees, pushed at his left arm; he let her slide from beneath him, but swung up and followed on her heels.
"This is ridiculous!" When she didn't pause but, spying her chemise, headed for it, Martin reached out, wrapped his hand in the curls at her nape, and drew her back to him. All the way back, finally looping an arm around her and drawing her flush, once more, against him.
Her eyes snapped at him. "I couldn't agree more."
She tried to free her hair, but he declined to unclench his fist. Looking into her face, he tried to ignore the immediate reaction of his body to the silken caress of hers, knew by her breathing that she was perfectly aware of it, too. "We've been intimate on three occasions."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Four."
He counted. "Four. Which only increases the odds that you're carrying my child."
"Possibly."
"If you are, we're getting married."
Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn't define them.
She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go. "If," she stated, "it proves to be so, then we can discuss marriage." She turned away, swiped up her chemise. "Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade."
He narrowed his eyes. "Amanda."
He argued, and swore, then argued some more.
It did no good. And by then she was dressed.
Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his paramour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.
He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. "Why?"
She didn't pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. "I told you before, I want more. There's something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you."
"What is this thing?" He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.
"That," she replied, her tone turning glacial, "is what
you"-she jabbed his chest-"have to discover! I'm only assuming you have what I need. If you don't…"
Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. "If you don't, then you haven't, and that will be that."
He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips-probably on unwise words-
Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. "I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord."
He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. "As you please, my lady."
His. She was, very definitely, that.
If it hadn't been for the hours they'd spent in his bed, he might have wondered if she'd played him for a fool, if she'd been interested only in an illicit interlude, or four, with one whom her circle would dub seriously dangerous. Even now, he wasn't sure his reputation hadn't, in part, contributed to the attraction, at least at first. But now… now, there was more to her motives than simple lust.
Returning to his bedchamber an hour later, having seen her back into the chaos of the masquerade, watched until she'd found her sister and Carmarthen and left, he exhaled. He was relaxed but not at peace, tired but not sleepy. Shutting the door, he headed for the huge armchair before the fire. A splotch of white glowing against the rich hues of the rug caught his eye.
The orchids he'd sent her, the orchids she'd worn at her throat so he'd known her instantly; he picked them up.
She'd left the masquerade as soon as she'd rejoined her sister and Carmarthen; at the time, he'd wondered if that was because she'd known he was watching and he wouldn't allow her to flirt with other gentlemen, or because she'd only attended the masquerade to meet with him. Dropping into the armchair, he turned the orchids between his fingers. His frame of mind, then, had not been all that rational.
Looking back on their encounters, studying the orchids, he knew full well it was the latter-she'd come to meet him, as she had so often before.
Aside from anything else, she was not that sort of woman-the sort who went easily, without thought or affection, to a man's bed. She was a Cynster-he understood her type well. She came from the same stock as he, but he'd never known a Cynster female, one born and bred, only Cynster males. His experience of her thus far suggested he'd be wise to extrapolate.
Thus far, he'd underestimated her at every turn.
He'd known from the first that she was playing some game, yet he hadn't been able to perceive her goal-what she'd wanted to win. He'd let himself be cajoled into playing with her, let himself fall under her spell, all the while confident that she-an innocent no matter her years-could not possibly wring from him anything he didn't wish to give.
He considered the orchids, the thick, milky-white petals soft, smooth, like her skin, then curled his fingers, closed his hand about the flowers.
Breathed in their scent.
Closed his eyes, let his head rest against the chair's back.
He knew what she wanted.
He'd hoped to avoid having to play for that stake, having to defend it, yet she'd taken every trick thus far, and left him with little else to toss on the table to avoid having to risk his heart.