The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

He hid a cynical smile. Raised his brows in innocent consideration. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“If you’re free…?”

They’d reached the porch steps. Taking her hand, he bowed. “I would be delighted.” He met her gaze. “At eight?”

She inclined her head. “Eight.” As she turned away, her eyes touched his. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

Tristan watched her climb the steps, waited until, without looking back, she disappeared through the door, then he turned and let his lips curve.

She was as transparent as glass. She wanted to question him over his suspicions regarding the foreign gentleman….

His smile faded; his face resumed its customary impassive mien.

German, Austrian, or Prussian. He knew enough for those options to set warning bells clanging, but he didn’t have enough information yet to do anything decisive—other than delve deeper.

Who knew? Mountford’s acquaintance with the foreigner might be pure coincidence.

As he reached the front gate and swung it wide, a familiar sensation spread across the back of his shoulders.

He knew better than to believe in coincidence.

Leonora spent the remainder of the day in restless anticipation. Once she’d given her orders for dinner and airily informed Humphrey and Jeremy of their extra guest, she took refuge in the conservatory.

To calm her mind and decide on her best tack.

To revisit all she’d learned that morning.

Such as that Trentham was not averse to kissing her. And she was not averse to responding. That was certainly a change, for she’d never before found anything particularly compelling in the act. Yet with Trentham…

Sinking back against the cushions of the wrought-iron chair, she had to admit she would have happily followed wherever he led, at least within reason. Kissing him had proved quite pleasurable.

Just as well he’d stopped.

Eyes narrowing on a white orchid bobbing gently in the draft, she replayed all that had happened, all she’d felt. All she’d sensed.

He’d stopped not because he’d wished to, but because he’d planned to. His appetite had wanted more, but his will had decreed he should end the kiss. She’d seen that brief clash in his eyes, caught the hard hazel gleam as his will had triumphed.

But why? She shifted again, very conscious of the way the brief interlude had remained, a nagging abrasion in her mind. Perhaps the answer lay there—the curtailing of the kiss had left her…dissatisfied. On some level she hadn’t previously been aware of, unfulfilled.

Wanting more.

She frowned, absentmindedly tapped a finger on the table. With his kisses, Trentham had opened her eyes and engaged her senses. Teased them with a promise of what might be—and then left it at that.

Deliberately.

After telling her they should follow their noses.

She was a lady; he was a gentleman. Theoretically, it wouldn’t be proper for him to press her further, not unless she invited his attentions.

Her lips curved cynically; she suppressed a soft snort. She might be inexperienced; she wasn’t foolish. He hadn’t curtailed their kiss because of any obedience to social mores. He’d stopped deliberately to entice, to build her awareness, to provoke her curiosity.

To make her want.

So that when next he wanted, and wanted more, wanted to take the next step along the path, she would be eager to accede.

Seduction. The word slipped into her mind, trailing the promise of illicit excitement and fascination.

Was Trentham seducing her?