Panting, desperate for breath, from under heavy lids, she watched him slowly straighten. His gaze remained on her, on her parted thighs, on the heated flesh between. Then he raised his eyes, scanning up her body until he reached her face. She had just enough strength left to lift one arm, hold out one hand and beckon. "Come."

The word was a sultry entreaty. He stared at her, the planes of his face had never looked harder, harsher.

And she realized in that instant that he had not intended to join with her again; that had not been part of his plan. She held his gaze, managed a smile. "I want you. Come."

She did want him, wanted him inside her, with her, sharing the delight, the bone-deep pleasure.

He hesitated, then stood. His hands went to his waistband and she gloried. She held her breath, didn't dare instruct him to take off his shirt. He released the buttons at his waist, peeled back the flap, then straddled the bench.

Before she could think, he reached for her, lifted her easily to him. She grabbed his shoulders; hands about her hips, supporting and directing, he pressed her to him. Her thighs slipped over the outside of his, opening her wider still, then he lowered her, the head of his staff nudged her softness. He adjusted her hips, pressed in, then, hands firming, drew her down. Down, down, until she was impaled.

Breathing was impossible; he was so high inside her, she felt the invasion throughout her body. He reached between them; his hand rose with the orchid in his fingers. He slid the stem into the curls piled atop her head. Then he caught her face, brought his lips to hers, captured her awareness in the kiss. She could taste her essence on his lips and tongue, then he angled his head, drew her deeper and her senses spun. His hands fell away. She felt them slide about her hips, then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her slightly, and rocked her.

Rocked into her.

It took less than a minute for the frenzy to overwhelm him, for the slick friction of her body sheathing his to cinder the last remnants of control. Martin didn't even register the fact she'd opened his shirt until she wrapped her arms about his torso and pressed her breasts, hot and tight, flush to his bare chest. His arms locked in reaction, crushing her to him, holding her immobile as he drove into her.

He found her lips and took her mouth, found the same driving rhythm and locked onto it, held her tight and drove her wild-as wild as she was driving him.

Until, with a fractured cry, she melted in his arms, a goddess sacrificed in some pagan rite, her body an offering to appease the primitive demands of his.

And every primitive instinct gloried as he filled her, drove deep within her one last time, felt her body clamp tight and hold him as he shattered.

Gasped. Struggled to take in air, fought to clear his wits.

When had lust ever been this all-consuming?

Holding her close, moving his hands slowly up and down her back, feeling satiation and repletion spread through his body and hers, leaving them both heavy-limbed and languorous, he fought to find his mental feet.

Tried to understand why-why it was so different with her. Why it mattered so much more, why it meant more. Tried to understand what he felt, from where the compulsion to have her, possess her completely, sprang. Tried to identify the emotion that spread through him when he had her like this, naked in his arms, completely and utterly sated, completely and utterly his.

Whatever that last was, it scared him. To his bones.

The vise about his chest had eased; he could almost breathe normally. Looking down, he considered all he could see-the jumbled mass of her golden curls, the white orchids still in place, the alabaster satin of her shoulders and back, tinted with the flush of desire.

He hadn't intended to have her again, yet he didn't regret it. Couldn't regret the joy of sinking into her sleek, sumptuous body, feeling her surrender, open to him, take him in. The interlude had only reinforced his considered direction, only etched his course even more deeply in stone.

Bending his head, he nuzzled the side of her face, pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Whispered, "Say you'll marry me."

"Hmm?"

"If you marry me, you'll have all this every morning and every night."

Amanda lifted her head, looked him in the eye-and let her incredulity show. Her temper rose; she pressed her lips tight to stop herself telling him what an idiot he was. "No!"

She scrambled off him, out of his arms, off the bench. On her feet, she grabbed up her chemise; this was becoming a habit. "I'm not going to marry you"-lost for words, she gestured-"for this!" The idea! She was going to have "all this," but she wanted a great deal more besides, and after the last hour, she was certain there was a great deal more to be had.

He gave a disgusted snort, swung his leg over the bench to face her. "This is getting us nowhere. You're going to marry me-I'm not going to disappear into the dark while you go swanning off with some eligible gentleman."

She hiked up her gown and looked him in the eye. "Good!" She whirled and presented him with her back. "Now do this up."

He actually growled. Then he stood and jerked her laces together. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were demented." As he tied off the laces, he asked, "Just tell me-why won't you say yes?"

Shoving her feet into her slippers, she faced him. "What is it that you're offering me that I can't get from any other gentleman?"

He stared down at her… frowned.

She jabbed a finger, hard, into his astoundingly gorgeous chest. "When you've figured that out, perhaps we can negotiate. Until then"-with a swish of her skirts, she turned and headed for the door-"I'll bid you a good night."

As she went through the door, she caught a glimpse of him standing there, the tanned expanse of his chest framed by the white sides of his shirt, his hands on his hips, a black frown on his face, his gaze locked on her.

Chapter 11

The remainder of the ball passed in a blur; Amanda couldn't wait to get home and into bed. Blowing out the candle, she fell back on the pillows-at last she could think.

He loved her-she was almost sure of it. Surely it was love that made him treat her like a madonna, as if she held the keys to his soul. Amid all the passion, the fire and the flames, on all three occasions they'd come together, there'd been something else there-something deeper, stronger, hard to define, yet infinitely more powerful than mere lust.

She'd felt it from the first, but she'd never known love before, not this sort of love, a love so enmeshed with sexual need, so disguised by possessiveness. But it had to be love-why else would a gentleman of his ilk, with his background, be so set on a wedding?

For his honor's sake.

She grimaced. That was what he wanted her to believe. Yet if that was so, what had tonight been about? Why bother trying to bribe her with the prospect of physical pleasure? He'd offered his name-she'd rejected it. Honor had already been satisfied, hadn't it?

Muttering imprecations against men's ridiculous obsessions, she thumped the pillow, then snuggled down. Twinges flickered in her thighs, but not as badly as they had four nights before; in contrast, the warm content deep within her had grown. Closing her eyes, she sighed.

At least she knew exactly what she wanted, what she would demand before she agreed to any wedding. She wanted his heart, acknowledged and freely offered, before she agreed, body and soul, to be his.

The library fire was still burning when Martin returned from Richmond. Crossing to the sideboard, he poured brandy into a glass, then sprawled on his favorite couch. The daybed where he'd first had Amanda Cynster.

Deflowered her-that was the correct, socially acceptable term. Ergo, he should marry her. That equation seemed perfectly logical to him.

Not, apparently, to her.

Swallowing a growl with a mouthful of brandy, he turned his mind to his next attempt to change her mind. He didn't waste a second on deciding whether or not he would take another tilt at her-that point wasn't in question.

He wanted to marry her. The situation decreed he should.

Therefore he would.

As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough. Whatever she'd meant by her nonsensical question could remain veiled in obscurity-it was bound to be some peculiarly feminine, totally impractical ideal.

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…