gate, he swung it wide, ushered her through, then followed her in. She was waiting to link her arm in his; she was still deep in thought.
He stopped before the steps. “I’ll leave you here.”
She glanced up at him, then inclined her head and reached for Henrietta’s lead. She met his gaze; her eyes were a startling blue. “Thank you.”
Those periwinkle blue eyes said she was speaking of much more than his help with Henrietta.
He nodded, thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’ll have someone on their way to York tonight. I believe you’ll be attending Lady Manivers’ rout?”
Her lips lifted. “Indeed.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Her eyes held his for a moment, then she inclined her head. “Until then.”
She turned away. He watched her go inside, waited until the door shut, then turned and walked away.
Dealing with Tristan, Leonora decided, had become unbelievably complicated.
It was the following morning; she lolled in her bed and stared at the sunbeams making patterns on the ceiling. And tried to sort out what, exactly, was going on between them. Between Tristan Wemyss, ex-spy, ex– unofficial agent of His Majesty’s government, and her.
She’d thought she’d known, but day by day, night by night, he kept…not so much changing as revealing greater and ever more intriguing depths. Facets of his character that she’d never imagined he might possess, aspects she found deeply appealing.
Last night…all had progressed as it usually did. She’d tried, not too hard, admittedly—she’d been distracted by all she’d learned that afternoon—but she nevertheless had made an effort to hold to a celibate line. He’d seemed even more determined, more ruthless than usual in storming her position—and taking her.
He’d whisked her off to a secluded room, one draped in shadows. There, on a daybed, he’d taught her to ride him—even now, just thinking of those moments made her blush. Remembered sensation sent warmth washing through her. The muscles in her thighs now ached, yet in that position she’d been better able to appreciate how much pleasure she gave him. How much sensual delight he took in her body. For the first time in all their interactions, she’d taken the lead, experimented, and gloried in her ability to pleasure him.
Addictive. Enthralling. Deeply satisfying.
That, however, had been the least of the revelations the evening had brought.
When, finally slumped in his arms, heated and replete, she’d nipped his shoulder and told him she liked the sort of soldier he was, he’d sent one hard palm stroking slowly, pensively, down her spine, then said, “I’m not like Whorton, I promise you.”
She’d blinked, then struggled up onto her elbows to frown down into his face. “You’re not anything like Mark.” Her mind had been groggy; the rock-hard, tanned, scarred body beneath her was nothing like what she’d ever imagined Mark’s might be, and as for the man within it…
Tristan’s eyes had been dark pools, impossible to read. His hand had continued slowly, reassuringly stroking. He must have read her confusion in her face. “I want to marry you—I won’t change my mind. You don’t need to worry I’ll hurt you like he did.”
Realization had dawned. She’d pushed up, stared down at him. “Mark didn’t hurt me.”
He’d frowned. “He jilted you.”
“Well, yes. But…I was actually quite happy to be jilted.”
Of course, she’d had to explain. She’d done so with greater candor than she’d previously brought to the subject; stating the reality aloud had more clearly established the truth in her mind as well as his.
“So you see,” she’d concluded, “it wasn’t any deep and lasting slight—not in any way. I don’t have any”— she’d waved—“adverse feelings toward soldiers because of it.”
He’d considered her, searched her face. “So you don’t hold my former career against me?”
“Because of what happened with Whorton? No.”
His frown had only deepened. “If it wasn’t Whorton jilting you that gave you a distaste for men and marriage, what did?” His gaze had sharpened; even in the shadows she’d been able to feel its edge. “Why haven’t you married?”
She hadn’t been ready to answer that.
She’d brushed it aside, clung to a more immediate point. “Is that why you told me about your career—to distinguish yourself from Whorton?”
He’d looked disgruntled. “If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have told you.”
“But I did ask. Is that why you answered?”
He’d hesitated, his reluctance clear, then admitted, “Partially. I would have had to tell you sometime…”
“But you told me this afternoon because you wanted me to see you as different from Whorton, different from how you imagined I saw him—”
He’d hauled her down and kissed her. Distracted her.
Effectively.
She hadn’t known what to make of his reasoning—his motives, his reactions—last night. She still didn’t. Yet…he’d obviously felt threatened enough by her experience with Whorton, and how he believed that affected her view of military men, to tell her the truth. To break with what she suspected was habit and neither hide nor conceal his past.
A past she felt sure none of his family knew. That few others of any sort knew.
He was a man with shadows behind him, yet circumstances had dictated he step into the light, and he needed someone—someone who understood, who could understand him, someone he could trust—beside him.
She could see that, acknowledge that much.
Slowly stretching under the covers, she sighed deeply. Because of his earlier suggestion, she’d allowed herself to imagine what being married to him would be like; her response to the vision had been completely different to what she’d expected. To what her response to all such thoughts of marriage had been in the past.
Now…now that she was imagining being
Just as, indeed, she felt increasingly stifled in her uncle’s house.
The realization was not so much a shock as an earthquake, one that literally rocked the concepts she’d thought for so long were the foundations of her life. That realization was not a small thing to assimilate, to absorb.
The sunbeams danced on the ceiling; the household was awake—the day called to her. Yet she remained in the cocoon of her bed and instead opened her mind. Let her thoughts free.
Followed where they led.
The girlish dreams she’d buried long ago had revived, subtly re-created, altered so that this time they were attractive to the woman she now was—this time, they fitted her.
She could see, imagine—start to desire if she let herself—a future as Tristan’s wife. His countess. His helpmate.
Swirling through those dreams, lending them greater fascination and power, was the enticement of being the one—the only one according to him—who could give him all he wanted. That, very possibly, he needed. When they were together, she could sense the power of what had grown between them, that welling emotion deeper than passion, stronger than desire. The emotion that in those quiet, intense and private moments wrapped them about.
The emotion they shared.
It was something ephemeral between them, something most easy to see in those heated moments when both their guards were completely down, yet it was also there, peeking through, like something caught from the corner of an eye in their more public exchanges.
He’d asked why she’d never married; the truth was, she’d never truly studied the reason. The instinctive, deeply held belief—the one that had made letting Whorton go so easy—was something so buried in her mind, so much a part of her, she’d never taken it out and examined it, never truly concerned herself with it before. It had
