He looked ahead to the lake. She followed his gaze. They walked to the shore, then idled along the bank. Leonora spotted a family of ducks. She stopped, shading her eyes with her hand to better see them.
Pausing a few steps away, he studied her, let his gaze dwell on the picture she made standing by his lake in the dappled sunshine, and felt a content he hadn’t before experienced warm him. It seemed senseless to pretend that the impulse to bring her here hadn’t been driven by a primitive instinct to have her safe behind walls that were his.
Seeing her here, being with her here, was like discovering another piece of a still scattered jigsaw.
She fitted.
How well left him uneasy.
He was normally impatient of inaction, yet was content to walk by her side, doing essentially nothing. As if being with her made it permissible for him to simply be, as if she was sufficient reason for his existence, at least in that moment. No other woman had had that effect on him. The realization only escalated his need to nullify the threat to her.
As if sensing his suddenly hardening mood, she glanced at him, wide eyes searching his face. He slipped on his mask and smiled easily.
She frowned.
Before she could ask, he took her arm. “Let’s go this way.”
The rose garden even in hibernation distracted her. He led her on into the extensive formal shrubbery, slowly circling back toward the house. A small marble temple, austerely classical, stood at the center of the shrubbery.
Leonora had forgotten just how pleasant walking in a large, well-designed and well-tended garden could be. In London, Cedric’s fantastical creation lacked the soothing vistas, the magnificent sweeps that could only be achieved in the country, and the parks were too limited in view and too crowded. Certainly not soothing. Here, walking with Trentham, peace slid like a drug through her veins, as if a well that had been almost dry was refilling.
Placed at the junction of the shrubbery paths, the temple was simply perfect. Lifting her skirts, she climbed the steps. Inside, the floor was a delicate mosaic in black, grey, and white. The Ionic columns that supported the domed roof were white veined with grey.
Turning, she looked back at the house, framed by the high hedges. The perspective was superb. “It’s magnificent.” She smiled at Trentham as he halted beside her. “No matter any difficulties, you can’t be sorry that this is yours.”
She extended her arms, her hands, including the gardens, the lake, and the surrounding countryside in the statement.
He met her gaze. Held it for a long moment, then quietly said, “No. I’m not sorry.”
She caught his tone, the existence of some deeper meaning in his words. She let her frown show.
His lips, until then straight, as serious as his expression, curved, she thought a touch wryly. Reaching out, he shackled her wrist, then slid his hand down to close about hers.
He lifted it, raised her wrist to his lips. Eyes holding hers, he kissed, let his lips linger as her pulse leapt, then throbbed.
As if that had been a signal he’d been waiting for, he reached for her, drew her closer. She permitted it, went into his arms, more than curious, openly eager.
He bent his head and her lashes fluttered down; she lifted her lips and he took them. Smoothly slid between, took possession of her mouth, and her senses.
She yielded them readily, totally unafraid; she was more than confident in her reading of him—he would never harm her. But where he was heading with his intoxicating kisses—what came next, and when—she still didn’t know; she had no experience on which to draw.
She’d never been seduced before.
That that was his ultimate aim she accepted; she could see no other reason for his actions. He’d asked her age, stated she was old enough. At twenty-five, she’d been deemed on the shelf; now twenty-six, she was—clearly to his mind as well as hers—her own woman. A spinster whose life was no one’s business but her own; her actions would impinge on no one else, her decisions were her own to make.
Not that she was necessarily going to accede to his wishes. She would make up her mind if and when the time came.
It wouldn’t come today, not in an open temple visible from his house. Free of any prospect of having to think, she sank into his arms and kissed him back.
Dueled with him, let herself flow into the exchange, felt heat rise between them, along with that fascinating tension—a tenseness that sent excitement rippling along her nerves, sent anticipation coursing beneath her skin.
Her body tightened; heat welled and pooled.
Emboldened, she pushed her hands up, over his shoulders, slid them to his nape. Splaying her fingers, she speared them slowly through his dark locks. Thick and heavy, they slid through and over her fingers, even as his tongue slid deeper.
He angled his head and drew her nearer, until her breasts were crushed to his chest, her thighs brushing his, her skirts tangling around his boots. His arms locked around her, lifting her against him; his strength captured her. The kiss deepened into a melding of mouths, a far more intimate exchange. She half expected to be shocked—felt she should be—yet instead all she knew was that burgeoning heat, a certain assuredness both in him and her, and a dizzying hunger.
That escalating hunger was theirs—not hers, not his, but something growing between them.