He was well aware she didn’t recognize it for what it was. Didn’t see it as a danger despite her susceptibility. Such innocence would normally have dampened his ardor; with her, for some ungodly reason, it only whetted his appetite further.

His attraction to her was a complication he definitely did not need. He had to find a wife, and that quickly; he required a sweet-tempered, biddable, gentle female who would cause him not a moment’s angst, who would run his houses, keep his troop of elderly relatives in line, and otherwise devote herself to bearing and raising his children. He did not expect her to spend much time with him; he had for too long been alone—he now preferred it that way.

With the clock ticking on the outrageous terms of his great-uncle’s will, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by a strong-willed, independent-minded, prickly termagent, one he suspected was a spinster by design, and was, moreover, possessed of a waspish tongue and, when she chose to deploy it, a distinctly chilly hauteur.

There was no purpose in thinking of her.

He couldn’t seem to stop.

He shifted, easing his shoulders, then leaned back again. What with taking up the reins of his inheritance, getting accustomed to having a tribe of old dears under his feet on a daily basis, inhabiting his houses and complicating his life, as well as considering how best to secure a wife, he’d let the small matter of a mistress or any other avenue of sexual release slide to the back of his mind.

In hindsight, not a wise decision.

Leonora had cannoned into him and set spark to tinder. Their subsequent exchanges hadn’t doused the flame. Her haughty dismissiveness was the equivalent of a blatant challenge, one to which he instinctively reacted.

His morning’s ruse of using their sensual connection to distract her from the burglars, while tactically sound, had been personally unwise. He’d known it at the time, yet had cold-bloodedly reached for the one weapon that had promised the greatest chance of success; his overriding aim had been to ensure her mind was fixed on matters other than the putative burglar.

Outside the wind howled. Again he straightened, silently stretched, then settled against the wall once more.

Fortunately for all concerned, he was too old, too wise, and far too experienced to allow lust to dictate his actions. During the day, he’d formulated a plan for dealing with Leonora. Given he’d stumbled onto this mystery and she was, no matter what her uncle and brother thought, threatened by it, then given his training, given his nature, it was understandable, indeed right and proper, for him to resolve the situation and remove the threat. Thereafter, however, he would leave her alone.

The distant scrape of metal on stone reached him. His senses focused, expanded, straining to catch any further evidence that the burglar was near.

A trifle earlier than he’d expected, but whoever it was was most likely an amateur.

He’d returned to the house at eight o’clock, slipping in via the rear alleyway and the shadows of the back garden. Entering through the kitchen, he’d noted that the builders had left only a few tools gathered in a corner. The side door had been as he’d left it, the key in the lock but not turned, the teeth not engaged. The scene set, he’d retreated to the porter’s alcove, leaving the door at the top of the kitchen stairs propped open with a brick.

The porter’s alcove commanded an uninterrupted view of the ground floor hall, the stairs leading upward, and the door to the kitchen stairs. No one could enter from the ground or the upper floors and get access to the basement level without him seeing them.

Not that he expected anyone to come that way, but he’d wanted to leave the way clear for the burglar belowstairs. He was willing to wager the “burglar” would head for some area of the basement; he wanted to let the man settle to his task before he intervened. He wanted evidence to confirm his suspicions. And then he intended to interrogate the “burglar.”

It was difficult to imagine what a real burglar would expect to steal from a vacant house.

His ears caught the soft slap of a leather sole on stone. Abruptly, he turned and faced the front door.

Against all the odds, someone was coming in that way.

A wavering outline appeared on the etched-glass panels of the door. He slipped noiselessly out of the porter’s booth and merged with the shadows.

Leonora slid the heavy key into the lock and glanced down at her companion.

She’d retired to her bedchamber supposedly to sleep. The servants had locked up and retired. She’d waited until the clock had struck eleven, reasoning that by then the street would be deserted, then she’d slipped downstairs, avoiding the library where Humphrey and Jeremy were still poring over their tomes. Collecting her cloak, she’d let herself out of the front door.

There was, however, one being she couldn’t so easily avoid.

Henrietta blinked up at her, long jaws agape, ready to follow her wherever she went. If she’d tried to leave her in the front hall and go out alone at this hour, Henrietta would have howled.

Leonora narrowed her eyes at her. “Blackmailer.” Her whisper was lost in the strafing wind. “Just remember,” she continued, more by way of bolstering her own courage than instructing Henrietta, “we’re only here to watch what he does. You have to be absolutely quiet.”

Henrietta looked at the door, then nudged it with her nose.

Leonora turned the key, pleased when it slid smoothly around. Removing it, she pocketed it, then drew her cloak close. Curling one hand about Henrietta’s collar, she grasped the doorknob and turned it.

The bolt slid back. She opened the door just wide enough for her and Henrietta to squeeze through, then swung around to shut it. The wind gusted; she had to release Henrietta and use both hands to force the door closed—silently.

She managed it. Heaving an inward sigh of relief, she turned.

The front hall was shrouded in stygian gloom. She stood still as her eyes began to adjust, as the sense of emptiness—the strangeness of a remembered place stripped of all its furnishings—sank into her.

She heard a faint click.

Beside her, Henrietta abruptly sat, posture erect, a suppressed whimper, not of pain but excitement escaping her.

Leonora stared at her.

The air around her stirred.

The hair on her nape lifted; her nerves leapt. Instinctively, she dragged in a breath—

A hard palm clamped over her lips.

A steely arm locked about her waist.

Hauled her back against a body like sculpted rock.

Strength engulfed her, trapping her, subduing her.

Effortlessly.

A dark head bent close.

A voice in which fury was barely leashed hissed in her ear, “What the devil are you doing here?”

*   *   *

Tristan could barely believe his eyes.

Despite the gloom, he could see hers, wide with shock. Could sense the leap and race of her pulse, the panic that gripped her.

Knew absolutely that it was only partially due to surprise. Sensed his own response to that fact.

Ruthlessly reined it in.

Lifting his head, he scanned with his senses but could detect no other movement in the house. But he couldn’t talk to her, even in whispers, in the front hall; devoid of furnishings, its surfaces polished and clean, any sound would echo.

Tightening his arm about her waist, he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the small parlor they’d set aside for interrogating females. Spared a moment to wonder at their farsightedness. He had to take his hand from her face to turn the knob, then they were inside, and he shut the door.

He still had her in his arm, feet off the ground, her back locked to him.

She wriggled, hissed, “Put me down!”

He debated, in the end, grim-faced, complied. Speaking face-to-face would be easier; keeping her wriggling her derriere against him was senseless torture.

The instant her feet touched the floor, she spun around.

And collided with his finger, raised to point at her nose. “I didn’t tell you about the incident here so you could waltz in and put yourself in the middle of it!”

Startled, she blinked; her eyes rose to his face. Quite stunned; she’d never had any man take such a tone with her. He seized the initiative. “I told you to leave this to me.” He spoke in a deep but furious whisper, at a level that wouldn’t carry.

Her eyes narrowed. “I recall what you said, but this person, whoever he is, is my problem.”

“It’s my house he’s going to be breaking into. And anyway—”

“Besides,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, chin lifting but like him keeping her voice low, “you’re an earl. I naturally assumed you’d be out socializing.”

The jab pricked his frustration. He spoke through his teeth. “I’m not an earl by choice, and I avoid socializing as much as I can. But that’s neither here nor there. You are a woman. A female. You have no purpose here. Especially given I’m here.”

Her mouth fell open as he grabbed her elbow and spun her to face the door.

“I’m not—!”

“Keep your voice down.” He marched her forward. “And you most certainly are. I’m going to see you out of the front door, then you’re going straight home and staying there come what may!”

She dug in her heels. “But what if he’s out there?”

He halted, looked at her. Realized she was staring beyond the hall door toward the dark, tree-shrouded front garden. His thoughts followed hers.