“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.
She could feel it crawling her nerves; she didn’t need to meet his often darkened eyes to know it rode him even harder.
But she had wanted time, and he gave her that.
One thing asked for—one thing received.
As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom that night, she acknowledged that, accepted it.
Once she was sunk in her bed, cozy and warm, returned to it.
She couldn’t hesitate for forever. Not even for another day. It wasn’t fair—not to him, not to her. She was toying with, tormenting, both of them. For no reason, not one that had relevance or power anymore.