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
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 precisely
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.
