Authors: Stephanie Laurens
She could see that, acknowledge that much.
Slowly stretching under the covers, she sighed deeply. Because of his earlier suggestion, she’d allowed herself to imagine what being married to him would be like; her
response to the vision had been completely different to what she’d expected. To what her response to all such thoughts of marriage had been in the past.
Now…now that she was imagining being
his
wife, the prospect enticed. With age and experience—maturity, perhaps—she’d come to value things—things like the gentle round of country life—far more than she had previously; she’d gradually come to realize such elements were important to her. They provided an outlet for her natural abilities—her organizational and managerial talents; without such outlets she’d feel stifled…
Just as, indeed, she felt increasingly stifled in her uncle’s house.
The realization was not so much a shock as an earthquake, one that literally rocked the concepts she’d thought for so long were the foundations of her life. That realization was not a small thing to assimilate, to absorb.
The sunbeams danced on the ceiling; the household was awake—the day called to her. Yet she remained in the cocoon of her bed and instead opened her mind. Let her thoughts free.
Followed where they led.
The girlish dreams she’d buried long ago had revived, subtly re-created, altered so that this time they were attractive to the woman she now was—this time, they fitted her.
She could see, imagine—start to desire if she let herself—a future as Tristan’s wife. His countess. His helpmate.
Swirling through those dreams, lending them greater fascination and power, was the enticement of being the one—the only one according to him—who could give him all he wanted. That, very possibly, he needed. When they were together, she could sense the power of what had grown between them, that welling emotion deeper than passion, stronger than desire. The emotion that in
those quiet, intense and private moments wrapped them about.
The emotion they shared.
It was something ephemeral between them, something most easy to see in those heated moments when both their guards were completely down, yet it was also there, peeking through, like something caught from the corner of an eye in their more public exchanges.
He’d asked why she’d never married; the truth was, she’d never truly studied the reason. The instinctive, deeply held belief—the one that had made letting Whorton go so easy—was something so buried in her mind, so much a part of her, she’d never taken it out and examined it, never truly concerned herself with it before. It had simply been there, a certainty.
Until Tristan had appeared, and laid all he was before her.
He did, now, have the right to question, to ask for her reasons, to demand they were sound.
It was time to look deeper, into her heart, into her soul, and discover whether her old instincts were still relevant, whether they remained relevant to the new world on whose threshold she and Tristan now stood.
He’d seized her hand, dragged her to that threshold, forced her to open her eyes and truly see…and he wasn’t going to go away. To simply draw back and leave her.
He’d been right; the attraction between them wouldn’t fade.
It hadn’t. It had grown.
Lips setting, she flung back the covers, got out of bed, and determinedly crossed to the bellpull.
Reexamining and possibly restructuring the basic tenets of one’s life was not an undertaking that could be accomplished in a few rushed minutes.
Unfortunately, throughout that day and those following, rushed minutes were all Leonora could find. Yet as the events of each passing day strengthened and deepened the connection between her and Tristan, the need to revisit the reason underlying her aversion to marriage grew.
Their slow progress on the matter of Mountford, either locating the man masquerading by that name or identifying whatever it was he was after, only added pressure by way of Tristan’s increasing protectiveness, which spilled over into a more primitive possessiveness.
Even though he battled to hide it, she saw. And understood.
Tried not to let it prod her temper; he couldn’t, it seemed, help it.
February had finally given way to March; the first hint of spring blew in to soften winter’s bleakness. The ton started to return to the capital in earnest, to prepare for the upcoming Season. While earlier the entertainments had been small, largely informal, the social calendar was growing ever more crowded, the events equally so.
Lady Hammond’s ball bade fair to be the first acknowledged crush of the year. Arriving with Mildred and Gertie, Leonora stood patiently on the stairs leading up to the ballroom together with half a hundred others all waiting to greet their hostess. Looking around, she noted familiar faces, nodded, exchanged smiles. There were weeks yet before the Season proper; in years past, she was sure town hadn’t been so crowded so early in the year. Even in the park…
“My dear, of
course
we’re here early.”
The lady behind Leonora had just met an old friend.
“Everyone will be, mark my words. Or at least, every family with a daughter to bring out. It’s quite criminal the number of gentlemen who were lost in all those wars…”
The lady continued; Leonora stopped listening—
she’d seen the light. Pity the eligible gentlemen as yet unmarried.
Eventually, she, Mildred, and Gertie gained the ballroom door; after making her curtsy to Lady Hammond, an old acquaintance of her aunts’, she followed Mildred and Gertie to one of the alcoves set with chairs and chaises to accommodate chaperones and the older generation.
Her aunts found seats among their cronies; after turning aside a number of arch queries, Leonora retreated.
Into the crowd. Tristan would have some difficulty locating her; he hadn’t joined the queue to the ballroom by the time she’d gained the top of the stairs, which meant it would be some time before he could join her.
Tonight, the crowd was too dense to amble through with only nods and smiles; she had to stop and chat, to exchange greetings and opinions and social conversation. She’d never found that difficult, sometimes boring perhaps, but tonight so many were newly come to town that there was plenty to catch up with, to hear, to laugh at and be amused. Nevertheless, aware she was attracting a certain degree of attention from gentlemen too recently returned to the ballrooms to have registered Tristan’s interest, she did not remain for too long within one group, but kept drifting.
Dealing with one wolf at a time seemed wise.
“Leonora!”
She turned, and smiled at Crissy Wainwright, a plump and these days somewhat buxom blond who had been presented in the same year she had. Crissy had quickly snared a lord and married; successive confinements had kept her away from London for some years. Crissy all but elbowed her way through the crowd. “Phew!” Reaching Leonora, she snapped open her fan. “It’s a madhouse. And here I thought I was wise coming up to town early.”
“Many had the same idea, it seems.” Leonora took Crissy’s hand; they pressed fingers, touched cheeks.
“Mama is going to be miffed.” Eyes dancing, Crissy glanced at Leonora. “She was all for stealing a march on all others with daughters to establish this Season—she’s got my youngest sister to puff off, and she’s set her sights on this earl who has to marry.”
Leonora blinked. “An earl who has to marry?”
Crissy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It seems this poor soul has only recently inherited and has to marry before July or lose his wealth. But he’ll retain his houses and his dependents, neither of which would be easy to maintain on a pauper’s budget.”
A chill touched Leonora’s spine. “I hadn’t heard. Which earl?”
Crissy waved. “Doubtless no one thought to mention it—you’re not interested in a husband, after all.” She grimaced. “I always thought you were quite touched, being so set against marriage, but now…I have to admit there are times I think you had it right.” Her expression clouded briefly, but then brightened. “Indeed, I’m here determined to enjoy myself and not think about being married at all. If this poor earl is as hunted as it sounds he’ll be, maybe I’ll offer him a safe harbor? I’ve heard he’s astonishingly handsome—so rare when combined with wealth and title—”
“What title?” Leonora broke in without compunction; Crissy could ramble for hours.
“Oh—didn’t I say? It’s Trillingwell, Trellham—something like that.”
“Trentham?”
“Yes! That’s it.” Crissy swung to face her. “You have heard.”
“I assure you I hadn’t, but I do thank you for telling me.”
Crissy blinked, then studied her face. “Why, you sly thing—you know him.”
Leonora narrowed her eyes to slits—not at Crissy but
at a dark head she could see tacking toward her through the crowd. “I do indeed know him.” In the biblical sense, what was more. “If you’ll excuse me…I daresay we’ll meet again if you’re to remain in town.”
Crissy grabbed her hand as she stepped out.
“Just tell me—is he as handsome as they say?”
Leonora raised her brows. “He’s too handsome for his own good.” Twisting free of Crissy’s slackening grip, she stalked into the crowd, on a direct collision course with the earl who had to marry.
Tristan knew something was wrong the instant Leonora appeared abruptly before him. The daggers stabbing from her eyes were difficult to miss; the fingertip she jabbed into his chest was even more pointed.
“I want to talk to you. Now!”
The words were hissed, her temper clearly seething.
He consulted his conscience; it remained clear. “What’s happened?”
“I’ll be delighted to tell you, but I suspect you’d prefer to hear me out in private.” Her eyes bored into his. “What little nook have you found for us tonight?”
He held her gaze and considered the tiny servants’ pantry, which, he’d been assured, was the only possible venue for totally private engagements in Hammond House. Unlit, it would be dark and closed in—perfect for what he’d had in mind…“There is no place in this house suitable for any private conversation.”
Especially not if she lost her temper, the leash of which looked to be already fraying.
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.