A conquest more challenging than any man she'd met.

Contentment warmed her. She now knew she could succeed; she'd sighted her true quarry-the elusive man. On the boat, he'd revealed himself more clearly than at any time previously. He'd dropped his guard long enough for her to recognize the difference, to feel it in his kiss, sense it in his touch.

A wish, a need, a wonderment that was only partly sensual, although his overt sensuality provided a distracting screen. She had something the elusive lion wanted, something with which she could lure him out of his lair.

That evening had confirmed that all she dreamed of could truly be.

His control, absolute and unwavering, was the next hurdle she needed to overcome; twisting up her hair, she considered how that might best be done, how she might strengthen her hold on him. Rewarding though their dual adventures had proved, she now had only one more outing to which he was committed, one more chance to work her wiles. What possibilities might a Covent Garden masquerade throw her way?

She continued to think, to plot, to plan as she slipped through the silent house and out through the side door. How far would she need to go to trap him, to snare his senses and overthrow his will? What actions on her part were most likely to evoke the desired reaction on his? Protectiveness. Pride. Ultimately, possessiveness, as Amelia had warned. Strong emotions all. Which was it safe to prod, which wiser to let be?

Which did she dare provoke? Where would she draw her line?

Ten minutes later, she rode into the park.

There was no one waiting under the oak by the gates-no roan, no large, dangerous rider.

She felt his absence like a slap. A shock. A sudden emptiness.

She didn't know what to think. After a minute of simply sitting the mare, staring at the empty space, she gathered the reins and set off down the park. Dexter's groom trailed after her.

Her heart, so light mere minutes ago, buoyed by the expectation of seeing him again, had plummeted. A constriction tightened about her chest; inside, she felt hollow. Skittering from one recollection to the next, her mind again and again returned to one question: how much had he guessed?

She reached the tan track; without thought, she sprang the mare. The groom stopped under the trees and watched.

Halfway along with the mare in full stride, the wind whipping her cheeks and tangling her curls, desolation swept her as realization struck. She did not enjoy the moment-the excitement, the thrill-half as much alone.

On the thought, she heard thunder. The thudding of heavy hooves closing rapidly. She flung a glance behind; the roan with its familiar rider was quickly making up lost ground. Facing forward, she smiled ecstatically, knowing he couldn't yet see.

Seconds later, he ranged alongside; she met his eyes, smiled in easy welcome, and prayed no hint of the triumph she felt showed in her face.

He might be here, but he was far from tame. And she wasn't fool enough to think he didn't, at least in part, have her measure.

The end of the track neared; Martin slowed, then they turned aside onto the sward. He drew rein, noting the color the wind had brought to her cheeks. They were both breathing rapidly, courtesy of the ride; he fought not to let his mind focus on the rise and fall of her breasts.

The same breasts that had filled his dreams, not just with sensual images but with sensual longings, with the simple need to experience the sensations again, to sate his tactile senses with a feast more sumptuous, more enthralling than any before.

Signalling the groom back to the gate, he gathered his reins and nodded to a path wending through the trees. "Let's return this way."

He'd meant to stay away, to cut the connection, to withdraw from her game. The fact he was here, riding beside her, didn't please him at all.

He glanced at her face, found it studiously serene, her gaze fixed on the trees. As if she thought he'd simply been a little late rolling from his bed. He wasn't fool enough to swallow it, but reluctantly acknowledged her strategy. Her subtlety. In this arena, she was a more worthy opponent than any who had gone before.

They were deep in the trees, screened from any early riders, when he again drew rein. She halted, considered him, then raised a questioning brow.

"Your wish to attend a Covent Garden masquerade-I fear I'll be unable to accommodate you."

"Oh?" Her gaze remained steady on his face. "And why is that?"

Because after their interlude on the Thames, he was too ise to give her another chance to tempt him. "Because such an outing is entirely out of bounds for a lady of your station." He returned her regard and deliberately added, "Especially with me as your escort."

Her cornflower blue gaze didn't waver, but he couldn't read her eyes; her expression said only that she was considering his words.

Then she nodded and picked up the mare's reins. "Very well."

With that, she set the mare ambling on. Martin stared, then urged the roan along in her wake. Very well? "So you accept that you won't be attending one of the masquerades?"

She glanced back. "Of course not." She faced forward again. "I'll just have to find another escort."

What had he expected? She was damned well turning him into another "dear Reggie."

He could call her bluff. He would, if he could be certain it was indeed a bluff.

Amanda bit her tongue, kept her expression fixed as if pondering her male acquaintances, trying to decide which to ask to escort her to a Covent Garden masquerade.

They were within sight of the gate, his groom waiting beside it, before she heard the words she'd been praying she'd hear.

"All right, all right!"

She glanced at Martin; he fixed her with a stony look. "I promised I'd take you to the blasted masquerade-so I will." Swallowing her whoop of delight was not easy, but she managed it, smiled evenly instead. "Thank you. It would make life easier." Letting her lips curve a touch further, she murmured, "Better the devil one knows, after all."

His expression grew stonier. He nodded curtly. "I'll make the arrangements."

He swung the roan's head, clearly intending to ride deeper into the park. With a graceful salute, Amanda set the mare for the gate.

She didn't look back, didn't need to look to know that after a moment of watching her, he turned away. As the mare's hooves clopped on the cobbles, all confidence faded from her eyes.

"He's going to pull back-escape! I know it!" Pacing across her bedchamber, Amanda flung the comment at Amelia, perched on the bed.

"Isn't there some way you can… well, tie him up?"

She snorted. "He's too careful-too wide awake, no matter how lazily he moves." Swinging around, she paced back. "You see, he knows we're playing some game. I've made him interested enough to indulge me by playing, but he knows-and he knows I know he knows, too. What he doesn't know is that I mean the game to end at the altar. I could simply be after a taste of excitement before succumbing to a boring marriage."

"A boring marriage? He can't believe that."

"He doesn't go about in the ton. He doesn't know the family. So he can't guess where I'm heading, which is part of the attraction, part of what makes him willing to be my guide."

"Ah." Leaning on her elbows, Amelia considered. "But what about the other part-the rest of the reason he's spending time with you?"

Amanda grimaced. "Did I tell you he's hard to read-elusive? I don't truly know what that'rest' is. In fact, I'm not sure he knows, either. But whatever it is, it's too…"-she waved her hands-"amorphous to pin down and use. Besides, I don't want him focusing on that yet. If there's anything there, it needs time to grow before he recognizes it."

Amelia nodded. "So you need another tack-another prod."

"Yes. But what?" Amanda paced on. After some minutes, her twin's voice broke through her tortured thoughts.

"You know, I think you're looking at this from the wrong angle."

Turning, she met Amelia's eyes.

"You're thinking of him specifically, and that's difficult because you simply can't know. But he's still a man-a man like our cousins. Isn't he?"

Amanda stared, then her face cleared. Smiling brilliantly, she flung herself on the bed and hugged her sister. "Melly, you're a genius."

Four mornings later, Martin sat his roan under the tree in the park, and watched Amanda Cynster ride toward him. The smile on her face was mildly sunny-not a hint of a smirk, not the faintest glimmer of triumph showed.

He stifled a disaffected grunt, but couldn't keep his gaze from drinking in the sight of her, golden curls bright against the early morning sky, figure supple and trim in her velvet habit.

The clash of his emotions left him feeling like gnashing his teeth. He hadn't felt so exercised in years. Irritation was nearest his surface, roused by the perception that fate was, once again, not treating him fairly. He was trying to do the right and honorable thing, trying to keep faith and give her the adventures they'd agreed on, then cut the connection he sensed growing between them and slide into the shadows once more, yet fate-and she-were conspiring to tease him.

After making the necessary arrangements for her evening at Covent Garden, he'd waited for her to send for the mare again. And waited. It had finally dawned on him that she was spending her mornings sleeping in.

She was either supremely sure of him, or she didn't truly care.