The meal was excellent; the conversation never flagged, yet neither was it strained. Despite its unusual composition, the household seemed relaxed and content.
At the end of the meal, Tristan caught Leonora’s eye, then pushed back his chair and glanced around the table. “If you’ll excuse us, there are a few last matters I need to attend to, and then we must return to town.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Of course—so nice to meet you, Miss Carling.”
“Do get Trentham to bring you down again, my dear.”
He rose, taking Leonora’s hand, helping her to her feet. Conscious of impatience, he waited while she exchanged farewells with his tribe of old dears, then led her out of the room and into his private wing.
By mutual agreement, the resident ladies did not intrude into his private domain; conducting Leonora through the archway and into the long corridor in some irrational way soothed him.
He’d left her with the group knowing they’d keep her amused, reasoning he’d be able to concentrate on his business affairs and deal with them more expeditiously if spared her physical presence. He hadn’t reckoned with his irrational compulsion—the one that needed to know not just where she was, but how she was faring.
Throwing open a door, he ushered her into his study. “If you’ll take a seat for a few minutes, I have a few matters to deal with, then we can be on our way.”
She inclined her head and walked to the armchair angled before the hearth. He watched her settle comfortably, eyes on the blaze. His gaze rested on her for a moment, then he turned and crossed to his desk.
With her in the room—safe, content, and quiet—he found it easier to concentrate; he quickly approved various expenditures, then settled to check a number of reports. Even when she rose and walked to the window to stand looking out on the vista of lawns and trees, he barely glanced up, just enough to register what she was doing, then returned to his work.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d cleared his desk sufficiently to be able to remain in London for the next several weeks, and single-mindedly devote his attention to her phantom burglar. And, subsequently, if matters continued to head in that direction, to her.
Pushing back his chair, he looked up—and found her leaning against the window frame, watching him.
Her periwinkle blue gaze was steady. “You don’t appear the least like one of society’s lions.”
He held her gaze, equally direct. “I’m not.”
“I thought all earls—especially unmarried ones—were by definition.”
He lifted a brow as he rose. “This earl never expected the title.” He crossed toward her. “I never imagined having it.”
She raised a brow back, eyes quizzing as he reached her. “And the unmarried?”
He looked down at her, after a moment said, “As you’ve just noted, that adjective only gains status when attached to the title.”
She studied his face, then looked away.
He followed her gaze out of the window to the peaceful scene beyond. He glanced down at her. “We have time for a stroll before starting back.”
She glanced at him, then looked back at the gently rolling landscape. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed country pleasures. I would like a stroll.”
He led her into an adjoining parlor and out through French doors onto a secluded terrace. Steps led down to the lawn, still green despite winter’s harshness. They started to amble; his gaze on her, he asked, “Would you like your pelisse?”
She looked at him, smiled, shook her head. “It’s not that cold in the sunshine, weak though it is.”
The bulk of the house protected them from the breeze. He glanced back at it, then faced forward. And found her watching him.
“It must have been a shock to discover you’d inherited all that”—her wave indicated more than the roof and walls—“given you hadn’t expected it.”
“It was.”
“You seem to have managed quite well. The ladies seem thoroughly content.”
A smile touched his lips. “Oh, they are.” His bringing her here h
ad ensured that.