She’d always known she was handsome enough; catching men’s eyes had never been difficult. Yet she’d never before been interested enough to pay attention, to play any of the accepted games. Hadn’t seen anything to enthuse her.
So now she was twenty-six, the despair of her aunt Mildred, definitely past her last prayers.
Trentham had come along and teased her senses awake, then left them alert and hungry for more. Anticipation of a sort she’d never before known had gripped her, but she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted—what she wished their interaction to be.
Drawing a breath, she slowly exhaled. She didn’t have to make any decisions yet. She could afford to wait, watch, and learn—to follow her nose and then make up her mind whether she approved of where that took her; she hadn’t discouraged him, nor led him to believe she wasn’t interested.
Because she was. Very interested.
She’d thought that aspect of life had passed her by, that circumstances had left those thrills beyond her reach.
For her, marriage was no longer an option—perhaps fate had sent Trentham as consolation.
When she turned and saw him crossing the drawing room toward her, her words echoed in her mind.
If this was consolation, what was the prize?
His broad shoulders were clothed in evening black, the coat a masterpiece of understated elegance. His grey silk waistcoat shone softly in the candlelight; a diamond pin winked from his cravat. As she was learning to expect, he’d avoided any intricacy; the cravat was tied in a simple style. Dark hair neatly brushed and sheening, framing his strong features, every element of his appearance—clothes, assurance, and manners—all proclaimed him a gentleman of the haut ton, accustomed to rule, accustomed to obedience.
Accustomed to his own way.
She curtsied and gave him her hand. He took it and bowed, lifted a brow at her as he straightened and raised her.
Challenge gleamed in his eyes.
She smiled, content to meet it, knowing she looked well in her apricot silk gown. “Permit me to introduce you, my lord.”
He inclined his head, and anchored her hand on his sleeve, leaving his hand over hers.
Possessively.
Serene, with no hint of awareness showing, she led him to where Humphrey and his friends, Mr. Morecote and Mr. Cunningham, were already deep in discussion. They broke off to acknowledge Trentham, to exchange a few words, then she led him on, introducing him to Jeremy, Mr. Filmore, and Horace Wright.
She’d intended to pause there, to let Horace, the liveliest of their scholarly acquaintances, entertain them while she played the part of demure lady, but Trentham had other ideas. With his usual assumption of command, he eased her out of the conversation and guided her back to their initial position by the hearth.
None of the others, engrossed in their arguments, noticed.
Prompted by caution, she drew her hand from his sleeve and turned to face him. He caught her eye. His lips curved in a smile that showed white teeth, along with appreciation. Of her intention, but also of her—of her shoulders rising from the wide neckline of her gown, of her hair dressed in curls that tumbled about her ears and nape.
Watching his eyes drift over her, she felt her lungs tighten, fought to suppress a shiver—not of cold. Heat rose in her cheeks; she hoped he’d imagine it was due to the fire.
Lazily his gaze ambled upward and returned to hers.
The expression in his hard hazel eyes jolted her, made her breath seize. Then his lids swept down, thick lashes screening that disturbing gaze.
“Have you kept house for Sir Humphrey for long?”
His tone was the usual social drawl, languid and apparently bored. Managing to drag in a breath, she inclined her head and answered.
She used the opening to deflect their conversation into a description of the area in Kent in which they’d previously lived; paeans on the joys of the countryside seemed much safer than courting the fell intent in his eyes.
He responded with mention of his estate in Surrey, yet his eyes told her he was playing with her.
Like a very large cat with a particularly succulent mouse.
She kept her chin high, refused to acknowledge her awareness by the slightest sign. She breathed a sigh of relief when Castor appeared and announced the meal—only to realize that as the only lady present, Trentham would naturally lead her in.
Meeting his gaze directly, she placed her hand on his proffered sleeve and allowed him to steer her through the doors into the dining room.