tongue, but because of his tiger, perched behind them. She’d had to wait until Trentham handed her to the pavement before Number 14 to fix him with a narrow-eyed glare, and demand, “Why? Why me? Give me one sane reason why you want to marry me.”
Hazel eyes glinting, he’d looked down at her, then bent closer and murmured, “Do you remember that picture we spoke of?”
She’d quelled a sudden urge to step back. Searched his eyes briefly before asking, “What of it?”
“The prospect of seeing it every morning and every night constitutes an eminently sane reason to me.”
She’d blinked; a blush had risen to her cheeks. For an instant, she’d stared at him, her stomach clenching tight, then she’d stepped back. “You’re crazed.”
She’d spun on her heel, pushed open the front gate, and stalked up the garden path.
The invitations had started arriving with the first post that morning.
One or two she could have ignored; fifteen by lunch-time, and all from the most powerful hostesses, were simply impossible to dismiss. How he had managed it she didn’t know, but his message was clear—she could not avoid him. Either she met him on neutral ground, meaning within the social round of the ton, or…
That implied “or” was seriously worrisome.
He was not a man she could easily predict; her failure to foresee his objectives to date was what had got her into this mess in the first place.
“Or…” sounded far too dangerous, and when it came down to it, no matter what he did, as long as she adhered to the simple word “No” she would be perfectly safe, perfectly secure.
Mildred, with Gertie in tow, arrived at four o’clock.
“My dear!” Mildred sailed into the parlor like a black-and-white galleon. “Lady Holland called and insisted I bring you to her soiree this evening.” Subsiding with a silken swish onto the chaise, Mildred turned eyes filled with zeal upon her. “I had no idea Trentham had such connections.”
Leonora suppressed a growl of her own. “Nor had I.” Lady Holland, for heaven’s sake! “The man’s a fiend!”
Mildred blinked. “Fiend?”
She resumed her activity—pacing before the hearth. “He’s doing this to”—she gestured wildly—“flush me out!”
“Flush you…” Mildred looked concerned. “My dear, are you feeling quite the thing?”
Turning, she looked at Mildred, then switched her gaze to Gertie, who had paused before an armchair.
Gertie met her eyes, then nodded. “Very likely.” She lowered herself into the chair. “Ruthless. Dictatorial. Not one to let anything stand in his way.”
“Exactly!” The relief of having found someone who understood was great.
“Still,” Gertie continued, “you do have a choice.”
“Choice?” Mildred looked from one to the other. “I do hope you’re not going to encourage her to fly in the face of this unlooked-for development?”
“As to that,” Gertie responded, entirely unmoved, “she’ll do as she pleases—she always has. But the real question here is, is she going to let him dictate to her, or is she going to make a stand?”
“Stand?” Leonora frowned. “You mean ignore all these invitations?” Even she found the thought a trifle extreme.
Gertie snorted. “Of course not! Do that, and you’ll dig your own grave. But there’s no reason to let him get away with thinking he can force you into anything. As I see it, the most telling response would be to accept the most sought-after invitations with delight, and attend with the clear aim of enjoying yourself. Go and meet him in the ballrooms and if he dares press you there, you can give him his conge with half the ton looking on.”
She thumped her cane. “Mark my words, you need to teach him he’s not omnipotent, that he won’t get his way by such machinations.” Gertie’s old eyes gleamed. “Best way to do that is to give him what he thinks he wants, then show him that it isn’t what he really wants at all.”
The look on Gertie’s face was unashamedly wicked; the thought it evoked in Leonora’s mind was definitely attractive.
“I take your point…” She stared into the distance, her mind juggling possibilities. “Give him what he’s angled for, but…” Refocusing on Gertie, she beamed. “Of course!”
The number of invitations had grown to nineteen; she felt almost giddy with defiance.
She swung to Mildred; she’d been watching Gertie, a rather bemused expression on her face. “Before Lady Holland’s, perhaps we should attend the Carstairs’s rout?”
They did; Leonora used the event as a refresher to dust off and buff up her social skills. By the time she walked into Lady Holland’s elegant rooms, her confidence was riding high. She knew she looked well in her deep topaz silk, her hair piled high, topaz drops in her ears, pearls looped about her throat.
Following in Mildred’s and Gertie’s wake, she curtsied before Lady Holland, who shook her hand and uttered the usual pleasantries, all the while observing her through shrewd and intelligent eyes.
“I understand you’ve made a conquest,” her ladyship remarked.
Leonora raised her brows lightly, let her lips curve. “Entirely unintentionally, I assure you.”
Lady Holland’s eyes widened; she looked intrigued.
Leonora let her smile deepen; head high, she glided on.
From where he’d retreated to lounge against the drawing-room wall, Tristan watched the exchange, saw Lady Holland’s surprise, caught the amused glance she shot him as Leonora moved into the crowd.
He ignored it, fixed his gaze on his quarry, and pushed away from the wall.
He’d arrived unfashionably early, uncaring that her ladyship, who had always taken an interest in his career, would correctly guess his reasons. The past two hours had been ones of inaction, of unutterable boredom, reminding him why he’d never felt he’d missed anything in joining the army at twenty. Now Leonora had consented to arrive, he could get on with things.
The invitations he’d arranged through his own offices and those of his town-bound old dears would ensure that for the next week he’d be able to come up with her every night, somewhere in the ton.
Somewhere conducive to furthering his goal.
Beyond that, even if the damn woman still held firm, society being what it was, the invitations would continue of their own accord, creating opportunities for him to exploit until she surrendered.
He had her in his sights; she wouldn’t escape.
Closing the distance between them, he came up alongside her as her aunts sank onto a chaise by one side of the room. His appearance preempted a number of other gentlemen who had noticed Leonora and thought to test the waters.
He’d discovered that Lady Warsingham was by no means unknown within the ton; nor was her niece. The prevailing view of Leonora was that she was a willful lady stubbornly and intractably opposed to marriage. Although her age placed her beyond the ranks of the marriageable misses, her beauty, assurance, and behavior cast her in the light of a challenge, at least in the eyes of men who viewed challenging ladies with interest.
Such gentlemen would no doubt take note of
He bowed to the older ladies, both of whom beamed at him.
He turned to Leonora and encountered an arch and distinctly chilly glance. “Miss Carling.
She gave him her hand and curtsied. He bowed, raised her, and set her hand on his sleeve.
Only to have her lift it off and turn to greet a couple who’d strolled up.
“Leonora! I declare we haven’t seen you for an age!”
“Good evening, Daphne. Mr. Merryweather.” Leonora touched cheeks with the brown-haired Daphne, a lady of bounteous charms, then shook hands with the gentleman whose coloring and features proclaimed him Daphne’s brother.
She shot Tristan a glance, then smoothly included him, introducing him as the Earl of Trentham.
“I say!” Merryweather’s eyes lit. “I heard you were in the Guards at Waterloo.”
“Indeed.” He uttered the word as repressively as he could, but Merryweather failed to take the hint. He babbled on with the usual questions; inwardly sighing, Tristan gave his practiced answers.
Leonora, more attuned to his tones, shot him a curious glance, but then Daphne claimed her attention.
His hearing acute, Tristan quickly realized the tenor of Daphne’s inquiries. She assumed Leonora had no
