The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her eyes snapped. “Now is the time to live up to your reputation. Find one.”

  His talents swung into action; he took her hand, set it on his sleeve, somewhat relieved that she permitted it. “Where are your aunts?”

  She waved to the side of the room. “In the chairs over there.”

  He headed that way, his attention on her, avoiding all the glances cast his way. Bending close, he spoke softly. “You’ve developed a headache—a migraine. Tell your aunts you feel quite ill and must leave immediately. I’ll offer to drive you home in my carriage—” He broke off, halted, beckoned a footman; when the footman arrived, he issued a terse order—the footman hurried off.

  They resumed their progress. “I’ve already sent for my carriage.” He glanced at her. “If you could soften your spine, wilt a little, we might have some chance of pulling this off. We have to ensure your aunts stay here.”

  That last wasn’t easy, but whatever the particular bee Leonora had got stuck in her bonnet, she was bound and determined to have her moment with him; it wasn’t so much her acting abilities that won the day as the impression she radiated that if people did not fall in with her stated wishes, she was liable to become violent.

  Mildred cast him an anxious glance. “If you’re sure…?”

  He nodded. “My carriage is waiting—you have my word I’ll take her straight home.”

  Leonora glanced at him, eyes narrow; he kept his expression impassive.

  With the air of females bowing to a stronger—and somewhat incomprehensible—will, Mildred and Gertie remained where they were and allowed him to escort Leonora from the room, and thence from the house.

  As instructed, his carriage was waiting; he handed Leonora in, then followed. The footman shut the door; a whip cracked, and the carriage lurched forward.

  In the dark, he caught her hand, squeezed it. “Not yet.” He spoke softly. “My coachman doesn’t need to hear, and Green Street is only around the corner.”

  Leonora glanced at him. “Green Street?”

  “I promised to take you home. My home. Where else are we to find a private room with adequate lighting for a discussion?”

  She had no argument with that; indeed, she was glad he recognized the need for lighting—she wanted to be able to see his face. Inwardly seething, she grudgingly waited in silence.

  His hand remained closed about hers. As they rattled through the night, his thumb stroked, almost absentmindedly. She glanced at him; he was gazing out of the window—she couldn’t tell if he even realized what he was doing, much less if he intended it to soothe her temper.

  The touch was soothing, but it didn’t dampen her ire.

  If anything, it stoked it.

  How dare he be so insufferably complacent, so confident and assured, when she’d just discovered his ulterior motive, which he must have guessed she’d learn?

  The carriage turned, not into Green Street, but into a narrow lane, the mews serving a row of large houses. It rocked to a halt. Tristan stirred, opened the door, and descended.

  She heard him speak to his coachman, then he turned to her, beckoned. She gave him her hand and alighted; he whisked her through a garden gate before she had a chance to get her bearings.

  “Where are we?”

  Tristan had followed her through the gate; he shut it behind them. On the other side of the high stone wall, she heard the carriage rumble off.

  “My gardens.” He nodded to the house on the other side of an expanse of lawn visible through a screen of bushes. “Arriving via the front door would necessitate explanations.”

  “What about your coachman?”

  “What about him?”

  She humphed. His hand touched her back and she started along the path through the bushes. As they stepped free of the concealing shadows, he took her hand and came up beside her. The narrow path followed the garden beds bordering that wing of the house; he led her past the conservatory, past what looked like a study, and on to the long room she recognized as the morning room where his old ladies had entertained her weeks earlier.

  He halted before a pair of French doors. “You didn’t see this.” He placed his hand, palm flat, on the frame of the doors where they met, just where the lock linked them. He gave one sharp push, and the lock clicked; the doors swung inward.

  “Good gracious!”

  “Sssh!” He swept her in, then closed the doors. The morning room lay in darkness. At such a late hour, this wing of the house was deserted. Taking her hand, he drew her across the room to the steps leading up to the corridor. Pausing in the shadows on the steps, he looked to the left, to where the front hall was bathed in golden light.

  Peeking past him, she could see no evidence of footmen or butler.

  He turned and urged her to the right, along a short, unlighted corridor. Reaching past her, he opened the door at the end and pushed it wide.

  She entered; he followed and quietly shut the door.

  “Wait,” he breathed, then moved past her.

  Faint moonlight gleamed on a heavy desk, illuminated the large chair behind it and four other chairs placed around the room. A number of cabinets and chests of drawers lined the walls. Then Tristan drew the curtains and all light vanished.

  An instant later came the scrape of tinder; flame flared, lighting his face, limning the austere planes as he adjusted the lamp’s wick, then reset the glass.

  The warm glow spread and filled the room.

  He looked at her, then waved her to the two armchairs set before the hearth. When she reached them, he came up beside her and lifted her cloak from her shoulders. He laid it aside, then bent to the embers still glowing in the hearth; sinking into one of the armchairs, she watched as he efficiently restoked the fire until it was again an acceptable blaze.

  Straightening, he looked down at her. “I’m going to have some brandy. Do you want anything?”

  She watched him cross to a tantalus against the wall. She doubted he would have sherry in his study. “I’ll have a glass of brandy, too.”

  He glanced at her again, brows rising, but he poured brandy into two balloons, then returned and handed her one. She had to use both hands to hold it.

  “Now.” He sank into the other armchair, stretched his legs out before him, crossed his ankles, then sipped, and fixed his hazel gaze on her. “What is this all about?”

  The brandy was a distraction; she set the balloon carefully on the small table beside the chair.

  “This,” she said, uncaring of how waspish she sounded, “is about you needing to marry.”

  He met her accusing gaze directly; he sipped again—the brandy balloon seemed a part of his large hand. “What of it?”

  “What of it? You have to marry because of something to do with your inheritance. You’ll lose it if you don’t marry by July—is that right?”

  “I’ll lose the bulk of the funds but retain the title and everything entailed.”

  She dragged in a breath past the constriction suddenly gripping her lungs. “So—you have to marry. You don’t actually want to marry, me or anyone else, but you have to, and so you thought I would suit. You need a wife, and I will do. Have I finally got that correct?”

  He stilled. In a heartbeat changed from an elegant gentleman relaxed in the chair to a predator poised to react. All that truly changed was a sudden flaring tension, but the effect was profound.

  Her lungs had locked tight; she could barely breathe.

  She didn’t dare take her eyes from his.

  “No.” When he spoke his voice had deepened, darkened. The brandy balloon looked fragile in his grip; as if realizing, he eased his fingers. “That’s not how it was—how it is.”

  She swallowed. And tipped up her chin. She was pleased when her voice remained steady—still haughty, disbelieving. Defiant. “How is it, then?”

  His gaze didn’t leave her. After a moment, he spoke, and there was that in his voice that warned her not even to entertain the notion that he wasn’t speaking the absolut
e truth. “I have to marry, that much you have right. Not because I’ve any personal need for my great-uncle’s funds, but because, without them, keeping my fourteen dependents in the manner to which they’re accustomed would be impossible.”

  He paused, let the words and their meaning sink in. “So yes, I have to front the altar by the end of June. However, regardless, I had and have absolutely no intention of allowing my great-uncle, or the ton’s matrons, to interfere in my life—to dictate whom I will take as my bride. It’s obvious that, if I so wished, a wedding to some suitable lady could be arranged, signed, sealed, and consummated in less than a week.”

  He paused, sipped, his gaze locked with hers. He spoke slowly, distinctly. “June is still some months away. I saw no reason to rush. Consequently, I made no effort to consider any suitable ladies”—his voice deepened, strengthened—“and then I saw you, and all such considerations became redundant.”

  They were sitting feet apart, yet what had grown between them, what now existed between them sprang to life at his words—a palpable force, filling the space, all but shimmering in the air.

  It touched her, held her, a web of emotion so immensely strong she knew she could never break free. And, very likely, nor could he.

  His gaze had remained hard, openly possessive, unwavering. “I have to marry—I would at some point have been forced to seek a wife. But then I found you, and all searching became irrelevant. You are the wife I want. You are the wife I will have.”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—doubt what he was telling her; the proof was there, between them.

  The tension grew, became unbearable. They both had to move; he did first, coming out of the chair in a fluid, graceful motion. He held out his hand; after a moment, she took it. He drew her to her feet.

  Looked down at her, his face graven, hard. “Do you understand now?”

  Tipping up her face, she studied his—his eyes, the harsh, austere planes that communicated so little. Drew breath, felt forced to ask, “Why? I still don’t understand why you want to marry me. Why you want me, and me alone.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment; she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he did.

  “Guess.”

  It was her turn to think long and hard, then she licked her lips and murmured, “I can’t.” After an instant, she added, with brutal honesty, “I don’t dare.”

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  He’d insisted on escorting her home. Only their hands had touched; she’d been intensely grateful. He’d been watching her; she’d sensed his need, so flagrantly possessive, had appreciated the fact he’d reined it in—that he seemed to understand that she needed time to think, to absorb all he’d said, all she’d learned.

  Not just of him, but of herself.

  Love. If that was what he’d meant, it changed everything. He hadn’t said the word, yet standing close to him, she could feel it, whatever it was—not desire, not lust, but something much stronger. Something much finer.

  If it was love that had grown between them, then walking away from him, from his proposal, was, perhaps, no longer an option. Walking away would be the coward’s way out.

  The decision was hers. Not just her happiness but his, too, hinged on it.

  With the house silent and still about her, the clock on the landing ticking through the small hours, she lay in her bed and forced herself to face the reason that had kept her from marriage.

  It wasn’t an aversion—nothing so definite and absolute. An aversion she could have identified and assessed, convinced herself to set aside, or overcome.

  Her problem lay deeper, it was much more intangible, yet all through the years time and again it had had her shying away from marriage.

  And not just marriage.

  Lying in her bed, staring up at the moon-washed ceiling, she listened to the telltale clicking on the polished boards outside her bedroom door as Henrietta stretched, then padded off downstairs to wander. The sound faded. No more distraction remained.

  She drew breath, and forced herself to do what she had to. To take a long look at her life, to examine all the close friendships and relationships she’d not allowed to develop.

  The only reason she’d ever considered marrying Mark Whorton was because she’d recognized from the first that she would never be close, emotionally close, to him. She would never have become to him what Heather, his wife, had—a woman dependent and happily so. He’d needed that, a dependent wife. Leonora had never been a candidate for supplying that need; she had simply not been capable of it.

  Thanks be to all the gods he’d had the sense to, if not see the truth, then at least act on what he’d perceived to be a dissonance between them.

  The same dissonance did not exist between her and Tristan. Something else did. Possibly love.

  She had to face it—to face the fact that this time, with Tristan, she fitted the bill of his wife. Precisely, exactly, in every respect. He’d recognized it instinctively; he was the type of man accustomed to acting on his instincts—and he had.

  He wouldn’t—didn’t—expect her to be dependent, to indeed change in any way. He wanted her for what she was—the woman she was and could be—not to fulfill some ideal, some erroneous vision, but because he knew she was right for him. He was in absolutely no danger of setting her on any pedestal; conversely, through all their interactions, she’d realized he was not just capable of but disposed to worshiping her absolutely.

  Her—the real her—not some figment of his imagination.

  The thought—the reality—was so deeply, gut-wrenchingly attractive…she wanted it, could not let it go. But to grasp it, she would have to accept the emotional closeness that, with Tristan, would be—already was—a foregone conclusion, a vital part of what bound them.

  She had to face what had kept her from allowing such a closeness with anyone else.

  It wasn’t easy going back through the years, forcing herself to strip away all the veils, all the facades she’d erected to hide and excuse the hurts. She hadn’t always been as she now was—strong, capable, not needing others. Back then, she hadn’t been self-sufficient, self-reliant, hadn’t emotionally been able to cope, not with everything, not by herself. She’d been just like any other young girl, needing a shoulder to cry on, needing warm arms to hold her, to reassure her.

  Her mother had been her touchstone, always there, always understanding. But then, one summer day, her mother and father both had died.

  She still remembered the coldness, the icy loss that had settled about her, locking her in its prison. She hadn’t been able to cry, had had no idea how to mourn, how to grieve. And there’d been no one to help her, no one who understood.

  Her uncles and aunts—all the rest of the family—were older than her parents had been, and none had any children of their own. They’d patted her, praised her for being so brave; not one had glimpsed, had had any inkling of the anguish she’d hidden inside.

  She’d kept hiding it; that was what had seemed expected of her. But every now and then, the burden had become too great, and she’d tried—tried—to find someone to understand, to help her find her way past it.

  Humphrey had never understood; the staff at the house in Kent had no idea what was wrong with her.

  No one had helped.

  She’d learned to hide her need away. Step by step, incident by incident through the years of her girlhood, she’d learned not to ask help of anyone, not to open herself emotionally to anyone, not to trust any other person enough to ask for help—not to rely on them; if she didn’t, they couldn’t refuse her.

  Couldn’t turn her away.

  The connections slowly clarified in her mind.

  Tristan, she knew, wouldn’t turn her away. Wouldn’t refuse her.

  With him, she’d be safe.

  All she had to do was find the courage to accept the emotional risk she’d spent the last fifteen years teaching herself never to take.

  He called at noon the next day. She was arra
nging flowers in the garden hall; he found her there.

  She nodded in greeting, conscious of his sharp gaze, of how closely he studied her before leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, only two feet away.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at him, then looked back at her flowers. “You?”

  After a moment, he said, “I’ve just come from next door. You’ll see more of us coming and going in future.”

  She frowned. “How many of you are there?”

  “Seven.”

  “And you’re all ex-…Guards?”

  He hesitated, then replied. “Yes.”

  The idea intrigued. Before she could think of her next question, he stirred, shifted closer.

  She was instantly aware of his nearness, of the flaring response that rushed through her. She turned her head and looked at him.

  Met his gaze—fell into it.

  Couldn’t look away. Could only stand there, her heart thudding, her pulse throbbing in her lips as he leaned slowly closer, then brushed an achingly incomplete kiss over her mouth.

  “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  He breathed the words over her hungry lips.

  “No. I’m still thinking.”

  He drew back enough to catch her eyes. “How much thinking does it take?”

  The question broke the spell; she narrowed her eyes at him, then turned back to her flowers. “More than you know.”

  He resettled against the doorframe, his gaze on her face. After a moment, he said, “So tell me.”

  She pressed her lips tight, went to shake her head—then remembered all she’d thought of in the long watches of the night. She drew a deep breath, slowly let it out. Kept her eyes on the flowers. “It’s not a simple thing.”

  He said nothing, just waited.

  She had to draw another breath. “It’s been a long time since I…trusted anyone, anyone at all to…do things for me. To help me.” That had been one outcome, possibly the most outwardly obvious, of her shrinking from others.

  “You came to me—asked for my help—when you saw the burglar at the bottom of your garden.”