Authors: Stephanie Laurens
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he growled. She didn’t need to look to know he prowled at her heels as she crossed the room to her aunts.
He behaved, if not with joyous charm, then at least with perfect civility, escorting them down the stairs and out to their waiting carriage.
Tristan handed her aunts up, then turned to her. Deliberately stepping between her and the carriage, he took her hand, met her eyes.
“Don’t think to repeat that exercise tomorrow.”
He shifted and handed her to the carriage door.
One foot on the step, she met his gaze, and arched a brow. Even in the dimness, he recognized the challenge.
“You chose the field—I get to choose the weapons.”
She inclined her head serenely, then ducked and entered the carriage.
He closed the door with care—and a certain deliberation.
Over breakfast the next morning, Leonora considered her social calendar; the evenings were now much fuller than they had been three days ago.
“You choose,” Mildred had told her as she’d descended from the carriage last night.
Munching her toast, Leonora weighed the possibilities. Although the Season proper was some weeks distant, there were two balls that evening to which they’d been invited. The major event was the ball at Colchester House in Mayfair, the more minor and assuredly less formal, a ball at the Masseys’ house in Chelsea.
Trentham would expect her to attend the Colchester affair; he’d wait for her to appear there, as he had last night at Lady Holland’s.
Pushing away from the table, Leonora rose and headed for the parlor to dash off a note to Mildred and Gertie that she fancied visiting the Masseys that evening.
Sitting at her escritoire, she wrote the brief note, inscribed her aunts’ names, then rang for a footman. It was her hope that, in this instance, absence would make the heart grow
less
fond; quite aside from the fact her nonappearance
at Colchester House would annoy Trentham, there was also the definite possibility that, if left alone in such an arena, he might find his eye drawn to some other lady, perhaps even become distracted with one of Daphne’s ilk…
Inwardly frowning, she looked up as the footman entered, and handed over the note for delivery.
That done, she sat back and determinedly turned her mind to more serious matters. Given her stubborn refusal of his suit, she was perhaps naive in thinking Trentham would continue to aid her in the matter of Montgomery Mountford, yet when she tried to imagine him losing interest, removing the men he had watching the house, she couldn’t. Regardless of their personal interactions, she knew he wouldn’t leave her to deal with Mountford alone.
Indeed, in light of what she’d learned of his character, the notion seemed laughable.
They would remain in undeclared partnership until the riddle of Mountford was solved; it therefore behooved her to push as hard as she could on that front. Keeping clear of Trentham’s snares while dealing with him on a daily basis would not be easy; prolonging the danger was senseless.
She couldn’t expect any answers to her letters for at least a few days more. So what else could she do?
Trentham’s suggestion that Cedric’s work was most likely Mountford’s target had struck a chord. Besides Cedric’s letters, the workshop had contained more than twenty ledgers and journals. She’d brought them up to the parlor and stacked them in a corner. Eyeing them, she recalled her late cousin’s fine, faded, cramped writing.
Rising, she went upstairs and inspected Cedric’s bedroom. It was inches deep in dust and strewn with cobwebs. She set the maids the task of cleaning the room;
she’d search it tomorrow. For today…she descended to the parlor and settled to work through the journals.
By the time evening arrived, she’d uncovered nothing more exciting than the recipe for a concoction to remove stains from porcelain; it was difficult to believe Mountford and his mysterious foreigner were interested in that. Setting aside the ledgers, she went upstairs to change.
The Masseys’ house was centuries old, a rambling villa built on the riverbank. The ceilings were lower than now fashionable; there was a wealth of dark wood in beams and paneling, but the shadows were dispersed by lamps, candelabra, and sconces liberally scattered through the rooms. The large interconnecting chambers were perfect for less formal entertaining. A small orchestra scraped away at the river end of the dining room, for the occasion converted into an area for dancing.
After greeting their hostess in the hall, Leonora entered the drawing room, telling herself she’d enjoy herself. That the boredom caused by lack of purpose that customarily afflicted her would not affect her tonight because she did indeed have a purpose.
Unfortunately, enjoying herself with other gentlemen if Trentham was not there to see…it was difficult to convince herself there was all that much to be gained from the evening. Nevertheless, she was there, gowned in silk of a deep turbulent blue no young unmarried lady could ever wear. As she didn’t particularly want to chat, she might as well dance.
Leaving Mildred and Gertie with a group of their cronies, she made her way down the room, stopping to exchange greetings here and there, but always moving on. A dance had just ended when she stepped through the doors into the dining room; quickly scanning those present, she considered which of the gentlemen—
Hard fingers, a hard palm, closed about her hand; her senses reacted, informing her who stood at her shoulder even before she turned and met his gaze.
“Good evening.” His eyes on hers, Trentham raised her hand to his lips. Searched her eyes. Raised a brow. “Would you care to dance?”
The look in his eyes, the tenor of his voice—just like that, he made her come alive. Made her nerves tighten, her senses sing. Sent a rush of pleasurable anticipation sliding through her. She drew breath, her imagination eagerly supplying what dancing with him would feel like. “I…” She looked away, across the sea of dancers waiting for the next measure to begin.
He said nothing, simply waited. When she glanced back at him, he met her gaze. “Yes?”
His hazel eyes were sharp, watchful; behind them lurked faint amusement.
She felt her lips set, lifted her chin. “Indeed—why not?”
He smiled, not his charming smile but in predatory appreciation of her meeting his challenge. He led her forward as the opening strains of a waltz began.
It would have to be a waltz. The instant he drew her into his arms, she knew she was in trouble. Valiantly battling to dampen her response to having him so near, to feeling his strength engulf her again, his hand spread over the silk at her back, she cast about for distraction.
Let a frown form in her eyes. “I thought you would attend the Colchesters’ affair.”
The ends of his lips lifted. “I knew you’d be here.” His eyes quizzed her—wicked, dangerous. “Believe me, I’m perfectly content with your choice.”
If she’d harbored any doubt as to what he was alluding, the turn at the end of the room explained all. If they’d been at the Colchesters, waltzing in their huge ballroom, he wouldn’t have been able to hold her so close, to curl
his fingers so possessively about her hand, to draw her so tight through the turn their hips brushed. Here, the dance floor was crowded with other couples all absorbed with each other, immersed in the moment. There were no matrons lining the walls, watching, waiting to disapprove.
His thigh parted hers, all restrained power as he swung her through the turn; she couldn’t suppress a reactive shiver—couldn’t stop her nerves, her whole body responding.
Tristan watched her face, wondered if she had any idea of just how responsive she was, of what seeing her eyes flare, then darken, seeing her lashes sweep down, her lips part, did to him.
He knew she didn’t know.
That only made it worse, only heightened the effect, and left him in even greater pain.
The insistent ache had been escalating over the past days, a nagging aggravation he’d never before had to contend with. Before, the itch had been a simple one to scratch. This time…
His every sense was focused on her, on the sway of her supple body in his arms, on the promise of her warmth, the elusive, teasing torment of the passion she seemed intent on denying.
That last was something he wouldn’t permit. Shouldn’t permit.
The music ended, and he was forced to halt, forced to release her, something he did reluctantly, a fact her wide eyes said she realized.
She cleared her throat, smoothed her gown. “Thank you.” She looked around. “Now—”
“Before you waste time planning anything else—like attracting another gentleman to dance with you—while I’m with you, you’ll dance with no one else.”
Leonora turned to face him. “I beg your pardon?”
She honestly couldn’t believe her ears.
His eyes remained hard. He raised a brow. “Do you want me to repeat it?”
“No! I want to forget I ever heard such an outrageous piece of impertinence.”
He seemed totally unaffected by her increasing ire. “That would be unwise.”
She felt her temper rise; they’d kept their voices low, but there was no doubt which way the discussion was heading. Drawing herself up, drawing every ounce of haughtiness she possessed about her, she inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“No.” Steely fingers closed about her elbow; he nodded across the room. “See that door over there? We’re going to go through it.”
She drew in a huge breath, held it. Carefully enunciated, “I realize your experience of the ton—”
“The ton bores me to death.” He glanced down at her, started unobtrusively but effectively steering her toward the closed door. “I’m therefore unlikely to pay much attention to its strictures.”
Her heart was thumping. Looking into his eyes—hard, faceted hazel—she realized she wasn’t playing with just a wolf, but a
wild
wolf. One who didn’t acknowledge any rules beyond his own. “You
cannot
simply…”
Abduct me. Ravish me.
The intent in his eyes left her breathless.
His gaze remained on her face, gauging, judging, as he expertly herded her across the crowded room. “I suggest we repair to a place where we can discuss our relationship in private.”
She’d been private with him any number of times; there was no need for her senses to leap at the word. No need for her imagination to run riot. Irritated that it had, she made a firm bid to take charge again. Lifting her head, she nodded. “Very well. I agree. Clearly we need to address our differing views and set matters straight.”
She wasn’t going to marry him; that was the point he needed to accept. If she emphasized that fact, clung to it, she’d be safe.
They reached the door and he opened it; she stepped through into a corridor running alongside the reception rooms. The passage was wide enough for two to walk abreast; one side was lined with carved paneling in which doors were set, the other was a wall of windows looking out over the private gardens.
In late spring and summer the windows would be opened and the corridor would become a delightful venue in which guests could stroll. Tonight, with a raw wind blowing and the promise of frost in the air, all the doors and windows were closed, the passage deserted.
Moonlight streamed in providing light enough to see. The walls were stone, the doors solid oak. Once Trentham shut the door behind them they stood in a silvered, private world.
He released her arm, offered his; she pretended not to notice. Head high, she paced slowly along. “The pertinent point we need to address—”
She broke off when his hand closed about hers. Possessively. She halted, looked down at her fingers swallowed in his palm.
“That,” she said, her gaze fixed on the sight, “is a perfect example of the issue we need to discuss. You cannot go around grabbing my hand, seizing me as if I in some way belonged to you—”
“You do.”
She looked up. Blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Tristan looked into her eyes; he wasn’t averse to explaining. “You. Belong. To me.” It felt good to state it, reinforcing the reality.
Her eyes widened; he continued, “Regardless of what you imagined you were doing, you gave yourself to me.
Offered
yourself to me. I accepted. Now you’re mine.”
Her lips thinned; her eyes flashed. “That is not what happened. You’re deliberately—God alone knows why—misconstruing the incident.”
She said nothing more but glared up at him belligerently.
“You’re going to have to work a lot harder to convince me that having you naked beneath me on the bed in Montrose Place was a figment of my imagination.”
Her jaw firmed. “
Misconstruing
—not imagining.”
“Ah—so you admit that you did, indeed—”
“What
happened,
” she snapped, “as you very well know, is that we enjoyed”—she gestured—“a pleasant interlude.”
“As I recall, you begged me to…‘initiate you’ was, I believe, the term we agreed on.”
Even in the poor light, he could see her blush. But she nodded. “Just so.”
Turning, she walked along the corridor; he kept pace beside her, her hand still locked in his.
She didn’t immediately speak, then she drew in a deep breath. He realized he was going to get at least part of an explanation.
“You have to understand—and accept—that I don’t wish to marry. Not you, not anyone. I have no interest in the state. What happened between us…” She lifted her head, looked down the long corridor. “That was purely because I wanted to know. To experience…” She looked down, walked on. “And I thought you were a sensible choice to be my teacher.”
He waited, then prompted, his tone even, nonaggressive, “Why did you think that?”
She waved between them, slipping her hand from his to do so. “The attraction. It was obvious. It was simply there—you know it was.”
“Yes.” He was starting to see…he halted.
She stopped, too, and faced him. Met his gaze,
searched his face. “So you do understand, don’t you? It was just so I would know…that’s all. Just once.”
Very carefully, he asked, “Done. Finished. Over?”
She lifted her head. Nodded. “Yes.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then murmured, “I did warn you, on the bed at Montrose Place, that you’d miscalculated.”
Her head rose another notch, but she evenly stated, “That was when you felt you had to marry me.”
“I
know
I have to marry you, but that isn’t my point.”
Exasperation flared in her eyes. “What is your point?”
He could feel a grim, definitely cynical, totally self-deprecatory smile fighting for expression; he kept it from his face, kept his features impassive. “That attraction you mentioned. Has it died?”
She frowned. “No. But it will—you know it will….” She stopped because he was shaking his head.
“I know no such thing.”
Wary irritation crept into her face. “I accept that it hasn’t faded
yet,
but you know perfectly well gentlemen do not remain attracted to women for long. In a few weeks, once we’ve identified Mountford and you’ll no longer be meeting me on a daily basis, you’ll forget me.”