His gaze rested on her face; his lips were lightly curved. A tap sounded by the doorway; Trentham turned and held the curtain aside. An attendant ducked past, carrying a tray with four glasses and a bottle of chilled champagne. He placed the tray on the small table against the back wall.
“I’ll pour.”
The attendant bowed to her, then Trentham, and disappeared through the curtain.
Leonora watched as Trentham eased the cork from the bottle, then poured the delicately fizzy liquid into two of the long flutes. She was suddenly very glad she’d worn her midnight blue gown—suitable armor for this type of situation.
Picking up both glasses, he crossed to where she still sat, swiveled on her chair so she sat sideways to the pit.
He handed her one glass. She reached for it, somewhat surprised that he made no move to use the moment, to touch her fingers with his. He released the glass, caught her gaze as she glanced up.
“Relax. I won’t bite.”
She arched a brow at him, sipped, then asked, “Are you sure?”
His lips quirked; he glanced out at the patrons milling in the other boxes. “These surrounds are hardly conducive.”
He looked back at her, then reached for Gertie’s chair, turned it so its back was to the throng, and sat, stretching his long legs out before him, elegantly at ease.
He sipped, his gaze on her face, then asked, “So tell me. Is Mr. Kean really as good as they say?”
She realized he would have no notion; he’d been away with the army for the last several years. “He’s an artist without peer, at least at the moment.” Deeming the topic a safe one, she related the highlights of Mr. Kean’s career.
He put a question here and there. When the subject had run its course, he let a moment pass, then quietly said, “Speaking of performances…”
She met his eyes, and nearly choked on her champagne. Felt a slow blush rise to her cheeks. She ignored it, lifted her chin. Met his gaze directly. She was, she reminded herself, an experienced lady now. “Yes?”
He paused, as if considering not what to say but how to say it. “I wondered…” He raised his glass, sipped, his lashes screening his eyes. “How much of an actress are you?”
She blinked, let her frown show in her eyes, let her expression convey her incomprehension.
His lips quirked self-deprecatingly. His eyes returned to hers. “If I were to say you’d enjoyed our…last interlude, would I be wrong?”
Her blush intensified but she refused to look away. “No.” Remembered pleasure flooded her, gave her strength to waspishly state, “You know perfectly well I enjoyed…all of it.”
“So that didn’t contribute to your aversion to marrying me?”
It suddenly occurred to her what he was asking. “Of course not.” The idea he might think such a thing…she frowned. “I told you—my decision was reached long ago. My stance has nothing to do with you.”
Could a man like him really need reassurance on such a point? She could tell nothing from his eyes, his expression.
Then he smiled, gently, yet the gesture was more predatory than charming. “I just wanted to be sure.”
He hadn’t resigned the battle to get her to accept him—that message she read with ease. Determinedly ignoring the effect of all that lounging masculinity mere feet away, she fixed him with a polite look and asked after his cousins. He replied, allowing the change of subject.
The audience started returning to their seats; Mildred and Gertie rejoined them. Leonora was aware of the sharp glances both her aunts cast her; she kept her expression calm and serene, and gave her attention to the stage. The curtain went up; the play recommenced.
To his credit, Trentham made no move to distract her. She was once again aware his gaze remained primarily on her, but refused to acknowledge the attention in any way. He couldn’t force her to marry him; if she held to her refusal, he’d eventually go away.
Just as she’d imagined he would.
The notion of being proved right for once brought her no joy. Inwardly frowning at such a hint of susceptibility, she forced herself to concentrate on Edmund Kean.
When the curtain came down, tumultuous applause filled the theater; after Mr. Kean had taken countless bows, the audience, finally satisfied, turned to leave. Swept away by the drama, Leonora smiled easily and gave Trentham her hand, paused beside him as he lifted the curtain to allow Mildred and Gertie to pass out, then let him guide her in their wake.
The corridor was too crowded to allow any private conversation; the jostling crowd, however, gave plenty of scope for any gentleman wishing to tease a lady’s senses. To her surprise, Trentham made no move to do so. She was highly conscious of him, large, solid, and strong beside her, protecting her from the pressure of shifting bodies. From his occasional glances, she knew he was aware of her, yet his attention remained focused on steering them efficiently through the throng and out into the street.
Their carriage drew up as they gained the pavement.
He handed Gertie and Mildred up, then turned to her.
Met her gaze. Lifted her hand from his sleeve.
Holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips, kissed—the warmth of the lingering caress spread through her.
“I hope you enjoyed the evening.”
She couldn’t lie. “Thank you. I did.”
He nodded and handed her up. His fingers slid from hers with only the faintest hint of reluctance.
She sat; he stepped back and closed the door. He signaled to the coachman. The carriage lurched, then rumbled off.
The impulse to sit forward and peer back out of the window to see if he stood watching nearly overcame her. Hands clasped in her lap, she stayed where she was and stared across the carriage.
He might have refrained from any illicit caress, any attempt to ruffle her senses, but she’d seen—experienced—enough to appreciate the reality behind his mask. He hadn’t given up yet.
She told herself he would. Eventually.
Seated opposite, Mildred stirred. “Such polished manners—so masterful. You have to admit there are few gentlemen about these days who are so…” Lost for words, she gestured.
“Manly,” Gertie supplied.
Both Leonora and Mildred looked at her in surprise. Mildred recovered first. “Indeed!” She nodded. “You’re quite right. He behaved just as he ought.”
Shaking free of the shock of hearing Gertie, the gentleman-hater, approve of any male—then again, this was Trentham, the charmer—she should have expected it—Leonora asked, “How did you meet him?”
Mildred shifted, settling her skirts. “He called this morning. Given you were already acquainted, accepting his invitation seemed perfectly sensible.”
From Mildred’s point of view. Leonora refrained from reminding her aunt that she’d said an old friend had given her the tickets; she’d long known what lengths Mildred would go to to get her into the presence of an eligible gentleman. And there was no doubt Trentham was eligible.
The thought brought him once more to mind—not as he’d been in the theater, but as he’d been in the golden moments they’d shared in the upstairs bedroom. Each moment, each touch, were imprinted on her memory; just the thought was enough to evoke again, not just the sensations but all the rest—all she’d felt.
She’d tried hard to keep the memories from her, not to think or dwell on the emotion that had filled her when she’d realized he intended drawing back from consummation—the emotion that had driven her to utter her plea.
Please…don’t leave me.
The words haunted her, the memory alone enough to make her feel acutely vulnerable. Exposed.
Yet his response…despite all, regardless of what else she knew of him, how she judged his character, his machinations, she owed him for that.
For giving her all she’d wanted.
For being hers to command in that moment, for giving himself to her as she’d wished.
She let the memory slide from her; it was sti
ll too evocative to wrap herself in. Instead, she turned to the evening, considered all that had and hadn’t been. Including the way she’d reacted to him, to his nearness. That had changed. No longer did her nerves leap and jump. Now, when he was close, when they touched, her nerves glowed. It was the only word she could find for the sensation, for the warm comfort it brought. Perhaps an echo of remembered pleasure. Regardless, far from being on edge, she’d felt comfortable. As if rolling naked together on a bed indulging in the act of intimacy had fundamentally changed her responses to him.
For the better, as she saw it. She no longer felt at such a disadvantage, no longer felt physically tense, keyed up in his presence. Curious, but true. Their time alone in the box had been comfortable, pleasant.
If she was honest, totally enjoyable despite his probing.
She sighed, and leaned back against the squabs. She could hardly upbraid Mildred with any sincerity. She’d enjoyed the evening far more, and in quite a different way, than she’d expected.
Chapter
Ten
When he called to take her driving in the park the next morning, she was stunned. When she tried to refuse, he simply looked at her.
“You’ve already admitted you don’t have any engagements.”
Only because she’d thought he wanted to tell her about his investigations.
His hazel eyes remained fixed on hers. “You should tell me about the letters you sent to Cedric’s acquaintances. You can tell me just as well in the park as here.” His gaze sharpened. “Besides, you must be longing to get out in the fresh air. Today is not the sort of day to let slip by.”
She narrowed her eyes at him; he was seriously dangerous. He was right, of course; the day was glorious, and she’d been toying with the idea of a brisk walk, but after her last excursion hesitated to go out alone.
He was too wise to press further, but simply waited…waited for capitulation as he was wont to do.
She pulled a face at him. “Very well. Wait while I get my pelisse.”
He was waiting in the hall when she came down the stairs. As she walked by his side to the gate, she told herself she really should not allow this ease she felt with him to develop much further. Being with him was altogether too comfortable. Too pleasant.
The drive did nothing to break the spell. The breeze was fresh, tangy with the promise of spring; the sky was blue with wispy clouds that merely flirted with the sun. The warmth was a welcome relief from the chill winds that had blown until recently; the first swelling buds were visible on the branches beneath which Trentham steered his greys.
On such a day, the ladies of the ton were out and about, but the hour was still early, the Avenue not overly crowded. She nodded here and there to those of her aunts’ acquaintances who recognized her, but largely gave her attention to the man beside her.
He drove with a light touch she knew enough to admire, and an unthinking confidence that told her more. She tried to keep her eyes off his hands, long fingers expertly managing the ribbons, and failed.
A moment later, she felt heat rise in her cheeks and forced her gaze away. “I sent the last letters off this morning. With luck someone will reply within a week.”
Tristan nodded. “The more I think of it, the more likely it seems that whatever Mountford is after, it’s something to do with your cousin Cedric’s work.”
Leonora glanced at him; wisps of her hair had come loose and flirted about her face. “How so?”
He looked to his horses—away from her mouth, her soft luscious lips. “It had to be something a purchaser would get with the house. If your uncle had been willing to sell, would you have cleared out Cedric’s workshop?” He glanced at her. “I got the impression it had been forgotten, dismissed from everyone’s minds. I hardly think that applies to anything in the library.”
“True.” She nodded, trying to tame her wayward locks. “I wouldn’t have bothered going into the workshop if it hadn’t been for Mountford’s efforts. However, I think you’re overlooking one point. If I was after something and had a reasonable idea where it might be, I might arrange to buy the house, not intending to complete the sale, you understand, and then ask to visit to measure up rooms for furnishings or remodeling.” She shrugged. “Easy enough to get time to look around and perhaps remove things.”
He considered, imagined, then relucantly grimaced. “You’re right. That leaves us with the possibility that it, whatever it is, could be just about anything secreted anywhere in the house.” He glanced at her. “A house full of eccentrics.”
She met his gaze, raised her brows, then tipped her nose in the air and looked away.
He called the next day and swept aside her reservations with invitations to a special preview of the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy.
She cast him a severe glance as he ushered her through the gallery doors. “Do all earls get such special privileges?”
He met her gaze. “Only special earls.”
Her lips curved before she looked away.
He hadn’t expected to gain all that much from the excursion, to his mind a minor exercise in his wider strategy. Instead, he found himself engrossed in a spirited discussion on the merits of landscapes over portraiture.
“People are so alive! They’re what life’s about.”
“But the scenes are the essence of the country, of England—the people are a function of the place.”
“Nonsense! Just look at this costermonger.” She pointed to an excellent line drawing of a man with a barrow. “One glance and you’d know exactly where he came from—even what borough of London. The people personify the place—they’re a representation of it, too.”
They were in one of the smaller rooms in the labyrinthine gallery; from the corner of his eye, he saw the other group in the chamber move on through the door, leaving them alone.
Leaning on his arm, studying a busy river scene populated with half a regiment of dockworkers, Leonora hadn’t noticed. Obedient to his tug, she strolled on to the next work—a plain and simple landscape.
She humphed, glanced back at the river scene, then up at him. “You can’t expect me to believe you’d rather have an empty landscape than a picture of people.”
He looked into her face. She stood close; her lips, her warmth, beckoned. Her hand lay trustingly on his arm.
Desire and more unexpectedly surfaced.
He didn’t try to mask it, to screen it from his face or his eyes.
“People in general don’t interest me.” He met her gaze, let his voice deepen. “But there’s one picture of you I’d like to see again, to experience again.”
She held his gaze. A soft blush slowly rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. She knew exactly what image he was thinking of—of her naked and wanting beneath him. She drew a brief breath. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
He felt her quiver.
“It’s not going to happen—you won’t see that picture again.”
He studied her, felt both humble and amazed that she didn’t see him for what he was—that she believed, not naively but with simple conviction, that if she stood firm, he wouldn’t step beyond the bounds of honor and seize her.
She was wrong, but he valued her trust, treasured it too much to unnecessarily shake it.
So he raised a brow, smiled. “On that I fear we’re unlikely to agree.”
As he’d anticipated, she sniffed, put her nose in the air, and turned to the next work of art.
He let one day go by—a day he spent checking with his various contacts, all those whom he’d set the task of locating Montgomery Mountford—before returning to Montrose Place and inveigling Leonora to accompany him on a drive to Richmond. He’d done his forward planning; the Star and Garter was apparently the place to see and be seen.
It was the “be seen” aspect he required.
Leonora felt curiously lighthearted as she walked beneath the trees, her hand locked in Trentham’s. Not prec
isely de rigueur, but when she’d pointed that out, he’d merely raised a brow and continued holding her hand.
Her mood was due to him; she couldn’t imagine feeling this way with any other gentleman she’d known. She knew it was dangerous, that she would miss the unexpected closeness, the totally unanticipated sharing—the subtle thrill of walking beside a wolf—when he finally gave in and bade her adieu.
She didn’t care. When the time came, she’d mope, but for now she was determined to grasp the moment, a fleeting interlude as spring bloomed. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined such a state of ease could arise from intimacy, from one simple act of physical sharing.
There wouldn’t be any repetition. Despite what she’d thought, he hadn’t intended it to happen in the first place, and no matter what he said, he wouldn’t precipitate another encounter against her wishes. Now that she knew he felt honor-bound to marry her, she knew better than to lie with him again. She wasn’t such a fool as to tempt fate further.
No matter how she felt when with him.
No matter how much fate tempted her.
She slanted him a glance.
He caught it, raised a brow. “A penny for your thoughts.”
She laughed, shook her head. “My thoughts are much too precious.” Much too dangerous.
“What are they worth?”
“More than you can possibly pay.”
When he didn’t immediately reply, she glanced at him.
He met her gaze. “Are you sure?”
She was about to dismiss the question with a laugh, then she read his true meaning in his eyes. Realized on a rush of understanding that, as so often seemed to occur, his thoughts and hers were very much in tune. That he knew what she’d been thinking—and quite literally meant he’d pay anything she asked…
It was all there in his eyes, engraved in crystalline hazel, sharp and clear. He rarely adopted his mask with her now, not when they were private.
Their steps had slowed; they halted. She dragged in a tight breath. “Yes.” Regardless of the price he was prepared to pay, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.