He counted. "Four. Which only increases the odds that you're carrying my child."

"Possibly."

"If you are, we're getting married."

Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn't define them.

She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go. "If," she stated, "it proves to be so, then we can discuss marriage." She turned away, swiped up her chemise. "Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade."

He narrowed his eyes. "Amanda."

He argued, and swore, then argued some more.

It did no good. And by then she was dressed.

Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his paramour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.

He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. "Why?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. "I told you before, I want more. There's something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you."

"What is this thing?" He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.

"That," she replied, her tone turning glacial, "is what

you"-she jabbed his chest-"have to discover! I'm only assuming you have what I need. If you don't…"

Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. "If you don't, then you haven't, and that will be that."

He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips-probably on unwise words-

Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. "I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord."

He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. "As you please, my lady."

His. She was, very definitely, that.

If it hadn't been for the hours they'd spent in his bed, he might have wondered if she'd played him for a fool, if she'd been interested only in an illicit interlude, or four, with one whom her circle would dub seriously dangerous. Even now, he wasn't sure his reputation hadn't, in part, contributed to the attraction, at least at first. But now… now, there was more to her motives than simple lust.

Returning to his bedchamber an hour later, having seen her back into the chaos of the masquerade, watched until she'd found her sister and Carmarthen and left, he exhaled. He was relaxed but not at peace, tired but not sleepy. Shutting the door, he headed for the huge armchair before the fire. A splotch of white glowing against the rich hues of the rug caught his eye.

The orchids he'd sent her, the orchids she'd worn at her throat so he'd known her instantly; he picked them up.

She'd left the masquerade as soon as she'd rejoined her sister and Carmarthen; at the time, he'd wondered if that was because she'd known he was watching and he wouldn't allow her to flirt with other gentlemen, or because she'd only attended the masquerade to meet with him. Dropping into the armchair, he turned the orchids between his fingers. His frame of mind, then, had not been all that rational.

Looking back on their encounters, studying the orchids, he knew full well it was the latter-she'd come to meet him, as she had so often before.

Aside from anything else, she was not that sort of woman-the sort who went easily, without thought or affection, to a man's bed. She was a Cynster-he understood her type well. She came from the same stock as he, but he'd never known a Cynster female, one born and bred, only Cynster males. His experience of her thus far suggested he'd be wise to extrapolate.

Thus far, he'd underestimated her at every turn.

He'd known from the first that she was playing some game, yet he hadn't been able to perceive her goal-what she'd wanted to win. He'd let himself be cajoled into playing with her, let himself fall under her spell, all the while confident that she-an innocent no matter her years-could not possibly wring from him anything he didn't wish to give.

He considered the orchids, the thick, milky-white petals soft, smooth, like her skin, then curled his fingers, closed his hand about the flowers.

Breathed in their scent.

Closed his eyes, let his head rest against the chair's back.

He knew what she wanted.

He'd hoped to avoid having to play for that stake, having to defend it, yet she'd taken every trick thus far, and left him with little else to toss on the table to avoid having to risk his heart.

A log in the fireplace cracked, broke. Opening his eyes, he watched the flames leap, felt their warmth roll over him.

Considered his last remaining option.

For there was one thing more, one trump he yet held, a penultimate card that just might see him through, might let him turn the tide and seize her hand-and her-without having to risk his heart's defenses.

The question was: was he willing to play it?

Chapter 13

"These arrived for you a few minutes ago, Miss Amanda."

Reaching the front hall, Amanda looked up as Colthorpe offered a tissue-wrapped spray of flowers on his salver. "Thank you, Colthorpe."

Amelia joined her as she picked up the spray. Together with Louise, presently descending the stairs, they were about to leave for Lady Matcham's grand ball. "That ribbon's gold thread," Amelia murmured.

Amanda studied the spray. The tissue protecting the blooms was caught in the ribbon so it could easily be freed. Holding the beribboned stems, she tugged; the tissue came away, revealing three perfect white orchids.

Amelia stared; Amanda did, too.

Louise arrived beside them. "How lovely!" She picked up the spray, examined the blooms. "Incredibly exotic." She returned the spray to Amanda. "Who are they from?"

Amanda glanced at Colthorpe. "There wasn't a note."

Colthorpe shook his head. "Delivered by a groom in dark brown livery, green-and-gold piping. I didn't recognize the house."

"Well." Louise headed for the front door. "You'll just have to carry it and see who comes to claim your hand."

Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia stared back.

"Come along now, or we'll be late."

"Yes, Mama." Amelia linked her arm with Amanda's and urged her forward. "Come on-you'll have to go and see."

"Indeed." Amanda fell in beside her, her gaze locked on the three delicate blooms.

She would have to go and face her lion.

Martin waited until the very last minute, until the last stragglers had arrived and Lady Matcham and her spouse were about to abandon their post at the top of their ballroom stairs. When he handed the butler his card, the man nearly dropped it, but he recovered well enough, stepping forward to announce to the assembled company that the Earl of Dexter had arrived.

If he'd announced the plague, the butler couldn't have gained greater notice. Silence spread, rippling out from the foot of the stairs until it engulfed the entire ballroom. Conversation died as every head turned, necks craning to get a better look.

Martin walked forward. Taking her ladyship's instinctively extended hand, he bowed easily. "Ma'am."

For one instant, Lady Matcham simply stared, then triumph wreathed her features. "My lord. Might I say that it's a signal…"-she ran an eagle eye over him, from his elegantly cropped locks, over shoulders encased in fashionable evening black, over perfectly tied cravat and impeccable waistcoat-after all, she had been one of his mother's bosom-bows-then she nodded in approval-"pleasure to see you finally out of your lair?"

In the ballroom below, the whispers commenced-ferociously.

Martin nodded to Lord Matcham, who nodded back, clearly intrigued by Martin's unexpected attendance. Martin replied, "It was time and the arrival of your invitation seemed a stroke of fate."

"Indeed?" With a wave, Lady Matcham dismissed her spouse, took Martin's arm and turned to the stairs. "As I recall you always did have a silver tongue-be warned, you're going to need it. I intend to introduce you to every hostess you've spent the last year hiding from."

His lazy, social smile in place, Martin inclined his head. "If you think it necessary."

"Oh, I do," Lady Matcham informed him. "I most certainly do."

He escorted her down the stairs into the large ballroom. For a hostess of her ilk, tonight-his presence-would greatly augment her standing. The round of introductions would set the seal on her success; for him, it was a small price to pay.

Ultimately, being reintroduced to the senior hostess might be to his advantage; as he bowed and exchanged drawled, occasionally barbed comments with the ladies who, all pretense aside, controlled the ton, he put the final touches to his latest plan. His latest ploy to win Amanda's hand.

Most of the hostesses were simply pleased to meet him, to exchange words and extract a promise to have their next invitations given due consideration. Two-Lady Jersey, the younger, and Countess Lieven-one garrulous, the other coldly haughty, attempted in their wildly differing ways to glean the reason behind his unexpected change of heart, his reacknowledgment of the world that had for the past year been existing ignored on his doorstep; he merely smiled and left them wondering, knowing perfectly well that nothing was more certain to keep their attention fixed on him. It was obvious to them that something must have brought him here; such avid gossips as they were, they were rabid to learn what.