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.
Chapter
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
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
