The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  Tristan blinked. Then she shifted in his arms, unintentionally teasing that part of his anatomy most susceptible to her nearness.

  Without another thought, he bent his head.

  He escaped nearly an hour later, feeling distinctly bemused. It had been years—decades—since he’d indulged in any such mildly illicit behavior, yet far from boring him, his senses were smugly content, luxuriating in the stolen pleasures.

  Striding down the front path, he raked his hand through his hair and hoped it would pass muster. Leonora had developed a penchant for thoroughly mussing his normally elegant cut. Not that he was complaining. While she’d been mussing, he’d been savoring.

  Her mouth, her curves.

  Lowering his arm, he noticed a smear of dust on his sleeve. He brushed it off. The maids had dusted all surfaces; they hadn’t dusted the letters. When they’d finally separated, he’d had to brush telltale streaks off both himself and Leonora. In her case, not just from her clothes.

  The image of how she’d appeared at that point swam across his mind. Her eyes had been bright but darkened, her lids heavy, her lips swollen from his kisses. Drawing his attention even more to her mouth—a mouth that increasingly evoked mental images not generally associated with virtuous gentlewomen.

  Closing the front gate behind him, he suppressed a wholely masculine smirk—and ignored the effect such thoughts inevitably had. The afternoon’s discoveries had improved his mood significantly. Reviewing the day, he felt he’d gained on a number of fronts.

  He’d come to view Cedric’s workshop determined to move the investigation into the burglaries forward. Impatience was sharpening its spurs; it was his duty to marry, thus protecting his tribe of old dears from destitution, but before he could marry Leonora, he had to nullify the threat to her. Eliminating that threat was his top priority; it was too immediate, too definite to give second place. Until he successfully completed his mission, he’d remain focused first and always on that.

  So having escalated his own investigations through the various layers of the underworld, he’d come to assess what avenues for advancement Cedric’s workshop might suggest.

  Cedric’s letters would indeed be useful. First in eliminating his works as a potential target for the burglar, second in keeping Leonora amused.

  Well, perhaps not amused, but certainly busy. Too busy to have time to embark on any other avenue of attack.

  He’d accomplished a great deal for one day. Satisfied, he strode on, and turned his mind to the morrow.

  Devising her own seduction, or at least actively encouraging it, was proving more difficult than Leonora had thought. She’d expected to get rather further in Cedric’s workshop, but Trentham had failed to close the door when he’d entered. Crossing the room and closing it herself would have been too blatant.

  Not that matters hadn’t progressed; they just hadn’t progressed as far as she’d wished.

  And now he’d lumbered her with the task of going through Cedric’s correspondence. At least he’d restricted their search to the last year of Cedric’s life.

  She’d spent the rest of the day reading and sorting, squinting at faded writing, deciphering illegible dates. This morning, she’d brought all the relevant letters up to the parlor and spread them on the occasional tables. The parlor was the room in which she conducted all household business; sitting at her escritoire, she dutifully inscribed all the names and addresses onto a list.

  A long list.

  She then composed a letter of inquiry, advising the recipient of Cedric’s death and requesting they contact her if they had any information regarding anything of value, discoveries, inventions, or possessions, that might reside in her late cousin’s effects. Instead of mentioning the burglar’s interest, she stated that, due to space constraints, it was intended that all nonvaluable papers, substances, and equipment would be burned.

  If she knew anything of experts, should they know of anything the least valuable, the idea of it being burned would have them reaching for their pen.

  After luncheon, she commenced the arduous task of copying her letter, addressing each copy to one of the names on her list.

  When the clock chimed and she saw it was three-thirty, she set down her pen and stretched her aching back.

  Enough for today. Not even Trentham would expect her to get through the inquiries all in one day.

  She rang for tea; when Castor brought the tray, she poured and sipped.

  And thought of seduction.

  Hers.

  A distinctly titillating subject, especially for a twenty-six-year-old reluctant-but-resigned virgin. That was a reasonable description of what she’d been, but she was resigned no more. Opportunity had beckoned, and she was determined to play.

  She glanced at the clock. Too late to call at Trentham House for afternoon tea. Besides, she didn’t want to find herself surrounded by his old ladies; that would not advance her cause.

  But losing a whole day in inaction wasn’t her style, either. There had to be some way, some excuse she could use to call on Trentham—and get him to herself in appropriate surrounds.

  “Would you like me to show you around, miss?”

  “No, no.” Leonora crossed the threshold of the Trentham House conservatory and cast a reassuring smile at Trentham’s butler. “I’ll just amble about and await his lordship. If you’re sure he’ll return soon?”

  “I’m certain he’ll arrive home before dark.”

  “In that case…” She smiled and gestured about her, moving deeper into the room.

  “Should you require anything, the bellpull is to the left.” Serene and unperturbed, the butler bowed and left her.

  Leonora looked around. Trentham’s conservatory was much larger than theirs; indeed, it was monstrous. Recalling his supposed need of information on such rooms, she humphed. His was not just larger, it was better, the temperature much more even, the floor beautifully tiled in blue-and-green mosaics. A small fountain tinkled somewhere—she couldn’t see through the artfully arranged, lush and verdant growth.

  A path led on; she strolled down it.

  It was four o’clock; outside the glass-paned walls the light was fading fast. Trentham clearly wouldn’t be long, but why he would feel impelled by falling night to return to his house she couldn’t fathom. The butler, however, had been quite definite on the point.

  She reached the end of the path and stepped into a clearing ringed by high banks of shrubs and flowering bushes. It contained a circular pond set into the floor; the small fountain at its center was responsible for the tinkling. Beyond the pond, a wide window seat, heavily cushioned, followed the curve of the windowed wall; sitting on it, one could either view the garden outside, or look inward, contemplating the pond and the well-stocked conservatory.

  Crossing to the window seat, she sank onto the cushions. They were deep, comfortable—perfect for her needs. She considered, then stood and walked on, along another path following the curved outer wall. Better she meet Trentham standing; he towered over her as it was. She could lead him back to the window seat—

  A flash of movement in the garden caught her eye. She stopped, looked; she couldn’t see anything unusual. The shadows had deepened while she’d been ambling; gloom now gathered beneath the trees.

  Then, out of one such pocket of darkness, a man emerged. Tall, dark, lean, he wore a tattered coat and stained corduroy breeches, a battered cap pulled low on his head. He glanced furtively around as he strode rapidly for the house.

  Leonora sucked in a breath. Wild thoughts of yet another burglar flooded her mind; recollection of the man who twice had attacked her stole her breath. This man was much larger; if he got his hands on her, she wouldn’t be able to break free.

  And his long legs were carrying him straight to the conservatory.

  Sheer panic held her motionless in the shadow of the massed plants. The door would be locked, she told herself. Trentham’s butler was excellent—

  The man reached the door, reac
hed for the handle, turned it.

  The door swung inward. He stepped through.

  Faint light from the distant hallway reached him as he closed the door, turned, straightened.

  “Good God!”

  The exclamation exploded from Leonora’s tight chest. She stared, unable to believe her eyes.

  Trentham’s head had snapped around at her first squeak.

  He stared back at her, then his lips thinned and he frowned—and recognition was complete.

  “Sssh!” He motioned her to silence, glanced toward the corridor, then, soft-footed, approached. “At the risk of repeating myself, what the damn hell are you doing here?”

  She simply stared at him—at the grime worked into his face, at the dark stubble shading his jaw. A smudge of soot ran upward from one brow and disappeared beneath his hair, now hanging lank and listless under that cap—a worn tartan monstrosity that looked even worse at close range.

  Her gaze drifted down to take in his coat, tattered and none too clean, to his breeches and knitted stockings, and the rough work boots he had on his feet. Reaching them, she paused, then ran her gaze all the way back up to his eyes. Met his irritated gaze.

  “Answer my question and I’ll answer yours—what in all Hades are you supposed to be?”

  His lips thinned. “What do I look like?”

  “Like a navvy from the most dangerous slum in town.” A definite aroma reached her; she sniffed. “Perhaps down by the docks.”

  “Very perceptive,” Tristan growled. “Now what brought you here? Have you discovered something?”

  She shook her head. “I wanted to see your conservatory. You said you’d show it to me.”

  The tension—the apprehension—that had flashed through him on seeing her there leached away. He looked down at himself, and grimaced. “You’ve called at a bad time.”

  She frowned, her gaze once more on his disreputable attire. “But what have you been doing? Where have you been, dressed like that?”

  “As you so perceptively guessed, the docks.” Searching for any clue, any hint, any whisper of one Montgomery Mountford.

  “You’re a trifle old to be indulging in larks.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “Do you frequently do such things?”

  “No.” Not anymore. He had never expected to don these clothes again, but on doing so that morning, had felt peculiarly justified in his refusal to throw them out. “I’ve been visiting the sort of dens that would-be burglars haunt.”

  “Oh. I see.” She looked up at him with now openly eager interest. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not directly, but I’ve passed the word—”

  “Oh, is she in here, then, Havers?”

  Ethelreda. Tristan swore beneath his breath.

  “We’ll just keep her company until dear Tristan arrives.”

  “No need for her to mope about all alone.”

  “Miss Carling? Are you there?”

  He swore again. They were all there—coming this way. “For God’s sake!” he muttered. He went to grab Leonora, then remembered his hands were filthy. He kept his palms away from her. “You’ll have to distract them.”

  It was an outright plea; he met her eyes, infused every ounce of beseeching candor of which he was capable into his expression.

  She looked at him. “They don’t know you go out masquerading as a lout, do they?”

  “No. And they’ll have fits if they see me like this.”

  Fits would be the least of it; Ethelreda had a horrible tendency to swoon.

  They were casting about along the paths, drawing inexorably nearer.

  He held out his hands, begging. “Please.”

  She smiled. Slowly. “All right. I’ll save you.” She turned and started toward the source of feminine twittering, then glanced back over her shoulder. Caught his eye. “But you owe me a favor.”

  “Anything.” He sighed with relief. “Just get them out of here. Take them to the drawing room.”

  Her smile deepening, Leonora turned and went on. Anything, he’d said. An excellent outcome from an otherwise useless exercise.

  Chapter

  Eight

  Arranging to be seduced, Leonora was perfectly sure, wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. The next day, while sitting in the parlor copying her letter, copy after copy, doggedly working through Cedric’s correspondents, she reevaluated her position and considered all avenues for advance.

  The previous afternoon she’d dutifully deflected Trentham’s cousins to the drawing room; he’d joined them fifteen minutes later, clean, spotless, his usual debonair self. Having used her interest in conservatories to explain her visit to the ladies, she’d duly asked him various questions to which he’d denied all knowledge, instead suggesting he have his gardener call on her.

  Asking him to conduct her on a tour would have been fruitless; his cousins would have accompanied them.

  Regretfully, she’d crossed his conservatory off her mental list of suitable venues for seduction; an appropriate time could be managed, and the window seat provided an excellent location, but their privacy could never be assured.

  Trentham had summoned his carriage, helped her into it, and sent her home. Unfulfilled. Even hungrier than when she’d left.

  Even more determined.

  Still, the excursion had not been without gain; she now had one trump card in hand. She intended to use it wisely. That meant clearing the time, location, and privacy hurdles simultaneously. She had no idea how rakes managed it. Perhaps they simply waited for opportunity to arise, then pounced.

  After waiting patiently all these years, and having finally made up her mind, she wasn’t inclined to sit back and wait any longer. The right opportunity was what was required; if necessary, she’d have to create it.

  All well and good, but she couldn’t think how.

  She racked her brain throughout the day. And the next. She even considered taking up her Aunt Mildred’s permanent offer to take her about within the ton. Despite her disinterest in society’s balls and parties, she was aware such events provided venues in which gentlemen and ladies could meet privately. However, from snippets Trentham’s cousins had let fall, as well as his own caustic comments, she’d gathered he had little enthusiasm for the social round. No point making such an effort herself if he wasn’t likely to be present to be met, privately or otherwise.

  When the clock struck four, she tossed down her pen and stretched her arms over her head. She was almost at the end of her letter-writing exercise, but when it came to venues in which to be seduced, her mind remained stubbornly blank.

  “There has to be somewhere!” She pushed up from her chair, irritated and impatient. Frustrated. Her gaze went to the window. The day had been fine, but breezy. Now the wind had eased; evening was closing in, benign if cool.

  She headed for the front hall, grabbed her cloak, didn’t bother with her bonnet; she wouldn’t be out long. She glanced around, expecting Henrietta, then realized the hound was out for her constitutional in the nearby park, led on a lead by one of the footmen.

  “Damn!” She wished she’d been in time to join them.

  The gardens, both front and back, were protected; she wanted—needed—to walk in the open air. She needed to breathe, to let the coolness refresh her, to blow away her frustration and reinvigorate her brain.

  She hadn’t walked outside alone for weeks, yet the burglar could hardly be watching all the time.

  With a swish of her skirts, she turned, opened the front door, and walked outside.

  She left the door on the latch and went down the steps, then followed the path to the gate. Reaching it, she peered out. The light was still good; in both directions the street, always a quiet one, lay empty. Safe enough. Pulling open the gate, she walked through, tugged it closed behind her, then set off walking briskly along the pavement.

  Passing Number 12, she glanced in, but saw no sign of movement. She’d heard via Toby that Gasthorpe had now hired a full staff, but most were no
t yet in residence. Biggs, however, returned there every night, and Gasthorpe himself rarely left the house; there had been no further felonious activity there.

  Indeed, since she’d last seen the man at the bottom of their garden, and he’d run off, there’d been no further incidents of any kind. The sense of being watched had receded; although occasionally she still felt under observation, the feeling was more distant, less threatening.

  She walked on, pondering that, considering what it might mean in terms of Montgomery Mountford and whatever it was he was so intent on removing from her uncle’s house. While arranging to be seduced was certainly a distraction, she hadn’t forgotten Mr. Mountford.

  Whoever he was.

  The thought evoked others; she recalled Trentham’s recent searches. Direct and to the point, decisive, active, yet try as she might, she couldn’t imagine any other gentleman masquerading as he had done.

  He’d appeared very comfortable in his disguise.

  He’d looked even more dangerous than he usually did.

  The image teased; she remembered hearing of ladies who indulged in passionate affairs with men of distinctly rougher background than their own. Could she—would she later—be susceptible to such longings?

  She honestly had no idea, which only confirmed how much she’d yet to learn, not just of passion, but of herself, too.

  With every day that passed, she became more aware of that last.

  She reached the end of the street and stopped on the corner. The breeze was stronger there; her cloak billowed. Holding it down, she looked toward the park, but saw no gangling hound returning with footman in tow. She considered waiting, but the breeze was too chilly and strong enough to unravel her hair. Turning, she retraced her steps, feeling considerably restored.

  Her gaze on the pavement, she determinedly turned her mind to passion, specifically how to sample it.

  The shadows were lengthening; dusk was approaching.

  She’d reached the boundary of Number 12 when she heard footsteps striding quickly up behind her.

  Panic flared; she whirled, backing against the high stone wall even while her intellect calmly pointed out the unlikelihood of any attack.