The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

He headed that way, his attention on her, avoiding all the glances cast his way. Bending close, he spoke softly. “You’ve developed a headache—a migraine. Tell your aunts you feel quite ill and must leave immediately. I’ll offer to drive you home in my carriage—” He broke off, halted, beckoned a footman; when the footman arrived, he issued a terse order—the footman hurried off.

They resumed their progress. “I’ve already sent for my carriage.” He glanced at her. “If you could soften your spine, wilt a little, we might have some chance of pulling this off. We have to ensure your aunts stay here.”

That last wasn’t easy, but whatever the particular bee Leonora had got stuck in her bonnet, she was bound and determined to have her moment with him; it wasn’t so much her acting abilities that won the day as the impression she radiated that if people did not fall in with her stated wishes, she was liable to become violent.

Mildred cast him an anxious glance. “If you’re sure…?”

He nodded. “My carriage is waiting—you have my word I’ll take her straight home.”

Leonora glanced at him, eyes narrow; he kept his expression impassive.

With the air of females bowing to a stronger—and somewhat incomprehensible—will, Mildred and Gertie remained where they were and allowed him to escort Leonora from the room, and thence from the house.

As instructed, his carriage was waiting; he handed Leonora in, then followed. The footman shut the door; a whip cracked, and the carriage lurched forward.

In the dark, he caught her hand, squeezed it. “Not yet.” He spoke softly. “My coachman doesn’t need to hear, and Green Street is only around the corner.”

Leonora glanced at him. “Green Street?”

“I promised to take you home. My home. Where else are we to find a private room with adequate lighting for a discussion?”

She had no argument with that; indeed, she was glad he recognized the need for lighting—she wanted to be able to see his face. Inwardly seething, she grudgingly waited in silence.

His hand remained closed about hers. As they rattled through the night, his thumb stroked, almost absentmindedly. She glanced at him; he was gazing out of the window—she couldn’t tell if he even realized what he was doing, much less if he intended it to soothe her temper.

The touch was soothing, but it didn’t dampen her ire.

If anything, it stoked it.

How dare he be so insufferably complacent, so confident and assured, when she’d just discovered his ulterior motive, which he must have guessed she’d learn?

The carriage turned, not into Green Street, but into a narrow lane, the mews serving a row of large houses. It rocked to a halt. Tristan stirred, opened the door, and descended.

She heard him speak to his coachman, then he turned to her, beckoned. She gave him her hand and alighted; he whisked her through a garden gate before she had a chance to get her bearings.

“Where are we?”

Tristan had followed her through the gate; he shut it behind them. On the other side of the high stone wall, she heard the carriage rumble off.

“My gardens.” He nodded to the house on the other side of an expanse of lawn visible through a screen of bushes. “Arriving via the front door would necessitate explanations.”

“What about your coachman?”

“What about him?”

She humphed. His hand touched her back and she started along the path through the bushes. As they stepped free of the concealing shadows, he took her hand and came up beside her. The narrow path followed the garden beds bordering that wing of the house; he led her past the conservatory, past what looked like a study, and on to the long room she recognized as the morning room where his old ladies had entertained her weeks earlier.

He halted before a pair of French doors. “You didn’t see this.” He placed his hand, palm flat, on the frame of the doors where they met, just where the lock linked them. He gave one sharp push, and the lock clicked; the doors swung inward.

“Good gracious!”

“Sssh!” He swept her in, then closed the doors. The morning room lay in darkness. At such a late hour, this wing of the house was deserted. Taking her hand, he drew her across the room to the steps leading up to the corridor. Pausing in the shadows on the steps, he looked to the left, to where the front hall was bathed in golden light.

Peeking past him, she could see no evidence of footmen or butler.

He turned and urged her to the right, along a short, unlighted corridor. Reaching past her, he opened the door at the end and pushed it wide.

She entered; he followed and quietly shut the door.