She inclined her head. “Eight.” As she turned away, her eyes touched his. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
Tristan watched her climb the steps, waited until, without looking back, she disappeared through the door, then he turned and let his lips curve.
She was as transparent as glass. She wanted to question him over his suspicions regarding the foreign gentleman….
His smile faded; his face resumed its customary impassive mien.
German, Austrian, or Prussian. He knew enough for those options to set warning bells clanging, but he didn’t have enough information yet to do anything decisive—other than delve deeper.
Who knew? Mountford’s acquaintance with the foreigner might be pure coincidence.
As he reached the front gate and swung it wide, a familiar sensation spread across the back of his shoulders.
He knew better than to believe in coincidence.
Leonora spent the remainder of the day in restless anticipation. Once she’d given her orders for dinner and airily informed Humphrey and Jeremy of their extra guest, she took refuge in the conservatory.
To calm her mind and decide on her best tack.
To revisit all she’d learned that morning.
Such as that Trentham was not averse to kissing her. And she was not averse to responding. That was certainly a change, for she’d never before found anything particularly compelling in the act. Yet with Trentham…
Sinking back against the cushions of the wrought-iron chair, she had to admit she would have happily followed wherever he led, at least within reason. Kissing him had proved quite pleasurable.
Just as well he’d stopped.
Eyes narrowing on a white orchid bobbing gently in the draft, she replayed all that had happened, all she’d felt. All she’d sensed.
He’d stopped not because he’d wished to, but because he’d planned to. His appetite had wanted more, but his will had decreed he should end the kiss. She’d seen that brief clash in his eyes, caught the hard hazel gleam as his will had triumphed.
But why? She shifted again, very conscious of the way the brief interlude had remained, a nagging abrasion in her mind. Perhaps the answer lay there—the curtailing of the kiss had left her…dissatisfied. On some level she hadn’t previously been aware of, unfulfilled.
Wanting more.
She frowned, absentmindedly tapped a finger on the table. With his kisses, Trentham had opened her eyes and engaged her senses. Teased them with a promise of what might be—and then left it at that.
Deliberately.
After telling her they should follow their noses.
She was a lady; he was a gentleman. Theoretically, it wouldn’t be proper for him to press her further, not unless she invited his attentions.
Her lips curved cynically; she suppressed a soft snort. She might be inexperienced; she wasn’t foolish. He hadn’t curtailed their kiss because of any obedience to social mores. He’d stopped deliberately to entice, to build her awareness, to provoke her curiosity.
To make her want.
So that when next he wanted, and wanted more, wanted to take the next step along the path, she would be eager to accede.
Seduction. The word slipped into her mind, trailing the promise of illicit excitement and fascination.
Was Trentham seducing her?
She’d always known she was handsome enough; catching men’s eyes had never been difficult. Yet she’d never before been interested enough to pay attention, to play any of the accepted games. Hadn’t seen anything to enthuse her.
So now she was twenty-six, the despair of her aunt Mildred, definitely past her last prayers.
Trentham had come along and teased her senses awake, then left them alert and hungry for more. Anticipation of a sort she’d never before known had gripped her, but she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted—what she wished their interaction to be.
Drawing a breath, she slowly exhaled. She didn’t have to make any decisions yet. She could afford to wait, watch, and learn—to follow her nose and then make up her mind whether she approved of where that took her; she hadn’t discouraged him, nor led him to believe she wasn’t interested.
Because she was. Very interested.
She’d thought that aspect of life had passed her by, that circumstances had left those thrills beyond her reach.
For her, marriage was no longer an option—perhaps fate had sent Trentham as consolation.
When she turned and saw him crossing the drawing room toward her, her words echoed in her mind.
If this was consolation, what was the prize?
His broad shoulders were clothed in evening black, the coat a masterpiece of understated elegance. His grey silk waistcoat shone softly in the candlelight; a diamond pin winked from his cravat. As she was learning to expect, he’d avoided any intricacy; the cravat was tied in a simple style. Dark hair neatly brushed and sheening, framing his strong features, every element of his appearance—clothes, assurance, and manners—all proclaimed him a gentleman of the haut ton, accustomed to rule, accustomed to obedience.
Accustomed to his own way.
She curtsied and gave him her hand. He took it and bowed, lifted a brow at her as he straightened and raised her.
Challenge gleamed in his eyes.
She smiled, content to meet it, knowing she looked well in her apricot silk gown. “Permit me to introduce you, my lord.”
He inclined his head, and anchored her hand on his sleeve, leaving his hand over hers.
Possessively.
Serene, with no hint of awareness showing, she led him to where Humphrey and his friends, Mr. Morecote and Mr. Cunningham, were already deep in discussion. They broke off to acknowledge Trentham, to exchange a few words, then she led him on, introducing him to Jeremy, Mr. Filmore, and Horace Wright.
She’d intended to pause there, to let Horace, the liveliest of their scholarly acquaintances, entertain them while she played the part of demure lady, but Trentham had other ideas. With his usual assumption of command, he eased her out of the conversation and guided her back to their initial position by the hearth.
None of the others, engrossed in their arguments, noticed.
Prompted by caution, she drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. He caught her eye. His lips curved in a smile that showed white teeth, along with appreciation. Of her intention, but also of her—of her shoulders rising from the wide neckline of her gown, of her hair dressed in curls that tumbled about her ears and nape.
Watching his eyes drift over her, she felt her lungs tighten, fought to suppress a shiver—not of cold. Heat rose in her cheeks; she hoped he’d imagine it was due to the fire.
Lazily his gaze ambled upward and returned to hers.
The expression in his hard hazel eyes jolted her, made her breath seize. Then his lids swept down, thick lashes screening that disturbing gaze.
“Have you kept house for Sir Humphrey for long?”
His tone was the usual social drawl, languid and apparently bored. Managing to drag in a breath, she inclined her head and answered.
She used the opening to deflect their conversation into a description of the area in Kent in which they’d previously lived; paeans on the joys of the countryside seemed much safer than courting the fell intent in his eyes.
He responded with mention of his estate in Surrey, yet his eyes told her he was playing with her.
Like a very large cat with a particularly succulent mouse.
She kept her chin high, refused to acknowledge her awareness by the slightest sign. She breathed a sigh of relief when Castor appeared and announced the meal—only to realize that as the only lady present, Trentham would naturally lead her in.
Meeting his gaze directly, she placed her hand on his proffered sleeve and allowed him to steer her through the doors into the dining room.
He seated her at the end of the table, then took the chair on her right. Under cover of the jocular exchanges as the other gentlemen sat, he
met her gaze, arched a brow.
“I’m impressed.”
“Indeed?” She glanced around, as if to check that everything was in order, as if it was the table that had motivated his comment.
His lips curved dangerously. He leaned closer. Murmured, “I expected you to break before now.”
She met his gaze. “Break?”
His eyes widened. “I felt certain you’d be determined to wring from me just what our next step should be.”
His expression remained innocent; his eyes were anything but. Every utterance had two meanings, and she couldn’t tell which he meant.
After a moment, she murmured, “I’d thought to restrain myself until later.”
Looking down, she shook out her napkin as Castor placed her soup plate before her. Picking up her spoon, she coolly—much more coolly than she felt—met Trentham’s eyes.
He held her gaze as the footman served him, then his lips curved. “That would no doubt be wise.”
“My dear Miss Carling, I had meant to ask—”
Horace, on her other side, claimed her attention. Trentham turned to Jeremy with some inquiry. As usually occurred at such gatherings, the conversation rapidly turned to ancient writings. Leonora ate, sipped, and watched, surprised to see Trentham joining in, until she realized he was subtly probing for any suggestion of a secret find among the group.
She pricked up her ears; when the opportunity presented, she threw in a question, opening up yet another avenue of possibility among the ruins of ancient Persia. But no matter in which direction she or Trentham steered them, the six scholars were patently unaware of any potentially precious find.
Finally, the covers were removed and she rose. The gentlemen did, too. As was their habit, her uncle and Jeremy intended taking their friends to the library to consume port and brandy while poring over their latest research; normally, she retired at this point.
Naturally, Humphrey invited Trentham to join the male congregation.
Trentham’s eyes met hers; she held his gaze, willing him to decline and allow her to conduct him to the door…
His lips curved; he turned to Humphrey. “Actually, I noticed you have a large conservatory. I’ve been thinking of adding one to my town house and wondered if I might prevail upon you to allow me to inspect yours.”
“The conservatory?” Humphrey beamed genially and looked to her. “Leonora knows most about that—I’m sure she’ll be pleased to show you around.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to…”
The tenor of Trentham’s smile was pure seduction; he moved toward her. “Thank you, my dear.” He looked back at Humphrey. “I will need to leave soon, however, so in case I don’t see you again, I do thank you for your hospitality.”
“It was entirely our pleasure, my lord.” Humphrey shook hands.
Jeremy and the others exchanged farewells.
Then Trentham turned to her. Raised a brow and waved to the door. “Shall we?”
Her heart was beating faster, but she inclined her head calmly. And led him out.
Chapter
Six
The conservatory was her domain. Other than the gardener, no one else came there. It was her sanctuary, her refuge, her place of safety. As she led the way down the central aisle and heard the door click behind her, for the first time within the glass walls, she felt a frisson of danger.
Her slippers slapped softly on the tiles; her silk skirts swished. Lower yet came Trentham’s soft tread as he followed her down the path.
Excitement and something sharper gripped her. “Through the winter, the room’s heated by steam piped from the kitchen.” Reaching the end of the path, halting in the deepest curve of the bow windows, she dragged in a breath. Her heart was thudding so loudly she could hear it, feel the pulse in her fingers. She reached out, touched one fingertip to the glass pane. “There are two layers of glass to help keep the heat in.”
The night outside was black; she focused on the pane, and saw Trentham approaching, his image reflected in the glass. Two lamps burned low, one on either side of the room; they threw enough light to see one’s way, to gain some idea of the plants.
Trentham closed the distance between them, his stride slow, a large, infinitely predatory figure; not for an instant did she doubt he was watching her. His face remained in shadow, until, halting close behind her, he lifted his gaze and met hers in the glass.
His eyes locked with hers.
His hands slid around her waist, closed, held her.
Her mouth was dry. “Are you really interested in conservatories?”
His gaze drifted down. “I’m interested in what this conservatory contains.”
“The plants?” Her voice was a thread.
“No. You.”
He turned her, and she was in his arms. He bent his head and covered her lips, as if he had the right. As if in some strange way she belonged to him.
Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. Gripped as he parted her lips and surged in. He held her anchored before him as he savored her mouth, unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world.
And intended taking it.
The engagement made her head spin. Pleasurably. Warmth spread beneath her skin; the taste of him—hard, male, dominant—sank into her.
For long moments, they both simply took, gave, explored. While something within them both tightened.
He broke the kiss, lifted his head, but only enough to draw her closer yet. His hand, spread across her back, burned through the fine silk of her gown. He looked into her eyes from beneath heavy, almost slumbrous lids.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
She blinked, valiantly struggled to reassemble her wits. Watched him watch her attempt it. Requesting enlightenment on what his next step would be would assuredly be tempting fate; he was waiting for the question.
“Never mind.” Boldly, she reached up and drew his lips back to hers.
They were curved as they met hers, but he obliged; together they sank back into the exchange, let it draw them deeper. He drew back again.
“How old are you?”
The question feathered across her senses, into her mind. Her lips throbbed, hungry still; she brushed them across his.
“Does it matter?”
His lids lifted; their gazes touched. A moment passed. “Not materially.”
She licked her lips, looked at his. “Twenty-six.”
Those wicked lips curved. Once again, danger tickled her spine.
“Old enough.”
He drew her to him, against him; once again he bent his head.
Once again she met him.
Tristan sensed her eagerness, her enthusiasm. That much, at least, he’d won. She’d handed him the situation on a platter; it had been too good to pass up—another chance to build her awareness, to expand her horizons. Enough at least so that next time he sought to distract her sensually he’d have some chance of success.
She’d snapped out of his hold too easily that afternoon, evaded his snare, shaken free of any lingering fascination far too readily for his liking.
His nature had always been dictatorial. Tyrannical. Predatory.
He came from a long line of hedonistic males who had, with few exceptions, always taken what they’d wanted.
He definitely wanted her but in a way that was somehow different, to a depth that was unfamilar. Something within him had changed, or perhaps more correctly emerged. Some part of him he’d never before had reason to wrestle with; never before had any woman called it forth.
She did. Effortlessly. But she had no idea of what she did, far less of what she tempted.
Her mouth was a delight, a cavern of honeyed sweetness, warm, beguiling, infinitely alluring. Her fingers tangled in his hair; her tongue dueled with his, quick to learn, eager to experience.
He gave her what she wanted, yet reined his demons back. She pressed closer, all but inviting him to deepen the kiss. An invitation he saw no reason to decli
ne.
Slender, supple, subtly curvaceous, her softer limbs and softer flesh were a potent feminine prod to his totally masculine need. The feel of her in his arms fed his desire, stoked the sensual fires that had sprung up between them.
Play it by ear. Follow their noses. The simplest way forward.
She was so unlike the wife he’d imagined—the wife some part of him, was still stubbornly insisting was the sort he should be searching for—he wasn’t yet ready to resign that position completely, at least not openly.
He sank deeper into her mouth, drew her closer still, savoring her warmth and its age-old promise.
Time enough to examine where they were once they’d got there; letting matters develop as they would while he dealt with the mysterious burglar was only wise. Regardless of whatever was growing between them, his priorities at this point were unwaveringly clear. Removing the threat hanging over her was his primary and overriding concern; nothing, but nothing, would deflect him from that goal—he was too experienced to permit any interference.
Time enough once he’d accomplished that mission and she was safe, secure, to turn his mind to dealing with the desire that some benighted fate had sown between them.
He could feel it welling, growing in strength, in intent, more ravenous with every minute she spent in his arms. It was time to call a halt; he had no compunction in shutting his demons in, in gradually drawing back from the exchange.
He lifted his head. She blinked dazedly up at him, then drew in a sharp breath and glanced around. He eased his hold and she stepped back, her gaze returning to his face.
Her tongue came out, traced her upper lip.
He was suddenly conscious of a definite ache. He straightened, drew breath.
“What—” She cleared her throat. “What are your plans in relation to the burglar?”
He looked at her. Wondered what it would take to totally strip her wits away. “The new Registry they’re compiling at Somerset House. I want to learn who Montgomery Mountford is.”
She thought for only a moment, then nodded. “I’ll come with you. Two people looking will be faster than one.”
The Lady Chosen Page 12
