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 I was after something and had a reasonable idea where it might be, I might arrange to buy the house, not intending to complete the sale, you understand, and then ask to visit to measure up rooms for furnishings or remodeling.” She shrugged. “Easy enough to get time to look around and perhaps remove things.”

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 de rigueur, but when she’d pointed that out, he’d merely raised a brow and continued holding her hand.

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.

She slanted him a glance.

He caught it, raised a brow. “A penny for your thoughts.”

She laughed, shook her head. “My thoughts are much too precious.” Much too dangerous.

“What are they worth?”

“More than you can possibly pay.”

When he didn’t immediately reply, she glanced at him.

He met her gaze. “Are you sure?”

She was about to dismiss the question with a laugh, then she read his true meaning in his eyes. Realized on a rush of understanding that, as so often seemed to occur, his thoughts and hers were very much in tune. That he knew what she’d been thinking—and quite literally meant he’d pay anything she asked…

It was all there in his eyes, engraved in crystalline hazel, sharp and clear. He rarely adopted his mask with her now, not when they were private.

Their steps had slowed; they halted. She dragged in a tight breath. “Yes.” Regardless of the price he was prepared to pay, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.

They stood facing each other while a long moment passed. It should have turned awkward, but, as in the gallery, a deeper understanding—an acceptance each of the other—prevented it.

Eventually, he simply said, “We’ll see.”

She smiled, easily, companionably, and they resumed their walk.

After inspecting the deer and ambling under the oaks and beeches, they returned to his curricle and repaired to the Star and Garter.

“I haven’t been here for years,” she admitted as she took her seat at a table by the window. “Not since the year I came out.”

She waited while he ordered tea and crumpets, then said, “I have to admit I have difficulty seeing you as a young man on the town.”

“Probably because I never was one.” He settled back, held her gaze. “I went into the Guards at twenty, more or less straight from Oxford.” He shrugged. “It was the accepted route in my branch of the family—we were the military arm.”

“So where were you stationed? You must have attended balls in the nearest town?”

He kept her entertained with tales of his exploits, and that of his peers, then turned the table and drew out her memories of her first Season. She had enough she could say to make a decent showing; if he realized her accounts were edited, he gave no sign.

They’d moved on to her observations of the ton and its present inhabitants when a party at a nearby table, all standing to leave, tipped over a chair. She glanced around—and realized, from the fixed stares of the three girls and their mother that the reason for the commotion was that all attention had been locked on them.

The mother, an overdressed matron, cast a supercilious, purse-lipped glance their way, then moved to gather her chicks. “Come, girls!”

Two moved to obey; the third stared for a moment longer, then turned and hissed, her whisper clearly audible, “Did Lady Mott say when the wedding would be?”

Leonora continued to stare at the retreating backs. Her wits were tumbling, shooting off in all directions; as scene after scene replayed in her mind, she felt chilled, then overheated. Temper—an eruption more powerful than any she’d known—overtook her. Slowly, she turned her head, and met Trentham’s gaze.

Read in the hard hazel not an ounce of contrition, not even a hint of exculpation, but simple, clear, and unequivocal confirmation.

“You fiend.” She breathed the word. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her teacup.

His eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

He hadn’t shifted from his lounging pose, but she knew how fast he could move.

She suddenly felt dizzy, giddy; she couldn’t breathe. She pushed up out of her chair. “Let me out of here.”

Her voice wavered but he acted; she was dimly aware that he was watching her closely. He got her outside, swept aside all hurdles; she was too overwrought to stand on pride and not take advantage of the escape he arranged.

But the instant her half boots touched the grass in the park, she jerked her hand from his arm and strode out. Away from him. Away from the temptation of hitting him—trying to hit him; she knew he wouldn’t let her.

Gall burned her throat; she’d thought him out of his depth in the ton, but it was she who had had her eyes closed. Lulled into doe-eyed trust by a wolf—who hadn’t even bothered to wear wool!

She gritted her teeth against a scream, one directed against herself. She’d known what he was like from the first—a remarkably ruthless man.

Abruptly, she came to a halt. Panic would get her nowhere, especially with a man like him. She had to think, had to act—in the right way.

So what had he done? What had he actually accomplished? And how could she negate or reverse it?

She stood still as her wits slowly realigned. A measure of calm descended; it wasn’t—couldn’t be—as bad as she’d thought.

She spun around and wasn’t the least surprised to discover him two feet away, watching her.

Carefully.

She locked her eyes on his. “Have you said anything to anyone about us?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No.”

“So that girl was simply…” She gestured with both hands.

“Extrapolating.”

She narrowed her eyes. “As you knew everyone would.”

He didn’t reply.

She continued to look daggers at him as the realization that all was not lost—that he hadn’t created a social snare she couldn’t simply step out of—seeped through her. Her temper subsided; her annoyance did not. “This is not a game.”