They were sitting feet apart, yet what had grown between them, what now existed between them sprang to life at his words—a palpable force, filling the space, all but shimmering in the air.

It touched her, held her, a web of emotion so immensely strong she knew she could never break free. And, very likely, nor could he.

His gaze had remained hard, openly possessive, unwavering. “I have to marry—I would at some point have been forced to seek a wife. But then I found you, and all searching became irrelevant. You are the wife I want. You are the wife I will have.”

She didn’t—couldn’t—doubt what he was telling her; the proof was there, between them.

The tension grew, became unbearable. They both had to move; he did first, coming out of the chair in a fluid, graceful motion. He held out his hand; after a moment, she took it. He drew her to her feet.

Looked down at her, his face graven, hard. “Do you understand now?”

Tipping up her face, she studied his—his eyes, the harsh, austere planes that communicated so little. Drew breath, felt forced to ask, “Why? I still don’t understand why you want to marry me. Why you want me, and me alone.”

He held her gaze for a long moment; she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he did.

“Guess.”

It was her turn to think long and hard, then she licked her lips and murmured, “I can’t.” After an instant, she added, with brutal honesty, “I don’t dare.”






Chapter Fourteen

He’d insisted on escorting her home. Only their hands had touched; she’d been intensely grateful. He’d been watching her; she’d sensed his need, so flagrantly possessive, had appreciated the fact he’d reined it in—that he seemed to understand that she needed time to think, to absorb all he’d said, all she’d learned.

Not just of him, but of herself.

Love. If that was what he’d meant, it changed everything. He hadn’t said the word, yet standing close to him, she could feel it, whatever it was—not desire, not lust, but something much stronger. Something much finer.

If it was love that had grown between them, then walking away from him, from his proposal, was, perhaps, no longer an option. Walking away would be the coward’s way out.

The decision was hers. Not just her happiness but his, too, hinged on it.

With the house silent and still about her, the clock on the landing ticking through the small hours, she lay in her bed and forced herself to face the reason that had kept her from marriage.

It wasn’t an aversion—nothing so definite and absolute. An aversion she could have identified and assessed, convinced herself to set aside, or overcome.

Her problem lay deeper, it was much more intangible, yet all through the years time and again it had had her shying away from marriage.

And not just marriage.

Lying in her bed, staring up at the moon-washed ceiling, she listened to the telltale clicking on the polished boards outside her bedroom door as Henrietta stretched, then padded off downstairs to wander. The sound faded. No more distraction remained.

She drew breath, and forced herself to do what she had to. To take a long look at her life, to examine all the close friendships and relationships she’d not allowed to develop.

The only reason she’d ever considered marrying Mark Whorton was because she’d recognized from the first that she would never be close, emotionally close, to him. She would never have become to him what Heather, his wife, had—a woman dependent and happily so. He’d needed that, a dependent wife. Leonora had never been a candidate for supplying that need; she had simply not been capable of it.

Thanks be to all the gods he’d had the sense to, if not see the truth, then at least act on what he’d perceived to be a dissonance between them.

The same dissonance did not exist between her and Tristan. Something else did. Possibly love.

She had to face it—to face the fact that this time, with Tristan, she fitted the bill of his wife. Precisely, exactly, in every respect. He’d recognized it instinctively; he was the type of man accustomed to acting on his instincts—and he had.

He wouldn’t—didn’t—expect her to be dependent, to indeed change in any way. He wanted her for what she was—the woman she was and could be—not to fulfill some ideal, some erroneous vision, but because he knew she was right for him. He was in absolutely no danger of setting her on any pedestal; conversely, through all their interactions, she’d realized he was not just capable of but disposed to worshiping her absolutely.

Her—the real her—not some figment of his imagination.

The thought—the reality—was so deeply, gut-wrenchingly attractive…she wanted it, could not let it go. But to grasp it, she would have to accept the emotional closeness that, with Tristan, would be—already was—a foregone conclusion, a vital part of what bound them.

She had to face what had kept her from allowing such a closeness with anyone else.

It wasn’t easy going back through the years, forcing herself to strip away all the veils, all the facades she’d erected to hide and excuse the hurts. She hadn’t always been as she now was—strong, capable, not needing others. Back then, she hadn’t been self-sufficient, self-reliant, hadn’t emotionally been able to cope, not with everything, not by herself. She’d been just like any other young girl, needing a shoulder to cry on, needing warm arms to hold her, to reassure her.

Her mother had been her touchstone, always there, always understanding. But then, one summer day, her mother and father both had died.

She still remembered the coldness, the icy loss that had settled about her, locking her in its prison. She hadn’t been able to cry, had had no idea how to mourn, how to grieve. And there’d been no one to help her, no one who understood.

Her uncles and aunts—all the rest of the family—were older than her parents had been, and none had any children of their own. They’d patted her, praised her for being so brave; not one had glimpsed, had had any inkling of the anguish she’d hidden inside.

She’d kept hiding it; that was what had seemed expected of her. But every now and then, the burden had become too great, and she’d tried—tried—to find someone to understand, to help her find her way past it.

Humphrey had never understood; the staff at the house in Kent had no idea what was wrong with her.

No one had helped.

She’d learned to hide her need away. Step by step, incident by incident through the years of her girlhood, she’d learned not to ask help of anyone, not to open herself emotionally to anyone, not to trust any other person enough to ask for help—not to rely on them; if she didn’t, they couldn’t refuse her.

Couldn’t turn her away.

The connections slowly clarified in her mind.

Tristan, she knew, wouldn’t turn her away. Wouldn’t refuse her.

With him, she’d be safe.

All she had to do was find the courage to accept the emotional risk she’d spent the last fifteen years teaching herself never to take.

He called at noon the next day. She was arranging flowers in the garden hall; he found her there.

She nodded in greeting, conscious of his sharp gaze, of how closely he studied her before leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, only two feet away.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him, then looked back at her flowers. “You?”

After a moment, he said, “I’ve just come from next door. You’ll see more of us coming and going in future.”

She frowned. “How many of you are there?”

“Seven.”

“And you’re all ex-…Guards?”

He hesitated, then replied. “Yes.”

The idea intrigued. Before she could think of her next question, he stirred, shifted closer.

She was instantly aware of his nearness, of the flaring response that rushed through her. She turned her head and looked at him.

Met his gaze—fell into it.

Couldn’t look away. Could only stand there, her heart thudding, her pulse throbbing in her lips as he leaned slowly closer, then brushed an achingly incomplete kiss over her mouth.

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

He breathed the words over her hungry lips.

“No. I’m still thinking.”

He drew back enough to catch her eyes. “How much thinking does it take?”

The question broke the spell; she narrowed her eyes at him, then turned back to her flowers. “More than you know.”

He resettled against the doorframe, his gaze on her face. After a moment, he said, “So tell me.”

She pressed her lips tight, went to shake her head—then remembered all she’d thought of in the long watches of the night. She drew a deep breath, slowly let it out. Kept her eyes on the flowers. “It’s not a simple thing.”

He said nothing, just waited.

She had to draw another breath. “It’s been a long time since I…trusted anyone, anyone at all to…do things for me. To help me.” That had been one outcome, possibly the most outwardly obvious, of her shrinking from others.

“You came to me—asked for my help—when you saw the burglar at the bottom of your garden.”

Lips tight, she shook her head. “No. I came to you because you were my only way forward.”

“You saw me as a source of information?”

She nodded. “You did help, but I never asked you—you never offered, you simply gave. That”—she paused as it came clear in her mind, then went on—“that’s what’s been happening between us all along. I never asked for help—you simply gave it, and you’re strong enough that refusing was never a real option, and there seemed no reason to fight you given we were seeking the same end…”

Her voice quavered and she stopped.

He moved closer, took her hand.

His touch threatened to shatter her control, but then his thumb stroked; an indefinable warmth flooded her, soothed, reassured.

She lifted her head, dragged in a shaky breath.

He stepped closer yet, slid his arms around her, drew her back against him.

“Stop fighting it.” The words were dark, a sorceror’s command in her mind. “Stop fighting me.”

She sighed, long, deep; her body relaxed against the warm solid rock of his. “I’m trying. I will.” She pressed her head back, looked up over her shoulder. Met his hazel eyes. “But it won’t happen today.”

He gave her time. Reluctantly.

She spent her days trying to decipher Cedric’s journals, searching for any mention of secret formulae, or of work done in association with Carruthers. She’d discovered that the entries weren’t in any chronological order; on any given topic they were almost random—first in one book, then in another—linked, it seemed, by some unwritten code.

Her nights she spent in the ton, at balls and parties, always with Tristan by her side. His attention, fixed and unwavering, was noted by all; the few brave ladies who had attempted to distract him were given short shrift. Extremely short indeed. Thereafter, the ton settled to speculate on their wedding date.

That evening, as they strolled about Lady Court’s ballroom, she explained about Cedric’s journals.

Tristan frowned. “What Mountford’s after must be something to do with Cedric’s work. There seems nothing else in Number 14 that might account for this much interest.”

“How much interest?” She glanced at him. “What have you learned?”

“Mountford—I still don’t have a better name—is still about London. He’s been sighted, but keeps moving; I haven’t been able to catch up with him yet.”

She didn’t envy Mountford when he did. “Have you heard anything from Yorkshire.”

“Yes and no. From the solicitor’s files, we traced Carruthers’s principal heir—one Jonathon Martinbury. He’s a solicitor’s clerk in York. He recently completed his articles, and was known to have been planning to travel to London, presumably to celebrate.” He glanced at her, met her gaze. “It seems he received your letter, sent on from the solicitor in Harrogate, and brought his plans forward. He left on the mail coach two days later, but I’ve yet to locate him in town.”

She frowned. “How odd. I would have thought, if he’d altered his plans in response to my letter, he would have called.”

“Indeed, but one should never try to predict the priorities of young men. We don’t know why he’d decided to visit London in the first place.”

She grimaced. “True.”

No more was said that night. Ever since their talk in his study, and their subsequent exchange in the garden hall, Tristan had refrained from arranging to indulge their senses beyond what could be achieved in the ballrooms. Even there, they were both intensely aware of each other, not just on the physical plane; each touch, each sliding caress, each shared glance, only added to the hunger.