of her walking dress was suddenly too tight. The thin film of her chemise chafed.
He seemed to know; he dealt with her bodice’s tiny buttons with practiced ease, and she could breathe again. Only to catch her breath on a rush of pleasure, on a spike of anticipation when he boldly slid his hand beneath the gaping gown to caress, to fondle. His touch screened by fine silk, to build her yearning once again, so that she ached for more definite contact. Burned to feel his skin against hers, desperate to feel still more.
Her lips were hungry, her demands clear. Tristan couldn’t resist. Didn’t try.
Two quick tugs and her chemise was loose; hooking one finger between her full breasts he drew the fine fabric down.
Then set his hand to her bounty.
Felt the deep shudder that racked her in his soul.
He closed his hand, hungrily possessive, and her heart leapt.
His followed.
Into a furnace of greedy, eager giving, of sensual taking, of appreciation, and a dawning recognition of mutual need.
Hands and lips fed the hunger, eager, inciting. Enthralled.
There was a change in their interaction. He sensed it, surprised to find himself, although still in control, no longer dictating their play. Her developing assurance, her interest and understanding, invested her lips, directed the way she met him, the slow sensuous stroking of her tongue against his, the seductive caress of her fingers in his hair, the openly confident, determinedly fascinated way she sank against him, all supple limbs and soft heat, bathing in the flames of a mutual conflagration he’d never imagined sharing with an innocent woman.
The thought echoed in his brain even while she filled his senses. She was more than he’d expected even while he was something other than she’d thought. Something beyond her experience, yet she was something beyond his.
The flames between them were definite, real, scorching, firing thoughts of passion, of greater intimacy, of the satiation of that mutual need.
It hadn’t occurred to him that they might travel this far so soon. He in no way regretted it, yet…
Deeply entrenched instincts had him drawing back, easing her back. Slowing their caresses, lightening them. Letting the flames gradually subside to a simmer.
He lifted his head, looked at her eyes. Watched her lashes rise, then met her clear, startlingly blue gaze.
Read in it not shock, not the slightest hint of retreat or fluster, but instead an awakened interest. A question.
What next?
He knew, but this was not, yet, the time to explore that avenue. He recalled where they were, what his mission was. He felt his face harden. “It’s getting dark. I’ll see you home.”
Leonora inwardly frowned, but then her gaze slipped past his shoulder to the window; night had indeed fallen. She blinked, stepped back as he released her. “I hadn’t realized it was so late.”
Naturally not; her wits had been in a whirl. A pleasurable whirl, one that had opened her eyes considerably more. Ignoring her chemise, doggedly refusing to let her mind dwell on what had just occurred—later, when he wasn’t around to see her blushes—she adjusted and re-fastened her bodice, then buttoned her pelisse.
His gaze, sharp as ever, hadn’t left her. She lifted her head and met it directly. He searched her eyes, then raised a brow. “I take it”—his gaze shifted from her to sweep the room—“you approve of the decor?”
She raised a haughty brow back. “I daresay it’s eminently suitable for your purpose.”
Head high, she swung toward the door. She felt his gaze on her back as she crossed the room, then he stirred and followed.
She had very little experience of men. Especially not men like Trentham. That, Leonora felt, was her greatest weakness, one that left her at an unfair disadvantage whenever she was with him.
Stifling a humph, she dragged her silky quilt about her and climbed into the old armchair before the fire blazing in her room. It was icy outside, too cold even to sit in the conservatory and think. Besides, a quilt and an armchair before the fire seemed much more suitable given the issues she was determined to think about.
Trentham had escorted her home and requested an interview with her uncle and Jeremy. She’d taken him to the library, listened while he questioned them as to whether they’d stumbled onto any possibility that might be the burglar’s aim. She could have told him that neither of them would have spared a thought for the burglar let alone his objective since he, Trentham, had last mentioned the matter—and so it had proved. Neither had any ideas or suggestions; the puzzled look in their eyes clearly stated they were surprised he was still intersted in the affair at all.
He saw it as well as she; his jaw set, but he thanked them and politely enough took his leave.
Only she had sensed his disapproval; her uncle and brother had remained, as ever, determinedly oblivious.
With Henrietta padding beside her, canine appreciation for Trentham transparent, she’d walked with him to the front hall. She’d dismissed Castor earlier; they’d been alone in the soft lamplight, in a place in which she’d always felt secure.
Then Trentham had looked at her, and she hadn’t felt safe at all. She’d felt hot. Warmth had spread beneath her skin; a light flush rose to her cheeks. All in response to the look in his eyes, to the thoughts she could see behind them.
They’d been standing close. He’d lifted a hand, traced her cheek, then slid one finger beneath her chin and tipped up her face. Set his lips to hers in a swift, unfulfilling kiss.
Raising his head, he’d caught her gaze. Held it for a moment, then murmured, “Take care.”
He’d released her just as Castor came hurrying from the nether regions. He’d departed without a backward glance, leaving her to wonder, to speculate. To plan.
If she dared.
That, she decided, snuggling into the quilt’s warmth, was the crucial question. Did she dare satisfy her curiosity? It was, in truth, more than curiosity; she had a burning desire to know, to experience all that could lie between a man and a woman physically and emotionally.
She’d always
All well and good if one was a young girl. At twenty-six, she no longer fitted that description; to her mind, the proscription no longer applied.
No one had ever advanced any explanation of the moral logic behind society’s acceptance that married ladies, once they’d presented their husbands with an heir, could indulge in affairs as long as they remained discreet.
She intended to be the very soul of discretion, and she had no vows to break.
If she wished to avail herself of Trentham’s offer to introduce her to the pleasures she’d thus far been denied, there were, in her view, no social conventions she need consider. As for the somewhat indefinite quibble of her falling with child, there had to be some way around such things or London would be awash with by-blows and half the ton’s matrons perpetually pregnant; she was sure Trentham would know how to manage.
Indeed, it was in part his experience, that air of competence and expertise, that attracted her, that had made it possible that afternoon for her to grasp the invitation he’d offered.
Clearly, she’d read that invitation correctly; the subtle, step-by-step advancement of their engagement, from touch, to kiss, to sensual caress confirmed it. Now she’d taken the first step into his arms, he’d shown her enough for her to have some inkling of what she’d missed, of what lay ahead.
He’d introduced her to a degree of intimacy that was clearly the prelude to all she wished to know. He was willing to be her partner in adventure, her mentor in that sphere. To guide her, teach her, show her. In return, of course…but she understood that and, after all, who was she saving herself for?
Marriage and its attendant dependency was a yoke that simply didn’t fit her. Having accepted that years ago, her only real regret, a silent and somewhat suppressed regret, had been that she would never experience physical intimacy or that particular brand of sensual pleasure.
Now Trentham had appeared, dangling temptation before her.
