The next evening, they met at Lady Hepplewhite's drum. The Hepplewhites' mansion was a rambling old place affording numerous possibilities for clandestine meetings. Amanda literally ran into Martin in one of the minor salons. She was fleeing from Percival Lytton-Smythe.

"Good!" Linking her arm with Martin's, she tugged him about. "If we stand still, we're going to be talked at." She glanced up and arched a brow. "Might I suggest we repair to the conservatory?"

Martin studied her eyes, her eager, open expression. Briefly wondered… "I have a better idea."

The garden hall: narrow, deserted, it gave onto a small courtyard beyond which the wider gardens lay. It was reached via a series of interconnecting corridors, but the hall ran alongside one of the major salons.

"I've never been in here before." Amanda looked about as she entered.

Martin closed the door, watched as she turned and looked back at him. The room was dim, yet he still saw the unabashed anticipation in her face as she held out her hands to him.

"Come-dance. We can hear the music, even here."

He went to her. Through the thick walls, the muted strains of an air wafted, created by the orchestra in the main salon. Gathering her into his arms, he slowly revolved.

The beat was undemanding, leaving their senses free to roam. To search, to dwell. His dwelled on the enticing feminine curves filling his arms, on the supple sway of her spine under his hand, on the seductive shift of her silk-clad hips against his thighs. Bending his head, he murmured, "There's another dance I'd like to engage in with you."

"Hmm." Amanda smiled, then freed her arms and draped them about his neck. "Unfortunately"-she deliberately pressed closer and felt his arms tighten in response-"it seems we'll have to make do with the waltz."

A calculated challenge. She lifted her face, offered her lips; he took them without hesitation. Yet restraint was still there, even though he teased her lips apart, surged in, took her mouth, tried to steal her wits away.

More or less succeeded.

She felt her need swell, felt his heighten in response, in reaction as her nails scored his nape, as she shifted provocatively against him. The ache within, raised and left unfulfilled for the past two nights, sprang to life at a touch, at the first caress of his thumb across her breast. More intense, more demanding; she longed for his surrender, longed to tender hers.

Yet his had to come first.

She clung to her wits, let him tempt her, ply her with wordless promises of glory. Focused her talents on returning the invitation. On heightening his desire, on feeding the compulsive need she sensed behind his experienced mask.

Trailing her fingertips down his lean cheek, she let her hand fall to his shoulder, then his chest. Continued to stroke downward, trailing to his hip-

He caught her hand, twined his fingers with hers, closed his fist. Held tight.

She shifted under his kiss, drew away, murmured, "Let me touch you." Kissed him again, long, lingeringly.

"No." He drew back, then reconsidered. "Many me and you can touch whenever you like."

She laughed, seductive, sultry, supremely conscious as she spread her other hand over his chest how very tense he was. Felt emboldened enough to state, "You won't win me like this."

"Regardless, I won't lose." He caught her other hand, raised both to his shoulders. Released them, reached for her, drew her hard, flush against him, crushing her breasts to his chest, blatantly molding her hips so her soft stomach cradled his rigid erection.

Her eyes on his, she tightened her hold about his neck, drew him to her. Let her gaze fall to his lips. Let her lids drift closed.

His lips touched one corner of hers, then the tip of his tongue lingeringly traced the full curve of her lower lip.

"No other man will ever lay hands on your skin, will ever caress your naked breasts." His breath washed over her sensitized lips. "No other man will ever come between your thighs, will ever bury himself in you. Only me."

The last words were harsh; angling his head, he took her lips, took her mouth. And she gloried in the sudden wash of heat, the unmistakable rush of desire. She stretched higher, met him boldly, urged him on. Caught her breath in anticipation when he backed her into the counter that ran along one wall.

The hand splayed about her hips slid lower, cradling her bottom, holding her as he rocked evocatively against her.

Desire swept her-she wanted to climb up, wrap her legs about his waist, impale herself on him. Knew she could. If he would.

He seemed to have the same idea. His hand firmed on her bottom, kneading briefly, then he gripped her waist-

"Tee-hee! No-don't! Oh, you naughty man!"

They broke their kiss; both looked sideways through the glass doors into the courtyard. A giggling young lady was wrestling with an amorous gentleman. The pair sank onto the bench facing the doors; the young lady shrieked as the man fondled her breast.

Amanda gaped. "That's Miss Ellis! She's only just out!"

Martin swore, straightened. Put Amanda from him, held her until she was steady. "Come on." Taking her hand, allowing his disgruntled disgust to show, he headed for the door. "Before they see us."

Too risky to do otherwise. He escorted an equally disenchanted Amanda back to a minor salon.

"I'll leave you here." He caught her gaze, noted the remnants of desire clouding the blue. Raising her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingertips. "Until next time."

Her eyes widened as she took in his meaning. He released her hand; her fingers clutched his. "Tomorrow afternoon. There's a picnic at Osterley. The others will go to the bluebell wood. Do you remember the dell at the end of the lake?"

He thought back. Nodded. "Tomorrow afternoon." He bowed and stepped back into the shadows.

Reluctantly left her to return to her bright world.

If he didn't have her soon, didn't very shortly convince her to be his, he was going to… do something rash. What, he wasn't sure.

In the dell at the end of the Osterley House lake, Martin sat on a large log and waited for relief. Reaching the dell undetected had been easy; the woods stretched unbroken from the lake to the road half a mile away. The favored picnic spot lay on the lawns beyond the other end of the lake, close by the walks that led through the bluebell wood. To join him, Amanda would have to walk around the lake. He doubted any other young lady would be so energetically inclined, which should leave them safe from interruptions.

So he fervently hoped.

Weaving a web of desire tight enough to bind Amanda to him was proving unexpectedly demanding. Admittedly, it wasn't an undertaking he'd embarked on before-he'd never previously wanted to tie any woman to him. However, given how attached women-ladies especially-tended to become even when he wasn't trying… surely, if he tried, he could tie her up tight.

So she wouldn't even think of saying "No" again, no matter what he suggested.

He heard footsteps, then saw her. She walked into the dell, smiled when she saw him, walked to the log and stopped beside him. She looked across the lake, scanned the nearby banks.

He rose. It was that or suffer worse torments; just the sight of her, let alone that confident smile, had aroused him to a painful degree.

She looked into his eyes. They were almost breast to chest as he looked down at her face. He reached for her, setting his arms loosely about her, fought the urge to seize.

"Marry me."

She held his gaze. "Why?"

Why? "Because I want you." The words were out before he'd thought, then he did, but saw no reason to take them back. Or even disguise their meaning. Instead, he drew her closer, so she could feel precisely what he meant.

Her lids lowered, shielding her eyes; a subtle smile flirted at the corner of her lips. "I accept that you desire me." Her body eased in his arms as she sank, a promise of heaven, against him. "But if desire is the only reason you 'want' me, that's insufficient reason for me to become your countess."

She was talking in riddles. Again…

A sudden suspicion bloomed in his mind. She peeked up at him through her lashes; he caught her gaze, ruthlessly held it. Considered a possibility that until then he hadn't considered possible at all.

He felt his face harden. "You are playing a very dangerous game."

Her lids rose; she met his gaze without guile, without the slightest trepidation. "I know." Reaching up, she trailed a fingertip down his check, then met his eyes again. "But I'm serious, and quite willing to call your bet."

The emotion that roared through him, that filled his ears and overwhelmed his mind-if he'd been able to shut his eyes, able to clench his fists, been standing alone in an empty room, he might have been able to let it well and fade without acting. Without reacting.

Instead, his arms tightened, crushing her to him; he bent his head, took her mouth, took her lips. A prelude to taking her. No quarter.

Amanda asked for none. Clenching her fingers in his hair, she drank in the passion he poured into her, then turned it back on him. Sensed the clash, not of their wills, but of their stubborn hearts. She'd taken her stand, knew the ground beneath her feet was rock solid; he'd made his position clear, and would not be easily driven from it. Would not readily accept the necessity of changing his mind.

She was prepared to wait him out. Prepared to wage their war until she won, then he would win, too. Despite his present stance, despite the implacable resistance that met her now, the wall of male dominance that refused to budge.