"Insane?" Amanda stared. "Why?"

Again Luc considered, his dark blue gaze unnervingly steady, then he lowered his voice. "I know about Mellors and Helen Hennessy's. I know Martin hauled you out of danger not once but on numerous occasions. He's come into the ton, an arena he doesn't like, has no reason to like-indeed, has reasons to avoid-all in pursuit of you. He's openly courted you, kept his temper on a leash and done the pretty, all as society dictates, a capitulation that must have cost him dearly. He's called on your cousin and made God knows what arrangements-all to be allowed to aspire to your dainty hand."

Luc paused, his gaze ruthlessly direct. "Tell me, what is it that makes you deserving of all that? What makes you worthy of the sacrifice? Even more to the point, what gives you the right to keep him dangling, like some minor fish you can't bring yourself to cut free?"

She refused to look away, refused to lower her eyes. "That," she quietly stated, "is between him and me."

Luc inclined his head and stepped around her. "Just as long as you know the answer."

Someone was stalking Amanda, someone other than him. Watching her, watching them. Who? And why?

Over breakfast the next morning, Martin examined those questions from every possible angle, the one topic that could distract him from the frustration simmering just beneath his skin.

While motive was unclear, the evidence was too compelling to ignore. That note that had summoned Amanda to a deserted terrace had been the start. He couldn't remember any earlier suspicious incident, but later had come the unexpected arrival of Edward and company on the Fortescues' terrace at a potentially revealing moment, then the mysterious note that had sent Sally Jersey to the Hamiltons' library, and last night, the arrival of a bevy of young ladies intent on exploring the summerhouse at precisely the worst moment.

The young ladies had been sent by "that gentleman"-Martin remembered the comment.

Some gentleman was trying to bring Amanda undone.

A good scandal would do it, or so someone not in the know would reason. Those of their circle, aware of the caliber of those involved, aware that he'd formally sought permission to address her, would know better; in reality, a scandal involving her and him, while irritating everyone, would only see them married that much sooner.

Indeed, a potential scandal that did not become public-such as her falling pregnant-was still a wild card he might yet be dealt.

So… whoever the gentleman was, he had reason to wish Amanda ill, and wasn't well connected with their circle.

The earl of Connor was the only name he had on his list.

An afternoon call on the earl reduced his list to zero. Connor was genuinely gratified to be suspected, but his explanation of his earlier, benignly avuncular interest in Amanda's welfare rang too true to be doubted. He gave his word he harbored no ill-will toward her, and then seized the opportunity to lecture Martin against the evil fate of waiting too long to take a wife and raise a family, of becoming an old man with no real reason for existence.

Connor's parting shot of "Don't risk it" rang in Martin's ears as he returned to his house, his library, to once more ponder what exactly was going on. And who was behind it.

"If not Connor, then who?" Amanda glanced back as Martin followed her into her Aunt Horatia's conservatory. He shut the door, long fingers snibbing the lock apparently absent-mindedly; the sounds of the major ball in progress beyond the doors subsided.

A long-forgotten memory flashed across Amanda's mind-of the time she'd dragged Vane in here to ask him about some gentleman's suggestion. When they'd emerged, they'd surprised Patience at the door; from her expression, she'd been about to fling it open and storm in. Vane had smiled-untrustworthily-and invited Patience inside to admire his mother's palm-filled oasis. As she'd walked off, she remembered hearing the door lock snib.

She could still recall the dreamy expression on Patience's face when she and Vane had emerged, considerably later.

Shaking aside the memory, she refocused on the discussion in progress. "There's no one else who I've crossed."

"Before you appeared at Mellors, or even later, you didn't encourage any gentleman?"

"I never encouraged, not in the way you mean." She glanced up as he took her hand. "That wasn't my aim."

He raised his brows. Met her gaze.

The conservatory was illuminated only by weak moonlight drifting past the fronds of various exotic palms; he couldn't see her blush. "I can't think of any gentleman who would wish me ill, certainly not to the point of…"

When she said nothing more, Martin prompted, "Who?"

His tone left her no option but to admit, "Luc." She met Martin's gaze. "He doesn't approve of me, let alone, as he put it, me leaving you dangling."

"He spoke for me?"

"Most effectively." Amanda wiggled her shoulders. "He's always had a nasty tongue."

Martin suppressed a smile. "Never mind-it won't be him. Aside from anything else, it has to be someone who doesn't know the ropes, and Luc knows every last one."

"Indubitably," she agreed. "And it wouldn't be him, anyway-it's not his style."

Martin glanced at her face as she walked along the path just ahead of him. He couldn't see her features, yet her tone had suggested she was no longer so sure of the wisdom of "keeping him dangling." If Luc's strait words had caused her to rethink her position, he was in his cousin's debt.

Apropos of that, it was clearly time for more persuasion. And this time, they wouldn't be interrupted; he'd taken steps to ensure their privacy, to give him time to reestablish the sensual connection between them, and urge her to yield, tonight and forever.

Vane had suggested his mother's conservatory; as he glanced about assessingly, Martin approved. The air was warm, slightly humid; the light was dim but not gloomy. They came to a clearing where a fountain stood, a statue of a woman in roman halfdress endlessly pouring water from an urn. The fountain stood on a raised dais; Martin considered the possibilities, yet… fingers about her elbow, he guided Amanda, still sunk in thought, on.

The path wended down the long room; it ended in another clearing, an isolated and enclosed half-circle containing exactly what he sought.

Chapter 17

"A swing!" Amanda stopped before a padded bench, two people wide, suspended from a cast-iron stand set in the midst of a jungle of ferns and palms. "What a lovely idea. It must be new."

"We could christen it." Martin halted beside her.

She turned to sit.

"No." Fingers firming about her elbow he stopped her. He was waiting when she lifted her eyes to his. "Not like that."

His tone alerted her; her gaze lowered to his lips, then rose again to his eyes. "The ball-my cousins. What if we're interrupted? Again." By them.

"We won't be. I can assure you your cousins won't be pounding on the door-they're otherwise occupied. The moment's ours to do with as we please." He made the last phrase a challenge, a dare.

She moistened her lips. "How, then?"

He drew her to him and she came, slightly aloof, as if reserving judgment on his expertise. A subtle taunt, an encouragement to impress. Suppressing a smile of anticipation, he lowered his head and covered her lips.

Kissed her until she'd forgotten all notion of aloofness, until she clung, her lips to his, her arms about his shoulders, her hands sunk in his hair.

"We'll need to remove your dress-it'll get too crushed."

He murmured the words against her lips, then took her mouth again, dragged her willing senses down into the heat of the kiss.

Into the fire and flames that so steadily burned between them. In all his experience, exotic and otherwise, it had never been like this-never been such a simple, easy, rapid descent into ravenous desire. Into that primitive place where the need to possess ruled absolutely. With her, it had never been any other way, which was how he'd known, from the first. Known that, ultimately, he would sell his very soul for her, if that's what was asked.

With her in his arms, he didn't care; with her body arching, flagrantly demanding against his, he knew only the need to appease her, to feed and satisfy her hungry senses and, thus, his.

As he tugged her laces free, he knew exactly what he wanted to see, needed to see, from her that night. What he wanted, needed-had to have. They were both breathing rapidly, both dark-eyed, tense with expectation.

"Lift your arms."

He drew the gown off over her head, leaving her curls and the three orchids she'd tonight chosen to wear in her hair bobbing. His gaze locked on her body, concealed only by a diaphanous silk chemise; blindly, he tossed the gown over a nearby palm. And reached for her.

She came eagerly this time, all pretence at aloofness gone, desire for him in its place, shining in her eyes, in the lips she lifted to his.

He closed his hands about her waist, revelled in the supple firmness of her svelte form, then let his hands slide and gathered her to him. Molded her against him so she could feel his desire, rocked her hips against the iron length of his erection. She all but melted in his arms, her body softening, enticing.

Amanda kissed him back, and set aside all reservations. She wanted him; he wanted her-for this precise moment, that was enough. She needed to be with him again, close, intimate, so their hearts beat together and their souls touched, just for that fleeting instant.