The Lady Chosen (13 page)

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.

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 decline.

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.”

He paused as if considering, then inclined his head. “Very well. I’ll call for you at eleven.”

She stared at him; he couldn’t read her eyes but knew she was surprised.

He smiled. Charmingly.

Her expression turned suspicious.

His smile deepened into a genuine gesture, cynical and amused. Capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips. “Until tomorrow.”

She met his eyes. Her brows rose haughtily. “Shouldn’t you take some notes on the conservatory?”

He held her gaze, turned her hand, and placed a lingering kiss in her palm. “I lied. I already have one.” Releasing
her hand, he stepped back. “Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

With a nod and a final challenging glance, he left her.

She was still suspicious when he arrived to take her up in his curricle the next morning.

He met her gaze, then handed her up; she stuck her nose in the air and pretended not to notice. He climbed up, took the reins, and set his greys pacing.

She looked well, striking in a deep blue pelisse buttoned over a walking gown of sky-blue. Her bonnet framed her face, her fine features touched with delicate color as if some artist had taken his brush to the finest porcelain. As he guided his skittish pair through the crowded streets, he found it hard to understand why she’d never married.

All the tonnish males in London couldn’t be that blind. Had she hidden herself away for some reason? Or had her managing disposition, her trenchant self-reliance, her propensity to take the lead, proved too much of a challenge?

He was perfectly aware of her less-than-admirable traits, yet for some unfathomable reason, that part of him that she and only she had tempted forth insisted on seeing them as, not even anything so mild as a challenge—more a declaration of war. As if she was an opponent blatantly defying him. All nonsense, he knew, yet the conviction ran deep.

It had, in part, dictated his latest tack. He had agreed to her request to accompany him to Somerset House; he would have suggested it if she hadn’t—there would be no danger there.

While with him, she was safe; if out of his sight, left to her own devices, she would undoubtedly try to come at the problem—
her
problem as she’d so trenchantly declared—from some other angle. Ordering her to cease
investigating on her own, forcing her to do so, was beyond his present powers. Keeping her with him as much as possible was unquestionably the safest course.

Tacking down the Strand, he mentally winced. His rational arguments sounded so logical. The compulsion behind them—the compulsion he used such arguments to excuse—was novel and distinctly unsettling. Disconcerting. The sudden realization that the well-being of a lady of mature years and independent mind was now critical to his equanimity was just a tad shocking.

They arrived at Somerset House; leaving the curricle in the care of his tiger, they entered the building, footsteps echoing on the cold stone. An assistant peered at them from behind a counter; Tristan made his request and they were directed down a corridor to a cavernous hall. Regimented rows of wooden cabinets filled the space; each cabinet possessed multiple drawers.

Another assistant, advised of their search, pointed to a particular set of cabinets. The letters “MOU” were inscribed in gold on the polished wooden fronts. “I would suggest you start there.”

Leonora walked briskly to the cabinets; he followed rather more slowly, thinking of what the drawers must contain, estimating how many certificates might be found in each drawer…

His conjecture was borne out when Leonora pulled open the first drawer. “Good Lord!” She stared at the mass of paper crammed into the space. “This could take days!”

He pulled open the drawer beside her. “Just as well you invited yourself along.”

She made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort and started checking the names. It wasn’t as bad as they’d feared; in short order they located the first Mountford, but the number of people born in England with that surname was depressingly large. They persevered, and ultimately
discovered that yes, indeed, there was a Montgomery Mountford.

“But”—Leonora stared at the birth certificate—“this means he’s seventy-three!”

She frowned, then pushed the certificate back, looked at the next, and the next. And the next.

“Six of them,” she muttered, her exasperated tone confirming what he’d expected. “And not one of them could possibly be him. The first five are too old, and this one is thirteen.”

He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Check carefully on either side in case a certificate’s been misfiled. I’ll check with the assistant.”

Leaving her frowning, flicking through the certificates, he walked to the supervisor’s desk. A quiet word and the supervisor sent one of his assistants scurrying. Three minutes later a dapper individual in the sober garb of a government functionary arrived.

Tristan explained what he was looking for.

Mr. Crosby bowed. “Indeed, my lord. However, I do not believe that name is one of those protected. If you’ll allow me to verify?”

Tristan waved, and Crosby walked down the room.

Dispirited, Leonora shut the drawers. She returned to his side, and they waited until Crosby reappeared.

He bowed to Leonora, then looked at Tristan. “It is as you suspected, my lord. Unless there’s a certificate missing—which I very much doubt—then there is no Montgomery Mountford of the age you’re searching for.”

Tristan thanked him and steered Leonora outside. They paused on the steps and she turned to him.

Met his gaze. “Why would someone use an assumed name?”

“Because,” he pulled on his driving gloves, felt his jaw set, “he’s up to no good.” Retaking her elbow, he urged her down the steps. “Come—let’s go for a drive.”

*   *   *

He took her into Surrey, to Mallingham Manor, now his home. He did so impulsively, he supposed to distract her, something he felt was increasingly necessary. A felon using an assumed name boded no good at all.

From the Strand, he headed across the river, immediately alerting her to the change in direction. But when he explained he needed to attend to business at his estate so he could return to town free to pursue the question of Montgomery Mountford, phantom burglar, she accepted the arrangement readily.

The road was direct and in excellent condition; the greys were fresh and eager to stretch their legs. He turned the curricle in between the elegant wrought-iron gates in good time for luncheon. Setting the pair pacing up the drive, he noted Leonora’s attention was fixed on the huge house ahead, standing amid manicured lawns and formal parterres. The gravel drive swept up to a circular forecourt before the imposing front doors.

He followed her gaze; he suspected he saw the house as she did, for he’d yet to grow used to the idea that this was now his, his home. A manor house had stood on the spot for centuries, but his great-uncle had renovated and refurbished with zeal. What now faced them was a Palladian mansion built of creamy sandstone with pediments over every long window and mock battlements above the long line of the facade.