Placed at the junction of the shrubbery paths, the temple was simply perfect. Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps. Inside, the floor was a delicate mosaic in black, grey, and white. The Ionic columns that supported the domed roof were white veined with grey.
Turning, she looked back at the house, framed by the high hedges. The perspective was superb. “It’s magnificent.” She smiled at Trentham as he halted beside her. “No matter any difficulties, you can’t be sorry that this is yours.”
She extended her arms, her hands, including the gardens, the lake, and the surrounding countryside in the statement.
He met her gaze. Held it for a long moment, then quietly said, “No. I’m not sorry.”
She caught his tone, the existence of some deeper meaning in his words. She let her frown show.
His lips, until then straight, as serious as his expression, curved, she thought a touch wryly. Reaching out, he shackled her wrist, then slid his hand down to close about hers.
He lifted it, raised her wrist to his lips. Eyes holding hers, he kissed, let his lips linger as her pulse leapt, then throbbed.
As if that had been a signal he’d been waiting for, he reached for her, drew her closer. She permitted it, went into his arms, more than curious, openly eager.
He bent his head and her lashes fluttered down; she lifted her lips and he took them. Smoothly slid between, took possession of her mouth, and her senses.
She yielded them readily, totally unafraid; she was more than confident in her reading of him—he would never harm her. But where he was heading with his intoxicating kisses—what came next, and when—she still didn’t know; she had no experience on which to draw.
She’d never been seduced before.
That that was his ultimate aim she accepted; she could see no other reason for his actions. He’d asked her age, stated she was old enough. At twenty-five, she’d been deemed on the shelf; now twenty-six, she was—clearly to his mind as well as hers—her own woman. A spinster whose life was no one’s business but her own; her actions would impinge on no one else, her decisions were her own to make.
Not that she was necessarily going to accede to his wishes. She would make up her mind if and when the time came.
It wouldn’t come today, not in an open temple visible from his house. Free of any prospect of having to think, she sank into his arms and kissed him back.
Dueled with him, let herself flow into the exchange, felt heat rise between them, along with that fascinating tension—a tenseness that sent excitement rippling along her nerves, sent anticipation coursing beneath her skin.
Her body tightened; heat welled and pooled.
Emboldened, she pushed her hands up, over his shoulders, slid them to his nape. Splaying her fingers, she speared them slowly through his dark locks. Thick and heavy, they slid through and over her fingers, even as his tongue slid deeper.
He angled his head and drew her nearer, until her breasts were crushed to his chest, her thighs brushing his, her skirts tangling around his boots. His arms locked around her, lifting her against him; his strength captured her. The kiss deepened into a melding of mouths, a far more intimate exchange. She half expected to be shocked—felt she should be—yet instead all she knew was that burgeoning heat, a certain assuredness both in him and her, and a dizzying hunger.
That escalating hunger was theirs—not hers, not his, but something growing between them.
It beckoned.
Enticed.
Fed Tristan’s need.
But it was her need that he played to, that he watched and gauged, that ultimately had him easing his hold on her, gathering her in one arm while he raised a hand to her face. To trace her cheek, frame her jaw, hold her still while he methodically plundered. Yet at no stage did he seek to overwhelm her; that, he knew, was not the route to ensnare her.
To seduce her was an instinct he no longer sought to fight. He eased his fingers from the delicate curve of her jaw and sent them lower, flirting with her senses until her lips turned demanding, then caressing lightly, enough to educate her imagination, enough to feed her hunger, not enough to sate it.
Her breasts swelled beneath his tracing touch; he ached to take more, to claim more, but held back. Strategy and tactics were his strong suit; in this as in all things, he was playing to win.
When her fingers clenched on his skull, he consented to palm her breast, to fondle, still lightly, still inciting rather than satisfying. He felt her senses leap, sensed her nerves tightening. Felt her nipple pebble against his palm.
Had to drag a breath deep and hold it, then, gradually, step by step, he eased back from the kiss. Gradually unclenched the muscles locking her to him. Gradually let her surface from the kiss.
But he didn’t take his hand from her breast.
When he released her lips and lifted his head, he was still lightly tracing, back and forth across the swell, teasingly circling her nipple. Her lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes, looked into his.
Her lips were lightly swollen, her eyes wide.
He looked down.
She followed his gaze.
Her lungs locked.
He counted the seconds before she remembered to breathe, knew she had to be dizzy. But she didn’t step back.
It was he who shifted his caressing hand to her upper arm, grasped gently, then slid his hand down to hers. He lifted it to his lips, met her eyes as, faint color in her cheeks, she looked up at him.
He smiled, but hid the true tenor of the gesture. “Come.” Setting her hand on his sleeve, he turned her to the house. “We need to start back to town.”
The journey was a godsend. Leonora took full advantage of the hour during which Trentham was engrossed with his cattle, smoothly tacking through the traffic that grew heavier as they entered the capital, to calm her mind. To try to restore—reclaim—her customary assurance.
She glanced at him often, wondering what he was thinking, but other than an occasional enigmatic glance—leaving her certain he was partly amused but still quite intent—he said nothing. Aside from all else, his tiger was up behind them, too close to allow any private words.
Indeed, she wasn’t sure she wanted any. Any explanation. Not that he’d shown any sign of giving her one, but that seemed to be part of the game.
Part of the building exhilaration, the excitement. The craving.
That last she hadn’t expected, but she certainly felt it—could now understand what she never had before—what caused women, even ladies of eminent sense, to cater to a gentleman’s physical demands.
Not that Trentham had made any real demands. Yet. That was her point.
If she could know when he would, and what those demands might be, she’d be better placed to plan her response.
As matters were…she was left to speculate.
She was sunk in that endeavor when the curricle slowed. She blinked and looked around, and discovered they were home. Trentham drew the curricle up before Number 12. Handing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down, then lifted her to the pavement.
Hands about her waist he looked down at her.
She looked back, and made no attempt to move away.
His lips curved. He opened them—
Footsteps crunched on gravel nearby. They both turned to look.
Gasthorpe, the majordomo, a thickset man with crisp salt-and-pepper hair, came hurrying down the path from Number 12. Reaching them, he bowed. “Miss Carling.”
She’d made a point of meeting Gasthorpe the day after he’d taken up residence. She smiled and inclined her head.
He turned to Trentham. “My lord, forgive the interruption, but I wanted to make sure you called in. The carters have delivered the furniture for the first floor. I would be grateful if you would cast your eye over the items, and advise me if you approve.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be in in a moment—”
“Actually”—Leonora gripped Trentham’s arm, drawing his gaze to her face—“I would love to se
e what you’ve done to Mr. Morrissey’s house. May I come in while you check the furniture?” She smiled. “I would be happy to help—a lady’s eye is often quite different in such matters.”
Trentham looked at her, then glanced at Gasthorpe. “It’s rather late. Your uncle and brother—”
“Won’t have noticed I left the house.” Her curiosity was rampant; she kept her eyes wide, fixed on Trentham’s face.
His lips twisted, then set; again he glanced at Gasthorpe. “If you insist.” She took his arm and he turned toward the path. “But only the first floor has been furnished as yet.”
She wondered why he was being so uncharacteristically diffident, then put it down to being a gentleman more or less in charge of fitting out a house. Something he no doubt felt ill equipped to do.
Ignoring his reticence, she swept up the path beside him. Gasthorpe had gone ahead and stood holding the door. She stepped over the threshold and paused to look around. She’d last glimpsed the hall in the shadows of night, when the painters’ cloths had been down, the room stripped and bare.
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
Seven
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 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.