breaking free.
Tristan sensed it, knew it in his bones, tried not to let his hunger take advantage. She’d been kissed before, but he’d stake his considerable reputation that she’d never yielded her mouth to any man.
But it, and she, were now his to enjoy, to savor, at least as far as a kiss would allow.
Madness, of course. He knew that now, but in that heated moment when she’d blithely consigned her protection to a hound—a hound who was sitting patiently by while he ravished her mistress’s soft mouth—all he’d seen was red. He hadn’t realized how much of that haze had been due to lust.
He knew now.
He’d kissed her to demonstrate her inherent weakness.
In doing so had uncovered his own.
He was hungry—starved; by some blessing of fate so was she. They stood in the silent garden, locked together, and simply enjoyed, took, gave. She was a novice, but that only added a piquancy, a delicate touch of enchantment to know that it was he who was leading her along paths she’d never trod.
Into realms she hadn’t before explored.
The warmth of her, the supple strength, the blatantly feminine curves pressed to his chest—the fact he had her locked in his arms sank through his senses, sank evocative talons deep.
Until he knew just what he wanted, knew beyond doubt what Pandora’s box he’d opened.
Leonora clung as the kiss went on, as it progressed, expanded, opening up new horizons, educating her senses. Some part of her reeling mind knew without question that she wasn’t in any danger, that Trentham’s arms were a safe haven for her.
That she could accept the kiss and all it brought if not with impunity, then at least without risk.
That she could grasp the brief glimpse of passion he offered, seize the moment and, starved, ease her hunger at least that much, own to wanting more without fear, knowing that when it ended she would be able—would be allowed—to step back. To remain herself, locked away and safe.
Alone.
So she made no move to end it.
Until Henrietta whined.
Trentham lifted his head instantly, looked down at Henrietta, but he didn’t let her go.
Blushing, very glad of the darkness, she pushed back, felt his chest, warm rock, beneath her hands. Still frowning, glancing around at the shadows, he eased his hold on her.
Clearing her throat, she stepped back, out of his arms, putting clear distance between them. “She’s cold.”
He looked at her, then at Henrietta. “Cold?”
“Her coat’s wiry hair, not fur.”
He looked at her; she met his gaze, and suddenly felt terribly awkward. How did one part from a gentleman who’d just…
She looked down, snapped her fingers at Henrietta. “I’d better take her in. Good night.”
He said nothing as she turned and started for the front steps. Then suddenly she sensed him shift.
“Wait.”
She turned, raised a brow, as haughty as she could make it.
His face had hardened. “The key.” He held out a hand. “To the front door of Number 12.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks again. Reaching into her pocket, she drew it out. “I used to visit old Mr. Morrissey. He had terrible trouble doing his household accounts.”
He took the key, weighed it in his palm.
She glanced up; he caught her gaze.
After a moment, very quietly he said, “Go inside.”
It was too dark to read his eyes, yet caution whispered, told her to obey. Inclining her head, she turned to the front steps. She climbed them, opened the door she’d left on the latch, slipped in, and quietly closed it behind her, conscious all the while of his gaze on her back.
Sliding the key into his pocket, Tristan stood on the path amid the waving fronds and watched until her shadow disappeared into the house. Then he swore, turned, and walked away into the night.
Chapter
It wasn’t the first time in his career that he’d made a tactical blunder. He needed to put it behind him, pretend it hadn’t happened, and stick to his strategy of rescuing the damn woman, then moving on, getting on with the fraught business of finding himself a wife.
The next morning, as he strode up the front path to the door of Number 14, Tristan kept repeating that litany, along with a pointed reminder that an argumentative, willful, trenchantly independent lady of mature years was assuredly not the sort of wife he wanted.
Even if she tasted like ambrosia and felt like paradise in his arms.
How old was she anyway?
Nearing the front porch, he thrust the question out of his mind. If this morning went as he planned, he’d be much better placed to adhere to his strategy.
Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he looked up at the front door. He’d tossed and turned all night, not only with the inevitable effects of that unwise kiss, but even more because, stirred by the earlier events of the night, his conscience wouldn’t settle. Whatever the truth about the “burglar,” the matter was serious. Experience insisted it was so; his instincts were convinced of it. Even though he had no intention of leaving Leonora to deal with it on her own, he didn’t feel comfortable in not alerting both Sir Humphrey and Jeremy Carling to the danger.
He’d come determined to make a real attempt to bring home to them the true tenor of the situation. It was their right to protect Leonora; he couldn’t in all honor usurp their role while leaving them in ignorance.
Straightening his shoulders, he went up the steps.
The ancient butler answered his knock.
“Good morning.” Charm to the fore, he smiled. “I’d like to speak to Sir Humphrey, and also Mr. Carling, if they’re available.”
The man’s starchy demeanor eased; he opened the door wide. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, my lord, I’ll inquire.”
He stood in the middle of the morning room and prayed Leonora didn’t hear of his arrival. What he wanted to achieve would be easier accomplished between gentlemen, without the distracting presence of the object central to their discussion.
The butler returned and conducted him to the library. He entered and found Sir Humphrey and Jeremy alone, and heaved a small sigh of relief.
“Trentham! Welcome!” Seated as he had been on Tristan’s earlier visit, in the armchair by the fire with— Tristan was almost certain—the same book open on his knee, Humphrey waved him to the chaise. “Sit down, sit down, and tell us what we can do for you.”
Jeremy, too, looked up and nodded a greeting. Tristan returned the nod as he sat. Again, he got the impression little had changed on Jeremy’s desk except, perhaps, the particular page he was studying.
Catching his glance, Jeremy smiled. “Indeed, I’ll be grateful for a respite.” He waved at the book before him. “Deciphering this Sumerian script is deuced hard on the eyes.”
Humphrey snorted. “Better that than this.” He indicated the tome on his knees. “More than a century later, but they weren’t any neater. Why they couldn’t use decent quills—” He broke off, then grinned engagingly at Tristan. “But you’ve not come to hear about that. You mustn’t let us get started, or we can talk scripts for hours.”
Tristan’s mind boggled.
