The end of the track neared; they slowed, then turned aside onto the turf. He drew rein and halted; she did the same. They were both breathing hard, the exhilaration of the ride still streaking through their veins. She lifted her head, looked into his face. Fell into his moss-agatey eyes.

Green, gold flecked, they held her gaze; in the cool of the morning, she again felt the heat, the rush of sweet warmth she'd experienced in his arms. The fire still burned, embers now, perhaps, but the heat and the promise of flame were still there.

Still exerted their tug, a powerful fascination that made her want to go to him, to plunge into the heart of the fire, bathe in the flames.

Give herself up to them and burn.

She blinked, refocused. What he had read in her face she had no idea, but he looked away over the park.

"You said you wished to attend a party at Vauxhall, one hosted by someone your parents don't know. I plan to host a private party at the Gardens two nights from now. Will you be able to attend?"

She forced herself to wait, to pretend to consider before inclining her head. "Yes." He was untamed, ruthless, difficult to manage; she was determined to snare him.

His gaze returned to her face; she met it, cool challenge in her eyes.

"Very well. My carriage will be waiting as before, at nine o'clock at the comer." He hesitated, then added, "Wear a cloak with a hood."

As before, the black carriage was waiting; as before, his hand reached for hers and he helped her in. Amanda suppressed a shiver of anticipation as the carriage rumbled off, wending south through the streets to the river and Vauxhall Gardens.

He traveled in silence; she could feel his gaze on her face, on her figure, concealed by her long velvet cloak, the hood up to cover her hair. She'd spent hours deciding what to wear beneath the cloak-whether to dazzle or entice. She'd settled on enticement; he was too experienced to dazzle.

The horses' hooves clopped hollowly as they turned onto the bridge. Ahead, the lights of the pleasure gardens bobbed through the trees, their reflections dancing on the water.

"How many others are in your party?" A question that had intrigued her ever since his invitation.

She glanced his way. Shrouded in shadows, he studied her, then said, "You'll see in a few moments."

She doubted she'd misjudged him. Nevertheless, the knowledge that she'd placed herself and her reputation in his hands set an edge to nerves already taut, further heightened senses set alive simply by his nearness.

Confirming her judgment, the carriage halted, not at the main entrance, but at an exclusive side entrance. Infinitely more discreet. Dexter descended, looked briefly around before handing her down, his gaze passing approvingly over her hood, pulled forward, shadowing her face. Thus attired, unless someone came close and peered at her face, she was unidentifiable.

An attendant greeted them, bowing low as Dexter ushered her through the gate. "Your booth is prepared, my lord."

Dexter nodded. The attendant turned and led them down a heavily shaded path.

She'd been to Vauxhall often, yet had never ventured into this part of the gardens. The rotunda, well lit, the source of plentiful music, lay some way ahead, screened by trees. The path curved under spreading branches, the thick shrubs bordering it interrupted now and then by the square shape of a booth. Each booth was well spaced from its neighbors, shuttered and private. Stopping before one such dark outline, the attendant opened a door, spilling soft candlelight onto the path; he bowed them in.

Amanda stepped over the threshold, uncertain what she would find-eager to see. The booth was smaller than those in the public part of the gardens, but was furnished in considerably better style. A rug covered the floor; the table was set with a damask cloth, sparkling glasses, white dishes and cutlery for two. Two upholstered chairs stood ready. A single candle burned in a holder at the table's center; a two-armed candelabra shed light from a sidetable set beside a comfortable chaise. By the table, an ornate stand supported an ice-bucket containing a bottle of champagne.

The answer to her question was none. Reassured, she set back her hood.

"You may bring our meal." Martin closed the door on the attendant. He hesitated, then strolled to where temptation stood. He lifted the cloak from her shoulders as she slid the strings free; she glanced back, smiled her thanks.

He used the moment taken in laying her cloak on the chaise, in adding his to it, to steel himself. Then he turned back to her.

And saw her clearly for the first time that evening, knowing she was here, alone with him in a completely private setting.

Limned by the candlelight, she was half turned his way, the fingers of one hand resting on the back of the nearer chair. The weak light deepened the gold of her hair but did nothing to conceal its luster, to hide her flawless complexion or the intensely feminine curves of breast, hip and thigh, all draped in cornflower silk the exact shade of her eyes.

The gown made the most of her charms. Severely simple, it led the eye to see, showcased the bounty it concealed.

All that, he'd foreseen. What he hadn't expected was the aura of anticipation, blatantly sensual, that filled the space between them, that invested her expression, widened her eyes, lingered in the curve of her lips.

The effect was worse-far worse-than he'd expected.

He couldn't recall taking the steps, but he was suddenly beside her. She'd lifted her head to keep her eyes on his; raising one hand, he trailed the backs of his fingers up the exposed line of her throat, then turned his hand, cupped her jaw and bent his head to hers.

Her lips met his confidently. Not overeagerly, but she was ready and willing to follow wherever he led.

It was her control that gave him his, gave him the strength to raise his head without taking the caress any further. Hearing a sound outside the door, he reached around her and drew out her chair. Her eyes met his briefly, then she turned and sat, settling her skirts as the attendant entered pushing the trolley carrying their meal.

Once the trolley was positioned and the dishes displayed, Martin dismissed the man and took his seat. Amanda helped herself to the various delicacies; he reached for the bottle and filled her glass, then his.

"You've been here before."

Across the table, her eyes quizzed him.

"On occasion." He had no intention of letting her imagine he was any less dangerous than society had painted him.

Her lips curved; a dimple winked. She raised her glass. Obligingly, he lifted his and clinked the edge to hers.

"To my adventures," she declared, and drank.

To sanity. He took a fortifying swallow.

"Can we go out and about the gardens?"

He took another gulp. "After we've eaten."

She applied herself to the food with unfeigned appreciation. However, other than commenting on the culinary skills of the unknown cook, she did not speak. Prattle. Fill his ears with the usual babble, as women were wont to do.

He found her reticence disconcerting. Disorienting.

As he tended to keep silent, having long ago discovered the advantage that conferred, the ladies he escorted usually felt obliged to fill the vacuum. Consequently, he was never consumed by any wish to know what was going on in their heads; if they were talking, they weren't thinking.

Now, however, Amanda's silence focused his attention as no feminine discourse ever would. What was going on under her golden locks? What plot was she hatching? And why?

That last nagging question rang warning bells. Why did he want to know? He mentally shrugged the quibble aside-he definitely wanted to know why she'd selected him as her partner in adventure.

On a sigh of pleasant repletion, she laid down her knife and fork. He drained the last of the champagne into his glass and sat back, sipping.

Across the table, she met his gaze. "It's odd-although we're in the gardens, you can't hear the crowd."

"The bushes absorb the sound." Including any sound from the isolated booths. Pushing back his chair, he stood. "Come. Let's take the air."

Amanda was very ready to do so; the strain of not giving way to nervous babble was wearing her down. Outside among the crowd there would be plenty of distraction, and ease for her overstretched nerves. Sharing an enclosed space with a large, intensely predatory male, one who looked like sin personified, was not a calming experience; she knew she was safe, yet her senses insisted on screaming she was not.

In her cloak with the hood up, shielding her face, she left the booth on Dexter's arm. They retraced the path, then took another turning. It opened into one of the main walks. Immediately, they were surrounded by couples and groups all flown with good cheer. As they walked toward the rotunda, the center of the garden's entertainments, the crowd steadily increased.

It was not a Gala Night, so when they reached the area where couples were waltzing, there was space enough for Dexter to draw her into his arms and steer them into the swirling throng.

She glanced at his face; he was watching her. He studied her eyes, her expression, then had to look up as they turned. The lanterns bobbing overhead sent light, then shadow, dancing across his features. Illuminating the strong patrician lines, then veiling them.

Following his lead without thought, she let her mind drift, allowed her senses to appreciate as they would. She was aware of his strength, of the ease with which he steered her, of the sudden tensing of his arm, drawing her protectively closer when more couples joined in and limited their space.