The Lady Chosen (25 page)

His success was startling; she had no idea how he managed it. Even when she avoided the obvious choice of entertainment, guessing which event he would expect her to attend and attending some other, he never failed to materialize at her side the instant she walked into the room.

As for his knowledge of their hostesses’ houses, that was beginning to border on the bizarre. She had spent far more time than he in the ton, and that more recently, yet with unerring accuracy he would lead her to a small parlor, or a secluded library or study, or a garden room.

By the end of the week she was starting to feel seriously hunted.

Starting to realize she might have underestimated the feeling between them.

Or, even more frightening, had totally misjudged its nature.

There was very little Tristan didn’t know about establishing a network of informers.

Lady Warsingham’s coachman saw no difficulty in providing the local streetsweeper with news of whither he’d been instructed he would be heading each evening; one of Tristan’s footmen would go strolling at noon to meet with the streetsweeper and return with the news.

His own household staff were proving exemplary sources, intrigued and eager to supply him with details of the houses Leonora chose to grace with her presence. And Gasthorpe had exercised his own initiative and handed Tristan a vital contact.

Toby, the Carlings’s bootboy, inhabited the kitchen of Number 14 and therefore was privy to his masters’ and mistress’s intended directions. The lad was always eager to hear the ex–sergeant major’s tales; in return, he innocently provided Tristan with intelligence on Leonora’s daytime activities.

That evening, she’d elected to attend the Marchioness of Huntly’s gala. Tristan sauntered in a few minutes before he estimated the Warsingham party would arrive.

Lady Huntly greeted him with a twinkle in her eye. “I understand,” she said, “that you have a particular interest in Miss Carling?”

He met her gaze, wondering…“Most particular.”

“In that case, I should warn you that a number of my nephews are expected to attend tonight.” Lady Huntly patted his arm. “Just a word to the wise.”

He inclined his head and moved into the crowd, wracking his brains for the relevant connection. Her nephews? He was about to go and look for Ethelreda or Millicent, both of whom were somewhere in the room, to request clarification, when he recalled Lady Huntly had been born a Cynster.

Muttering a curse, he executed an immediate about-face and took up a position close by the main doors.

Leonora entered a few minutes later; he claimed her hand the instant she was free of the receiving line.

She raised her brows at him; he could see a comment regarding overt possessiveness forming in her mind. Placing his hand over hers, he squeezed her fingers. “Let’s get your aunts settled, then we can dance.”

She met his eyes. “Just a dance.”

A warning, one he had no intention of heeding. Together, they escorted her aunts to a group of chaises where many of the older ladies had gathered.

“Good evening, Mildred.” A bedezined old dame nodded regally.

Lady Warsingham nodded back. “Lady Osbaldestone. I believe you’ll remember my niece, Miss Carling?”

The old dame, still handsome in her way but with terrifyingly sharp black eyes, surveyed Leonora, who curtsied. The old harridan snorted. “Indeed I remember you, miss—but you’ve no business being a miss still.” Her gaze moved on to Tristan. “Who’s this?”

Lady Warsingham performed the introductions; Tristan bowed.

Lady Osbaldestone humphed. “Well, one can hope you’ll succeed in changing Miss Carling’s mind. The dancing’s through there.”

With her cane, she waved toward an archway beyond which couples were whirling. Tristan seized the implied dismissal. “If you’ll excuse us?”

Without waiting for further permission, he whisked Leonora away.

Pausing beneath the archway, he asked, “Lady Osbaldestone—who’s she?”

“A
bona fide
terror of the ton. Pay her no heed.” Leonora surveyed the dancers. “And I warn you, tonight we are
only
going to dance.”

He made no reply; taking her hand, he led her onto the floor and whirled her into a waltz. A waltz he used to maximum effect, unfortunately, given the limitations of a half-empty dance floor, not as great an effect as he would have liked.

The next dance was a cotillion, an exercise he had little use for; it provided too few opportunities to tweak his partner’s senses. It was too early yet to inveigle her away to the tiny salon overlooking the gardens; when she admitted to being parched, he left her by the side of the room and went to fetch two glasses of champagne.

The refreshment room gave off the ballroom; he was only absent for a moment, yet when he returned he discovered Leonora in conversation with a tall, dark-haired man he recognized as Devil Cynster.

His internal curses were vitriolic, but when he approached, neither Leonora nor Cynster, who was not thrilled at the interruption, would have detected anything beyond urbanity in his expression.

“Good evening.” Handing Leonora her glass, he nodded to Cynster, who returned the nod, his pale gaze sharpening.

One aspect that was instantly apparent was that they
were very much alike, not just in height, in the width of their shoulders, in their elegance, but also in their characters, their natures—their temperaments.

An instant passed while both assimilated that fact, then Cynster held out his hand. “St. Ives. My aunt mentioned you were at Waterloo.”

Tristan nodded, shook hands. “Trentham, although I wasn’t that then.”

He mentally scrambled for the best way to answer the inevitable questions; he’d heard enough of the Cynsters’ involvement in the recent campaigns to guess that St. Ives would know enough to detect his usual sliding around the truth.

St. Ives was watching him closely, assessingly. “What regiment were you in?”

“The Guards.” Tristan met the pale green gaze, deliberately omitting any further definition. St. Ives’s gaze narrowed; he held it, murmured, “You were in the heavy cavalry, as I recall. Together with some of your cousins, you relieved Cullen’s troop on the right flank.”

St. Ives stilled, blinked, then a wry, quite genuine smile curved his lips. His gaze returned to Tristan’s; he inclined his head. “As you say.”

Only someone with a very high level of military clearance would know of that little excursion; Tristan could almost see the connections being made behind St. Ives’s clear green eyes.

He noted St. Ives’s quick, reassessing glance before, with an almost indiscernible movement they both saw and understood, he drew back.

Leonora had been looking from one to the other, sensing a communication she could not follow, irritated by it. She opened her lips—

St. Ives turned to her and smiled with devastating, purely predatory force. “I was intending to sweep you off your feet, but I believe I’ll leave you to Trentham’s tender
mercies. Not the done thing to cross a fellow officer, and there seems little doubt he deserves a clear shot.”

Leonora’s chin came up; her eyes narrowed. “I am not some enemy to be captured and conquered.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Tristan’s dry comment brought her gaze swinging his way.

St. Ives’s smile grew, unrepentant; he sketched a bow and withdrew, saluting Tristan from behind Leonora’s back.

Tristan saw that last with relief; with luck, St. Ives would warn off his cousins, and any others of their ilk.

Leonora cast a frowning glance at St. Ives’s retreating back. “What did he mean by you ‘deserving a clear shot’?”

“Presumably because I sighted you first.”

She swung back, her frown deepening. “I am not some form of”—she gestured, glass and all—
“prey.”

“As I said, that’s a matter of opinion.”

“Nonsense.” She paused, eyes on his, then continued, “I sincerely hope you’re not thinking in such terms, for I warn you I have no intention of being captured, conquered, let alone tied up.”

Her diction had grown more definite with every word; her last phrase had nearby gentlemen turning to view her.

“This”—Tristan caught her hand and wound her arm in his—“is not the place to discuss my intentions.”

“Your
intentions?
” She lowered her voice. “As far as I’m concerned, you have none
vis à vis
me. None that have any likelihood of coming to fruition.”

“I’m desolate to have to contradict you, of course. However…” He kept talking, fencing with her as he steered her to a side door. But as he reached to open it, she realized. And dug in her heels.

“No.” She narrowed her eyes at him even more. “Just dancing tonight. There’s no reason we need be private.”

He raised a brow at her. “Retreating in disarray?”

Her lips thinned; her eyes were mere slits. “Nothing of the sort, but you won’t catch me with such an obvious lure.”

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. In point of fact, it was too early—the rooms insufficiently crowded—for them to risk slipping away. “Very well.” He turned her back into the room. “That sounds like a waltz starting up.”

Lifting her glass from her fingers, he handed both glasses to a passing footman, then swept her onto the dance floor.

Leonora relaxed into the dance, let her senses free; at least here, in the presence of others, it was safe to do so. In private, she trusted neither him nor herself. Experience had taught her that once in his arms, she couldn’t rely on her intellect to guide her. Rational logical arguments never seemed to win when pitted against that warm rush of needy yearning.

Desire. She knew enough now to name it, the passion that drove them, that fired their attraction. She’d acknowledged it as such to herself, but knew better than to allow her understanding to show.

However, as she whirled through the dance in Trentham’s arms, relaxed but with her senses exhilaratingly alive, it was a different aspect of their interaction that concerned her.

An aspect Devil Cynster’s words and their ensuing discussion had brought into sharper focus.

She held her tongue until the dance ended, but then they were joined by two other couples, and conversation became general. When the musicians struck up the opening bars to a cotillion, she met Trentham’s gaze in fleeting warning, then accepted Lord Hardcastle’s hand.

Trentham—Tristan—let her go with no reaction beyond a hardening of his gaze. Heartened, she returned to his side once the dance ended, but when the next measure proved to be a country dance, she again accepted an offer from
another—young Lord Belvoir, a gentleman who might one day be of Tristan’s and St. Ives’s ilk, but was now merely an entertaining companion much of her own age.

Again, Tristan—she’d started to think of him by his given name—he’d teased it from her often enough under circumstances sufficiently unique and memorable that she was unlikely to forget it—bore her defection with outwardly stoic calm. Only she was near enough to see the hardness, the possessiveness, and, more than anything else, the watchfulness in his eyes.

It was that last that underscored her thoughts of how he viewed her, and finally had her throwing caution to the wind in an attempt to reason with her wolf. Her wild wolf; she didn’t forget, but sometimes it was necessary to take risks.

She bided her time until the small group they were a part of dispersed. Before others could join them, she placed her hand on Tristan’s arm and nudged him toward the door he’d previously headed for.

He glanced at her, raised his brows. “Have you had second thoughts?”

“No. I’ve had other thoughts.” She met his eyes fleetingly, and continued toward the door. “I want to talk—just
talk
—to you, and I suppose it had better be in private.”

Reaching the door, she paused and met his gaze. “I presume you do know of somewhere in this mansion we can be assured of being alone?”

His lips curved in a wholly male grin; opening the door, he handed her through. “Far be it from me to disappoint you.”

He didn’t; the room he led her to was small, furnished as a sitting room in which a lady of the house could sit in comfortable privacy and look out over the manicured gardens. Reached through a maze of intersecting corridors, it was some distance from the reception rooms, a perfect venue for private conversation, verbal or otherwise.

Inwardly shaking her head—how did he do it?—she went straight to the windows, to stand and look out on the fog-shrouded garden. There was no moon, no distraction outside. She heard the door click shut, then felt Tristan approaching. Dragging in a breath, she swung to face him, put a palm to his chest to hold him back. “I want to discuss how you see me.”

He didn’t outwardly blink, but she’d obviously taken a tack he hadn’t expected. “What—”

She stopped him with an upraised hand. “It’s becoming increasingly clear that you view me as some sort of challenge. And men like you are constitutionally incapable of letting a challenge lie.” She eyed him severely. “Am I right in thinking you view getting my agreement to marry you in such a light?”

Tristan returned her regard. Increasingly wary. It was difficult to think how else he would view it. “Yes.”

“Ah-ha! That, you see, is our problem.”

“Which problem is that?”

“The problem of you not being able to take my ‘no’ for an answer.”

Propping his shoulder against the window frame, he looked down at her face, at her eyes glowing with zeal at her supposed discovery. “I don’t follow.”

She made a dismissive sound. “Of course you do, you just don’t want to think about it because it doesn’t fit your stated
intentions.
”

“Bear with my muddled male mind and explain.”

She threw him a long-suffering look. “You can hardly deny that any number of ladies have been—and more will be once the Season proper starts—throwing themselves at your head.”

“No.” It was one of the reasons he clung to her side, one of the reasons he wanted to gain her agreement to their wedding as soon as possible. “What have they to do with us?”

“Not us so much as
you.
You, like most men, have little appreciation for what you can have without a fight. You equate fighting for something with its value—the harder and more difficult the struggle, the more valuable the object attained. As with wars, so with women. The more a lady resists, the more desirable she becomes.”

She fixed him with her clear, periwinkle blue gaze. “Am I right?”

He thought before nodding. “It’s a reasonable hypothesis.”

“Indeed, but you see where that leaves us?”

“No.”

She gave an exasperated hiss. “You want to marry me because I won’t marry you—not for any other reason. That”—she waved both hands—“primitive instinct of yours is what’s driving you—and it’s getting in the way of our attraction fading. It would be fading but—”

He reached out, caught one of her waving hands, and yanked her to him. She landed against his chest, gasped as his arms closed around her. He felt her body react as it always had, always did, to his. “Our mutual attraction hasn’t faded.”