How totally and completely helpless she was, yanked into his arms, crushed against him, and ruthlessly kissed.
The impulse to struggle flared, but was extinguished before it took hold. Drowned beneath a tidal wave of feelings. Hers, and his.
Something between them ignited; not anger, not shock—something closer to avid curiosity.
She closed her hands in his coat, grabbed hold, held on as a rush of sensation swept her up, caught her, held her trapped. Not just by his arms but by myriad strands of fascination. By the shift of his lips, cool and hard on hers, the restless flexing of his fingers on her upper arms as if he longed to reach further, explore and touch, longed to pull her closer yet.
Spiraling thrills cascaded through her; licks of excitement teased her nerves, built her fascination. She’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never had pleasure and greedy need leapt to such a simple caress.
His lips moved on hers, ruthless, relentless, until she surrendered to the unsubtle pressure and parted them.
Her world shook when he pressed them wider yet and his tongue slid in to meet hers.
She tensed. He ignored it and caressed, then probed. Something within her rocked, teetered, then cracked. Sensation spilled down her veins, flowing steadily through her, hot, scalding, bright.
Another flash, another sharp shock of sensation. She would have gasped but he caught her to him, one steely arm sliding about her and tightening—distracting her as he deepened the kiss.
By the time her senses refocused, she was too enthralled, too enmeshed in the novel delights to think about breaking free.
Tristan sensed it, knew it in his bones, tried not to let his hunger take advantage. She’d been kissed before, but he’d stake his considerable reputation that she’d never yielded her mouth to any man.
But it, and she, were now his to enjoy, to savor, at least as far as a kiss would allow.
Madness, of course. He knew that now, but in that heated moment when she’d blithely consigned her protection to a hound—a hound who was sitting patiently by while he ravished her mistress’s soft mouth—all he’d seen was red. He hadn’t realized how much of that haze had been due to lust.
He knew now.
He’d kissed her to demonstrate her inherent weakness.
In doing so had uncovered his own.
He was hungry—starved; by some blessing of fate so was she. They stood in the silent garden, locked together, and simply enjoyed, took, gave. She was a novice, but that only added a piquancy, a delicate touch of enchantment to know that it was he who was leading her along paths she’d never trod.
Into realms she hadn’t before explored.
The warmth of her, the supple strength, the blatantly feminine curves pressed to his chest—the fact he had her locked in his arms sank through his senses, sank evocative talons deep.
Until he knew just what he wanted, knew beyond doubt what Pandora’s box he’d opened.
Leonora clung as the kiss went on, as it progressed, expanded, opening up new horizons, educating her senses. Some part of her reeling mind knew without question that she wasn’t in any danger, that Trentham’s arms were a safe haven for her.
That she could accept the kiss and all it brought if not with impunity, then at least without risk.
That she could grasp the brief glimpse of passion he offered, seize the moment and, starved, ease her hunger at least that much, own to wanting more without fear, knowing that when it ended she would be able—would be allowed—to step back. To remain herself, locked away and safe.
Alone.
So she made no move to end it.
Until Henrietta whined.
Trentham lifted his head instantly, looked down at Henrietta, but he didn’t let her go.
Blushing, very glad of the darkness, she pushed back, felt his chest, warm rock, beneath her hands. Still frowning, glancing around at the shadows, he eased his hold on her.
Clearing her throat, she stepped back, out of his arms, putting clear distance between them. “She’s cold.”
He looked at her, then at Henrietta. “Cold?”
“Her coat’s wiry hair, not fur.”
He looked at her; she met his gaze, and suddenly felt terribly awkward. How did one part from a gentleman who’d just…
She looked down, snapped her fingers at Henrietta. “I’d better take her in. Good night.”
He said nothing as she turned and started for the front steps. Then suddenly she sensed him shift.
“Wait.”
She turned, raised a brow, as haughty as she could make it.
His face had hardened. “The key.” He held out a hand. “To the front door of Number 12.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks again. Reaching into her pocket, she drew it out. “I used to visit old Mr. Morrissey. He had terrible trouble doing his household accounts.”
He took the key, weighed it in his palm.
She glanced up; he caught her gaze.
After a moment, very quietly he said, “Go inside.”
It was too dark to read his eyes, yet caution whispered, told her to obey. Inclining her head, she turned to the front steps. She climbed them, opened the door she’d left on the latch, slipped in, and quietly closed it behind her, conscious all the while of his gaze on her back.
Sliding the key into his pocket, Tristan stood on the path amid the waving fronds and watched until her shadow disappeared into the house. Then he swore, turned, and walked away into the night.
Chapter
Four
It wasn’t the first time in his career that he’d made a tactical blunder. He needed to put it behind him, pretend it hadn’t happened, and stick to his strategy of rescuing the damn woman, then moving on, getting on with the fraught business of finding himself a wife.
The next morning, as he strode up the front path to the door of Number 14, Tristan kept repeating that litany, along with a pointed reminder that an argumentative, willful, trenchantly independent lady of mature years was assuredly not the sort of wife he wanted.
Even if she tasted like ambrosia and felt like paradise in his arms.
How old was she anyway?
Nearing the front porch, he thrust the question out of his mind. If this morning went as he planned, he’d be much better placed to adhere to his strategy.
Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he looked up at the front door. He’d tossed and turned all night, not only with the inevitable effects of that unwise kiss, but even more because, stirred by the earlier events of the night, his conscience wouldn’t settle. Whatever the truth about the “burglar,” the matter was serious. Experience insisted it was so; his instincts were convinced of it. Even though he had no intention of leaving Leonora to deal with it on her own, he didn’t feel comfortable in not alerting both Sir Humphrey and Jeremy Carling to the danger.
He’d come determined to make a real attempt to bring home to them the true tenor of the situation. It was their right to protect Leonora; he couldn’t in all honor usurp their role while leaving them in ignorance.
Straightening his shoulders, he went up the steps.
The ancient butler answered his knock.
“Good morning.” Charm to the fore, he smiled. “I’d like to speak to Sir Humphrey, and also Mr. Carling, if they’re available.”
The man’s starchy demeanor eased; he opened the door wide. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, my lord, I’ll inquire.”
He stood in the middle of the morning room and prayed Leonora didn’t hear of his arrival. What he wanted to achieve would be easier accomplished between gentlemen, without the distracting presence of the object central to their discussion.
The butler returned and conducted him to the library. He entered and found Sir Humphrey and Jeremy alone, and heaved a small sigh of relief.
“Trentham! Welcome!” Seated as he had been on Tristan’s earlier visit, in the armchair by the fire with—Tristan was almost certain—the same book open on his knee, Humphrey waved him
to the chaise. “Sit down, sit down, and tell us what we can do for you.”
Jeremy, too, looked up and nodded a greeting. Tristan returned the nod as he sat. Again, he got the impression little had changed on Jeremy’s desk except, perhaps, the particular page he was studying.
Catching his glance, Jeremy smiled. “Indeed, I’ll be grateful for a respite.” He waved at the book before him. “Deciphering this Sumerian script is deuced hard on the eyes.”
Humphrey snorted. “Better that than this.” He indicated the tome on his knees. “More than a century later, but they weren’t any neater. Why they couldn’t use decent quills—” He broke off, then grinned engagingly at Tristan. “But you’ve not come to hear about that. You mustn’t let us get started, or we can talk scripts for hours.”
Tristan’s mind boggled.
“So!” Humphrey closed the tome on his lap. “How can we help you, heh?”
“It’s not so much a matter of help.” He was feeling his way, unsure of his best approach. “I thought I should let you know that there was an attempted burglary at Number 12 last night.”
“Good God!” Humphrey was as taken aback as Tristan could have wished. “Dashed bounders! Getting a great deal too above themselves these days.”
“Indeed.” Tristan grabbed back the reins before Humphrey could bolt. “But in this case, the builders noticed that some tampering had occurred on the previous night, so we mounted a watch last night. The felon returned and entered the house—we would have caught him but for some unexpected obstacles. As things fell out, he escaped, but it appeared he was…let us say not the expected low-class villain. Indeed, he bore all the signs of being a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” Humphrey was astounded. “A gentleman breaking into houses?”
“So it seems.”
“But what would a gentleman be after?” Frowning, Jeremy met Tristan’s gaze. “It seems quite nonsensical to me.”
Jeremy’s tone was dismissive; Tristan squelched his exasperation. “Indeed. Even more amazing is that a burglar would bother breaking into a completely empty house.” He looked at Humphrey, then Jeremy. “There’s literally nothing in Number 12, and given the builders’ paraphernalia and presence throughout the day, that fact must be patently obvious.”
Both Humphrey and Jeremy only looked more puzzled, as if the entire subject was completely beyond them. Tristan knew all about deceptiveness; he was starting to suspect he was watching a practiced performance. His voice hardened. “It occurred to me that the attempt to gain access to Number 12 might be linked to the two attempted burglaries here.”
Both faces turned to him remained blank and vague. Too blank and vague. They understood everything, but were steadfastly refusing to react.
He deliberately let the silence grow awkward. Eventually, Jeremy cleared his throat. “How so?”
He nearly gave up; only a trenchant determination fueled by something very like anger that they shouldn’t be allowed so easily to abdicate their responsibilities and retreat into their long-dead world, leaving Leonora to cope by herself in this one, had him leaning forward, with his gaze capturing theirs. “What if the burglar isn’t your usual run of thief, and all evidence suggests that’s so, but instead he’s after something specific—some item that has value to him. If that item is here, in this house, then—”
The door opened.
Leonora swept in. Her eyes found him; she beamed. “My lord! How delightful to see you again.”
Rising, Tristan met her eyes. She wasn’t delighted—she was in a flat panic. She glided up; inwardly disgusted with how poorly things had gone, he seized the inherent advantage and held out his hand.
She blinked at it, but after only the slightest hesitation surrendered her fingers. He bowed; she curtsied. Her fingers quivered in his.
The courtesies satisfied, he drew her to sit beside him on the chaise. She had no option but to do so. As, tense and on edge, she sank onto the damask, Humphrey said, “Trentham’s just told us there was a burglary next door—just last night. Blackguard escaped, unfortunately.”
“Indeed?” Eyes wide, she turned to Tristan as he sat again, angling herself so she could watch his face.
He caught her eye. “Just so.” His dry tone wasn’t wasted on her. “I was just suggesting that the attempt to gain access to Number 12 might be connected to the previous attempts to gain entry here.”
She, he knew, had arrived at the same conclusion, and that sometime ago.
“I still don’t see any real link.” Jeremy leaned on his book and fixed Tristan with a steady but still dismissive gaze. “I mean, burglars try their hand wherever they might, don’t they?”
Tristan nodded. “Which is why it seems odd that this ‘burglar’—and I think we can safely assume all the attempts have been by the same party—continues to push his luck in Montrose Place despite his failures to date.”
“Hmm, yes, well, perhaps he’ll take the hint and go away, given he couldn’t get into either of our houses?” Humphrey raised his brows hopefully.
Tristan hung on to his temper. “The very fact he’s tried three times suggests he won’t go away—that whatever he’s after he’s driven to get.”
“Yes, but that’s just it, don’t you see.” Sitting back, Jeremy spread his hands wide. “What on earth could he want here?”
“That,” Tristan retorted, “is the question.”
Yet every suggestion that the “burglar” might be after something contained in their researches, some information, concealed or otherwise, or some unexpectedly valuable tome, met with denials and incomprehension. Other than speculating that the villain might be after Leonora’s pearls, something Tristan found difficult to believe—and from the look on her face, so did Leonora—neither Humphrey nor Jeremy had any ideas to advance.
It was patently clear they had no interest in solving the mystery of the burglar, and were both of the opinion that ignoring the matter entirely was the surest route to getting it to disappear.
At least for them.
Tristan didn’t approve, but he recognized their type. They were selfish, absorbed in their own interests to the exclusion of all else. Over the years, they’d learned to leave anything and everything to Leonora to deal with; because she always had, they now viewed her efforts as their right. She haggled with the real world while they remained engrossed in their academic one.
Admiration for Leonora—exceedingly reluctant for it was definitely something he didn’t want to feel—along with a deeper understanding and a niggling sense that she deserved better bloomed and slid through him.
He could make no headway with Humphrey or Jeremy; eventually he had to concede defeat. He did, however, exact a promise that they would bend their minds to the question and inform him immediately if they thought of any item that could be the burglar’s goal.
Catching Leonora’s eye, he rose. Throughout, he’d been conscious of her tension, of her watching him like a hawk ready to jump in and deflect or confuse any comment that might reveal her part in the previous night’s activities.
He held her gaze; she read his message and rose, too.
“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.”
With easy smiles, Humphrey and Jeremy bade him farewell. Following Leonora to the door, he paused on the threshold and looked back.
Both men were already head down, back in the past.
He looked at Leonora. Her expression stated she knew what he’d seen. One brow rose quizzically, as if she was wryly amused that he’d thought he could change things.
He felt his face harden. Waving her on, he followed, closing the door behind them.
She led him to the front hall. Drawing level with the door to the parlor, he touched her arm.
Met her gaze when she looked at him. “Let’s walk in the back garden.” When she didn’t immediately acquiesce, he added, “I want to talk to you.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head. She led him through the parlor—he noticed the piece of embroidery
still precisely as it had been previously—out through the French doors and down onto the lawn.
Head high, she walked on; he fell in beside her. And said nothing. Waited for her to ask what he wished to talk about, grasping the moment to work on a strategy for convincing her to leave the matter of the mysterious burglar to him.
The lawn was lush and well tended, the beds circling it thick with odd plants he’d never seen before. The late Cedric Carling must have been a collector as well as an authority on herbal horticulture…“How long ago did your cousin Cedric die?”
She glanced at him. “Over two years ago.” She paused, then continued, “I can’t see that there’d be anything valuable in his papers, or we would have heard long ago.”
“Most likely.” After Humphrey and Jeremy, her open acuity was refreshing.
They’d walked across the width of the lawn; she halted where a sundial was set on a pedestal standing just within the boundary of a deep bed. He stopped beside and a little behind her. Watched as she put out a hand, with her fingertips traced the engraving in the bronze face.
“Thank you for not mentioning my presence in Number 12 last night.” Her voice was low but clear; she kept her gaze on the sundial. “Or what happened on the path.”
She drew breath, lifted her head.
Before she could say more—tell him the kiss hadn’t meant anything, had been a silly mistake, or some similar nonsense he’d feel forced to prove wrong—he raised his hand, set one fingertip to her nape, and traced slowly, deliberately, down her spine, all the way down to below her waist.
Her breath caught, then she swung to face him, periwinkle blue eyes wide.
He trapped her gaze. “What happened last night, especially those moments on the path, is between you and me.”
When she continued to stare at him, searching his eyes, he elaborated, “Kissing you and telling anyone is not within my code, and definitely not my style.”
He saw the flash of reaction in her eyes, saw her consider asking, waspishly, just what his style was, but caution caught her tongue; she raised her head, haughtily inclined it as she looked away.
The Lady Chosen Page 8
