The transformation was now complete. The hall was surprisingly light and airy, not dark and gloomy—an impression she associated with gentlemen’s clubs. However, there was not a single item of delicacy to soften the austere, starkly elegant lines; no sprigged wallpaper, not even any scrollwork. It was rather cold, almost bleak in its eschewing of all things feminine, yet she could see men—men like Trentham—gathering there.
They wouldn’t notice the softness that was missing.
Trentham didn’t offer to show her the downstairs rooms; with a gesture, he directed her to the stairs. She climbed them, noting the high gloss on the banister, the thickness of the stair carpet. Clearly expense had not been a consideration.
On the first floor, Trentham moved past her and led the way to the room at the front of the house. A large mahogany table stood in the middle of the floor, eight matching chairs upholstered in ocher velvet surrounding it. A sideboard stood against one wall, a long bureau against another.
Tristan glanced around, swiftly surveying their meeting room. All was as they’d envisaged it; catching Gasthorpe’s eye, he nodded, then with a wave, directed Leonora back across the landing.
The small office with its desk, bank of drawers, and two chairs, need no more than a cursory glance. They moved on to the room at the back of the house—the library.
The merchant from whom they’d purchased the furniture, Mr. Meecham, was overseeing the siting of a tall bookcase. He glanced briefly their way, but immediately returned his attention to directing his two assistants, waving first one way, then that, until they had the heavy bookcase positioned to his satisfaction. They set it down with audible grunts.
Meecham turned to Tristan with a wide smile. “Well, my lord.” He bowed, then looked around with patent satisfaction. “I flatter myself you and your friends will be excellently comfortable here.”
Tristan saw no reason to argue; the room looked inviting, clean, and uncluttered yet with plenty of deep armchairs dotted about and numerous side tables waiting to support a glass of fine brandy. There were two bookcases, presently empty. Although the room was the library, it was unlikely they would retire here to read novels. News sheets assuredly, periodicals and reports, and sporting magazines; the library’s primary function would be as a place of quiet relaxation where if any words were spoken, they would be in a deep murmur.
Glancing around, he could see them all here, private, quiet, but companionable in their silence. Returning his gaze to Meecham, he nodded. “You’ve done well.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Gratified, Meecham waved his two workers from the room. “We’ll leave you to enjoy what we’ve thus far wrought. I’ll have the rest of the items delivered within the week.”
He bowed low; Tristan nodded a dismissal.
Gasthorpe caught his eye. “I’ll see Mr. Meecham out, my lord.”
“Thank you, Gasthorpe—I won’t need you again. We’ll see ourselves out.”
With a nod and a speaking look, Gasthorpe left.
Tristan inwardly winced, but what could he do? Explaining to Leonora that females were not supposed to be inside the club, not beyond the small front parlor, would inevitably lead to questions he—and his fellow club members—would much rather were never asked. Answering would be too risky, akin to tempting fate.
Much better to give ground when it didn’t really matter and couldn’t really hurt than explain what was behind the formation of the Bastion Club.
Leonora had drifted from his side. After trailing her fingers along the back of one armchair, noting the amenities, he thought with approval, she’d wandered to the window and now stood looking out.
At her own back garden.
He waited, but she didn’t return. Heaving an inward, somewhat resigned sigh, he crossed the room, the rich Turkish carpet muffling his steps. He stopped by the side of the window, leaned against the frame.
She turned her head and met his gaze.
“You used to stand here and watch me, didn’t you?”
Chapter
He considered every option before replying, “At times.”
Her eyes remained steady on his, then she looked back at the garden. “That’s how you knew who I was when I ran into you that first day.”
To that he said nothing, then was left wondering what track her mind was taking.
After a long moment, her gaze fixed beyond the glass, she murmured, “I’m not very good at this business.” She gestured briefly, her hand waving between them. “I haven’t had any real experience.”
He inwardly blinked. “So I’d assumed.”
She turned her head, met his gaze. “You’ll have to teach me.”
As she faced him, he straightened. She closed the distance between them. He frowned, his hands instinctively circling her waist. “I’m not certain—”
“I’m perfectly willing to learn.” Her gaze dropped to his lips; hers curved, innocently sensual. “Even eager.”
Lifting her gaze to his eyes, she stretched upward, palms to his chest, lifted her lips to his. Softly murmured, “But you know that.”
And kissed him.
The invitation was so blatant it captured him utterly. Temporarily suspended his wits, left him at his senses’ mercy.
And his senses were merciless. They wanted more.
More of her, of the soft, luscious haven of her mouth, of her pliant, innocently beguiling lips. Of her body, tentatively yet determinedly pressing against his much harder frame.
That last shook him, shook enough of his wits into place for him to take control. What she was thinking he didn’t know, but with her lips on his, her mouth all his, her tongue dueling increasingly hotly with his, he couldn’t spare enough of his mind to follow the contortions of hers.
Later.
Now…all he could do—all he could force his body and senses to do—was follow her lead.
And teach her more.
He let her press close, gathered her fully into his arms. Let her feel his body hardening against hers, let her sense what she invoked, the response her body, supple, curvaceous and blatantly tempting, all female softness and feminine heat, provoked.
During their wanderings through the house, she’d opened her pelisse. Sliding a hand beneath the heavy wool, he set his palm to her breast. Not lightly tracing as he had before, but claiming possessively. Giving her now what their earlier interlude had teasingly promised, tauntingly foretold.
She gasped, clung, but not once did she waver; her lips cleaved to his, innocently demanding. Unfrightened, unshocked. Determined. Enthralled. She was caught, totally fascinated. He deepened the kiss, touched, caressed.
Felt the flames start to smolder. Felt desire slowly rise, stretch languidly, then reach out in hunger.
Leonora felt it, too, although she couldn’t name it, that wash of heated emptiness deep within. It infused her, and him, intrigued and beckoned. Ensnared. She had to get closer, somehow deeper into the exchange; sliding her hands up, she twined them about his neck, sighed when the movement pressed her breast firmly into his hard palm.
His hand closed and her senses rocked. His fingers shifted, seeking, finding, and her wits, her very being, stilled.
Then fractured, shattered, as those knowing fingers tightened, tightened…until she gasped through their kiss.
His fingers eased and heat flooded her, a rushing tide she’d never felt before. Her breasts swelled; the bodice
