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.