The rub was, he couldn't decide which.

Regardless, because of her new tack, instead of adhering to his sworn oath not to encourage her in any way, he'd had to send a note asking her to meet him. Irked was not the half of what he felt.

She reined to a halt; the mare pranced. Patting its glossy neck, she smiled fondly. "You were right-she does need to be ridden." Lifting her head, she regarded him evenly, then raised a brow.

He studied her blue eyes, face hardening as his mind recited her words. Tightening his reins, he jerked his head toward the track. "Let's go."

They did; despite his frequent glances, he detected not the slightest smugness. Indeed, her demeanor suggested her adventures with him were merely by-the-by, that they didn't figure highly in her life. That she wasn't, at that very moment, wondering if he'd made the arrangements she'd earlier been so keen for him to make.

Reaching the track, they turned as one, then thundered down its length. As usual, the exhilaration claimed him; he was aware it claimed her, too. For those minutes as they raced side by side, neck and neck, there was just them and the birds and the sky. No expectations. No obligations. Just simple excitement and delight.

They had that in common-an ability to give themselves up to the moment without reservation. The realization dawned as they slowed and turned onto the lawns.

His irritation had eased, leaving behind it… something he'd thought never to feel.

With a brusque nod, he directed her onto the screened path they'd taken previously. The sun was rising earlier; other gentlemen were already sleepily plodding toward the park.

"I have a box at Covent Garden for the masquerade next Tuesday."

She smiled gloriously at him. "Wonderful."

He fought against a scowl. "If the date suits, I'll wait in the carriage as before."

Her smile didn't falter. "Tuesday evening will suit admirably. There are major balls on Monday and Wednesday nights, so if I cry off on Tuesday, no one will be surprised."

He studied her face. She bore the scrutiny calmly; her expression gave nothing away. Yet she had to know that he could have sent the details in the summons he'd sent her. He hadn't; the last thing he wanted to think about was why.

Perhaps she hadn't realized-perhaps she thought horses were what he preferred to ride at this hour.

He hauled his mind off that tack, away from the ache in his loins. "Tuesday night, then." After that, he'd be free.

Still smiling, she inclined her head. Barely waiting for him to acknowledge the gesture, she flicked her reins and left him.

He watched her ride away, calmly assured, then turned and rode home, even more determined to end her game.

The pit of Covent Garden, cleared and crammed with revelers, was a scene lifted from Amanda's wildest imaginings. When Dexter escorted her into their box in the first tier, she didn't know where to look first.

Everyone wore masks, but many ladies had already dispensed with their black cloaks, revealing gowns the likes of which Amanda had never seen. Eyes round, she drank in the sights-and corrected her thoughts. Not ladies. No lady would ever wear such provocative attire. Sinking into a chair at the front of the box, she viewed this one, then that, with voyeuristic fascination; these were the demimonde in all their glory. The Cyprians, the ladybirds, the opera dancers who more frequently appeared on the stage of the huge hall, presently hosting an orchestra laboring to be heard over the din. Ribald comments, raucous laughter, rose from all quarters. Arch glances, teasing titters captured men's senses and tempted them nearer.

The gentlemen were unremarkable, the same crowd she saw every night in the ton. What enthralled her was their behavior, then" open worship of the bold and brazen who flaunted their charms directly beneath their noses.

The flagrant play-the inciting of desire and the subsequent negotiation over its satisfaction-intrigued her. Although aware of Dexter's frowning gaze, she continued to sit and stare. After a time, he sprawled in a chair beside her, large, watchful-intensely lionlike.

Once she'd drunk her fill and confirmed that, as far as she could tell, there were no familiar faces hidden among the throng, she turned and regarded him through the slits in her halfmask. "Can we go down?"

He wanted to say "No." She could see it in his eyes-he hadn't worn a mask. Little point; he was easily recognizable-there was no other with hair of his particular shade, so richly burnished. The gold overlaying the brown was doubtless one of the changes his years in India had wrought.

Indolently, he stirred; his gaze drifted to the crowd. "If you wish."

He stood; she gave him her hand and let him raise her. His gaze returned, slid down, over her, taking in her gown of apricot silk revealed as her domino parted. She'd chosen the gown carefully; its hue made her skin glow and turned her hair a deeper gold.

For one instant, he stared, then, reaching out, twitched the cloak closed. "It would be wise to remain incognito. One look at that gown and the cogniscenti will be rabid to learn who you are."

An angel slumming in hell. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, Martin escorted her down the stairs to the vestibule. As they reached the pit and the noise engulfed them, he reminded himself it wasn't truly hell; if it had been, he'd never have brought her here.

Here, however, was a place she didn't need to be, didn't need to see-she didn't need to be exposed to this kind of company. At least in his opinion.

He knew better than to argue. Jaw set, he guided her into the throng, intent on ensuring that what she did see was, if not acceptable, then at least not shocking. He was counting on the fact he had a woman on his arm to ward off any approaches; nevertheless, numerous arch glances, come-hither pouts and knowing winks were directed his way. A fact his partner didn't miss.

She stiffened; her fingertips sank into his arm. But as they penetrated further into the crowd, her tension gradually eased.

He glanced at her face, but with her mask on and her gaze on the crowd, he couldn't see her expression, couldn't guess her thoughts.

Didn't foresee her direction.

Amanda's open-mindedness over the women parading the pit ended the instant she realized they were as aware of her escort's potential as she. Fifteen feet of slow progress, however, demonstrated that he had no interest in them-his attention remained firmly riveted precisely where she wanted it.

On her.

Which left her free to take in all she would, to catalogue the flourishes, the teasing glances, the flirting whisk of a fan, to glean all she could from experts in the field. Yet the fact he seemed immune suggested that she would need more subtle weapons.

She'd turned her mind to evaluating exactly what subtle weapons she possessed when a jocularly jostling couple bumped her, sent her careening-

Dexter hauled her to him-she fetched up against his chest, breathlessly locked against him. Protectively shielded.

She glanced up. His face was a stony warrior's mask, his gaze fixed beyond her. She could hear some gentleman gabbling his apologies. Beneath her hands, in the arms around her, she felt tension swell, muscles flex. Dragging in a breath, she fought to turn-but only succeeded in turning her head. "That's quite all right." She glanced up as Dexter looked down.

He looked ready to argue.

She smiled. Patted his chest. "No harm done."

The couple took advantage of his distraction to melt into the crowd; Martin looked up and they were gone-he felt as if he'd been deprived of his rightful prey. It took an instant more to shackle his instincts. To quell his reaction enough so he could ease his arms from…

Damn! He refused to meet her gaze as he forced his arms from her. Closing one hand about hers, he twined her arm with his and anchored her hand on his sleeve. "What now?"

The growled words were barely polite, but… she was the one who had wanted to come here.

He felt the glance she threw him, declined to meet it.

"Let's amble. I want to see all there is to be seen."

There was not a chance of him permitting that. He steered her through sections of the crowd that he'd first ascertained were safe, avoiding any group whose behavior he considered too lewd for her angelic blue eyes.

And reminded himself why he was here.

Because he'd agreed to bring her here, because he'd extraded a promise that if he did, she'd return to the ballrooms where she belonged. The years had taught him wisdom; he knew she'd keep her word. She had her own brand of honor, as did he. His demanded that once this night was over, he retire from her life. And he would. Regardless. All he had to do was survive tonight, and all would be well.

The shrill shrieks, the high-pitched gibber of excitement that always seemed to occur beyond her view, informed Amanda that she was missing a good deal of what she had ostensibly come to see.

She no longer cared. The game she and Dexter were engaged in demanded her entire attention. Tonight would be her last chance to breach his walls. While he might be a superior card player, in this particular game they were more evenly matched. All she had to do was tip the scales her way.

As the crowd grew more unruly, she considered every opportunity, ready to seize any advantage. Before the stage, they came upon an area filled with waltzing couples. Abruptly stopping, she turned. Into Dexter's arms.

"Can we dance?" Suppressing her reaction at the sudden contact, breast to chest, hip to thigh, she ignored the tension locking his frame, the possessive grip of his hand at her waist. Eyes wide, she looked up at him.