The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

His hearing acute, Tristan quickly realized the tenor of Daphne’s inquiries. She assumed Leonora had no interest in him; although married, it was clear Daphne did.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Leonora cast him an assessing glance, then she leaned closer to Daphne, lowered her voice…

He suddenly saw the danger.

Reaching out, he very deliberately closed his fingers about Leonora’s wrist. Smiling charmingly at Merryweather, he shifted, including Daphne in the gesture as, entirely unsubtly, he drew Leonora to him—away from Daphne—and linked her arm with his. “I do hope you’ll excuse us—I’ve just sighted my erstwhile commander. I really should pay my respects.”

Both Merryweather and Daphne smiled and murmured easy farewells; before Leonora could gather her wits, he inclined his head and drew her away, into the crowd.

Her feet moved; her gaze was locked on his face. Then she looked ahead. “That was rude. You’re not a serving officer—there’s no reason you need make your bow to your ex-commander.”

“Indeed. Especially as he’s not present.”

She shot him a narrowed-eyed look. “Not just a fiend but a lying fiend.”

“Speaking of fiendish, I think we should set some rules for this engagement. For however long we spend fencing within the ton—a length of time entirely in your control, I might add—you will refrain from setting any harpies such as the lovely Daphne on me.”

“But why are you here if not to sample and select among the fruits of the ton?” She gestured about them. “It’s what all tonnish gentleman do.”

“God knows why—I don’t. I, as you very well know, am here for only one purpose—in pursuit of you.”

He paused to lift two glasses of champagne from a footman’s tray. Handing one to Leonora, he guided her to a less congested area before a long window. Positioning himself so he could keep the room in view, he sipped, then continued, “You may play the game between us in any way you like, but if you possess any self-preservatory instincts at all, you will keep the game between us and not involve any others.” He lowered his gaze, met her eyes. “Female, or male.”

She considered him; her brows lightly rose. “Is that a threat?” She calmly sipped, apparently unperturbed.

He studied her eyes, serene and untroubled. Confident.

“No.” Raising his glass, he clinked the edge to hers. “That’s a promise.”

He drank and watched her eyes flare.

But she had her temper firmly in hand. She forced herself to sip, to appear to be surveying the crowd, then lowered her glass. “You can’t simply come along and take me over.”

“I don’t want to take you over. I want you in my bed.”

That earned him a faintly scandalized glance, but no one else was near enough to hear.

Her blush subsiding, she held his gaze. “That is something you can’t have.”

He let the moment stretch, then raised a brow at her. “We’ll see.”

She studied his face, then raised her glass. Her gaze went past him.

“Miss Carling! By Jove! A delight to see you—why it must be years.”

Leonora smiled, and held out her hand. “Lord Montacute. A pleasure—and yes, it has been years. Can I make you known to Lord Trentham?”

“Indeed! Indeed!” His lordship, ever genial, shook hands. “Knew your father—and your great-uncle, too, come to that. Irrascible old blighter.”

“As you say.”

Remembering her aim, Leonora brightly asked, “Is Lady Montacute here tonight?”

His lordship waved vaguely. “Somewhere about.”

She kept the conversation rolling, foiling all Trentham’s attempts to dampen it—dampening Lord Montacute was beyond even Trentham’s abilities. Simultaneously, she scanned the crowd for further opportunities.

It was pleasing to discover she hadn’t lost the knack of summoning a gentleman with just a smile. In short order, she’d collected a select group, all of whom could hold their own conversationally. Lady Holland’s gatherings were renowned for their wit and repartee; with a gentle prod here, a verbal poke there, she started the ball rolling—after that, their discourses took on a life of their own.