Abduct me. Ravish me.

The intent in his eyes left her breathless.

His gaze remained on her face, gauging, judging, as he expertly herded her across the crowded room. “I suggest we repair to a place where we can discuss our relationship in private.”

She’d been private with him any number of times; there was no need for her senses to leap at the word. No need for her imagination to run riot. Irritated that it had, she made a firm bid to take charge again. Lifting her head, she nodded. “Very well. I agree. Clearly we need to address our differing views and set matters straight.”

She wasn’t going to marry him; that was the point he needed to accept. If she emphasized that fact, clung to it, she’d be safe.

They reached the door and he opened it; she stepped through into a corridor running alongside the reception rooms. The passage was wide enough for two to walk abreast; one side was lined with carved paneling in which doors were set, the other was a wall of windows looking out over the private gardens.

In late spring and summer the windows would be opened and the corridor would become a delightful venue in which guests could stroll. Tonight, with a raw wind blowing and the promise of frost in the air, all the doors and windows were closed, the passage deserted.

Moonlight streamed in providing light enough to see. The walls were stone, the doors solid oak. Once Trentham shut the door behind them they stood in a silvered, private world.

He released her arm, offered his; she pretended not to notice. Head high, she paced slowly along. “The pertinent point we need to address—”

She broke off when his hand closed about hers. Possessively. She halted, looked down at her fingers swallowed in his palm.

“That,” she said, her gaze fixed on the sight, “is a perfect example of the issue we need to discuss. You cannot go around grabbing my hand, seizing me as if I in some way belonged to you—”

“You do.”

She looked up. Blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Tristan looked into her eyes; he wasn’t averse to explaining. “You. Belong. To me.” It felt good to state it, reinforcing the reality.

Her eyes widened; he continued, “Regardless of what you imagined you were doing, you gave yourself to me. Offered yourself to me. I accepted. Now you’re mine.”

Her lips thinned; her eyes flashed. “That is not what happened. You’re deliberately—God alone knows why—misconstruing the incident.”

She said nothing more but glared up at him belligerently.

“You’re going to have to work a lot harder to convince me that having you naked beneath me on the bed in Montrose Place was a figment of my imagination.”

Her jaw firmed. “Misconstruing—not imagining.”

“Ah—so you admit that you did, indeed—”

“What happened,” she snapped, “as you very well know, is that we enjoyed”—she gestured—“a pleasant interlude.”

“As I recall, you begged me to…‘initiate you’ was, I believe, the term we agreed on.”

Even in the poor light, he could see her blush. But she nodded. “Just so.”

Turning, she walked along the corridor; he kept pace beside her, her hand still locked in his.

She didn’t immediately speak, then she drew in a deep breath. He realized he was going to get at least part of an explanation.

“You have to understand—and accept—that I don’t wish to marry. Not you, not anyone. I have no interest in the state. What happened between us…” She lifted her head, looked down the long corridor. “That was purely because I wanted to know. To experience…” She looked down, walked on. “And I thought you were a sensible choice to be my teacher.”

He waited, then prompted, his tone even, nonaggressive, “Why did you think that?”

She waved between them, slipping her hand from his to do so. “The attraction. It was obvious. It was simply there—you know it was.”

“Yes.” He was starting to see…he halted.

She stopped, too, and faced him. Met his gaze, searched his face. “So you do understand, don’t you? It was just so I would know…that’s all. Just once.”

Very carefully, he asked, “Done. Finished. Over?”

She lifted her head. Nodded. “Yes.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then murmured, “I did warn you, on the bed at Montrose Place, that you’d miscalculated.”

Her head rose another notch, but she evenly stated, “That was when you felt you had to marry me.”

“I know I have to marry you, but that isn’t my point.”

Exasperation flared in her eyes. “What is your point?”

He could feel a grim, definitely cynical, totally self-deprecatory smile fighting for expression; he kept it from his face, kept his features impassive. “That attraction you mentioned. Has it died?”

She frowned. “No. But it will—you know it will….” She stopped because he was shaking his head.

“I know no such thing.”

Wary irritation crept into her face. “I accept that it hasn’t faded yet, but you know perfectly well gentlemen do not remain attracted to women for long. In a few weeks, once we’ve identified Mountford and you’ll no longer be meeting me on a daily basis, you’ll forget me.”

He let the moment stretch while assessing his options. Eventually asked, “And if I don’t?”

Her eyes narrowed. She opened her lips to reiterate that he would.

He cut her off by stepping nearer, closer, crowding her against the windows.

Immediately, heat bloomed between them, beckoning, enticing. Her eyes flared, her breathing caught, then continued more rapidly. Her hands rose, fluttered to rest lightly against his chest; her lashes lowered as he leaned closer.

“Our mutual attraction hasn’t faded in the least—it’s grown stronger.” He breathed the words along her cheek. He wasn’t touching her, holding her, other than with his nearness. “You say it’ll fade—I say it won’t. I’m sure I’m right—you’re sure you are. You want to address the matter—I’m willing to be party to an agreement.”

Leonora felt giddy. His words were dark, forceful, black magic in her mind. His lips touched, butterfly light, to her temple; his breath fanned her cheek. She dragged in a tight breath. “What agreement?”

“If the attraction fades, I’ll agree to release you. Until it does, you’re mine.”

A shiver slithered down her spine. “Yours. What do you mean by that?”

She felt his lips curve against her cheek.

“Exactly what you’re thinking. We’ve been lovers—are lovers.” His lips drifted lower to caress her jaw. “We remain so while the attraction lasts. If it continues, as I’m sure it will, beyond a month, we marry.”

“A month?” His nearness was sapping her wits, leaving her dizzy.

“I’m willing to indulge you for a month, no more.”

She struggled to concentrate. “And if the attraction fades—even if it doesn’t completely die but fades within a month, you’ll agree that a marriage between us is not justified?”

He nodded. “Just so.”

His lips cruised over hers; her unruly senses leapt.

“Do you agree?”

She hesitated. She’d come out here to address what lay between them; what he was suggesting seemed a reasonable way forward…she nodded. “Yes.”

And his lips came down on hers.

She mentally sighed with pleasure, felt her senses unfurl like petals under the sun, wallowing, glorying, absorbing the delight. Savoring the urge—their mutual attraction.

It would fade—she knew it, absolutely beyond doubt. It might be waxing stronger at the moment simply because, at least for her, it was so new, yet ultimately, inevitably, its power would wane.

Until then…she could learn more, understand more. Explore further. At least a little bit further. Sliding her hands up, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back, parted her lips for him, surrendered her mouth, felt the addictive warmth blossom between them when he accepted the invitation.

He shifted closer, pinning her against the window; one hard hand closed about her waist, holding her steady while their mouths melded, while their tongues dueled and tangled, caressed, explored, claimed anew.

Hunger flared.

She felt it in him—a telltale hardening of his muscles, self-restraint imposed, desire harnessed—and felt her own response, a rising tide of heated longing that welled and washed through her. That had her pressing closer, sliding a hand to trace his jaw, tempting him to deepen the kiss.

He did, and for a moment the world fell away.

Flames flared, roared.

Abruptly he drew back. Broke the kiss enough to murmur against her lips, “We need to find a bedchamber.”

She was giddy, wits whirling. She tried, but couldn’t concentrate. “Why?”

His lips returned to hers, taking, needing, giving. He drew away, his breathing not quite steady. “Because I want to fill you—and you want me to. It’s too dangerous here.”

The gravelly words shocked her, thrilled her. Shook a few of her wits into place. Enough so she could think beyond the heat coursing her veins, the pounding in her blood.

Enough to realize.

It was too dangerous anywhere!

Not because he was wrong, but because he was absolutely right.

Just hearing him say the words had escalated her need, deepened that heated longing, the emptiness she knew he could and would fill. She wanted, desperately, to know again the pleasure of having him join with her.

She pulled out of his arms. “No—we can’t.”

He looked at her. Blinked dazedly. “Yes, we can.” The words were uttered with simple conviction, as if he was assuring her they could walk in the park.

She stared at him. Realized she had no hope of arguing convincingly against it; she’d never been a good liar.

Before he could seize her wrist—as he usually did—and haul her off to a bed, she whirled and fled.

Down the corridor. She sensed him behind her; swerved and flung open one of the many doors. Rushed through.

Her mouth fell open in a silent O. She stopped, teetering on her toes just inside a large linen press. They were alongside the dining room; tablecloths and napkins were neatly stacked on shelves on either side. At the end of the tiny chamber, filling the gap between the shelves, was a bench for folding.

Before she could turn, she felt Trentham behind her. Filling the doorway, blocking her escape.

“Excellent choice.” His voice purred, deep and dark. His hand curved around her bottom; he pushed her forward, stepping in behind her.

Shutting the door.

She swung around.

Tristan swept her into his arms, brought his lips down on hers, and let his reins loose. Kissed her witless, let desire rule, let the pent-up passions of the last week pour through him.

She sank against him, caught up in the maelstrom. He drank in her response. Felt her fingers tense, then her nails sank into his shoulders as she met him, appeased him, then tormented him.

Urged him on.

Why she’d taken against a bed he had no idea; perhaps she wanted to expand her horizons. He was only too willing to accommodate her, to demonstrate all that could be accomplished even in such surroundings.

A narrow fanlight above the door let in a shaft of moonlight, enough for him to see. Her gown reminded him of a storm-wracked sea from which her breasts rose, heated and swollen, aching for his touch.

He closed his hands about them and heard her moan. Heard the entreaty, the urgency in the sound.

She was as heated, as needy, as he. With his thumbs, he circled her nipples, hard pebbles beneath the silk, tight and hot and wanting.

Sinking deeper into her mouth, plundering evocatively, deliberately presaging what was to come, he released her breasts and swiftly dealt with her laces, let the dark gown collapse about her waist while he found and unfastened the tiny buttons down the front of her chemise.

He pushed the straps from her shoulders, bared her to the waist; without breaking the kiss, he fastened his hands about her waist and lifted her, sat her on the bench, cupped her breasts one in each hand, broke from the kiss, and bent his head to pay homage.

She gasped, fingers tightening on his skull, spine bowing as he feasted. Her breathing was fractured, desperate; he pushed her ruthlessly on, laving, then suckling, until she sobbed.

Until his title fell from her lips on a pleading gasp.

“Tristan.” He licked a tortured nipple, then raised his head. Took her lips again in a searing kiss.