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.

It beckoned.

Enticed.

Fed Tristan’s need.

But it was her need that he played to, that he watched and gauged, that ultimately had him easing his hold on her, gathering her in one arm while he raised a hand to her face. To trace her cheek, frame her jaw, hold her still while he methodically plundered. Yet at no stage did he seek to overwhelm her; that, he knew, was not the route to ensnare her.

To seduce her was an instinct he no longer sought to fight. He eased his fingers from the delicate curve of her jaw and sent them lower, flirting with her senses until her lips turned demanding, then caressing lightly, enough to educate her imagination, enough to feed her hunger, not enough to sate it.

Her breasts swelled beneath his tracing touch; he ached to take more, to claim more, but held back. Strategy and tactics were his strong suit; in this as in all things, he was playing to win.

When her fingers clenched on his skull, he consented to palm her breast, to fondle, still lightly, still inciting rather than satisfying. He felt her senses leap, sensed her nerves tightening. Felt her nipple pebble against his palm.

Had to drag a breath deep and hold it, then, gradually, step by step, he eased back from the kiss. Gradually unclenched the muscles locking her to him. Gradually let her surface from the kiss.

But he didn’t take his hand from her breast.

When he released her lips and lifted his head, he was still lightly tracing, back and forth across the swell, teasingly circling her nipple. Her lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes, looked into his.

Her lips were lightly swollen, her eyes wide.

He looked down.

She followed his gaze.

Her lungs locked.

He counted the seconds before she remembered to breathe, knew she had to be dizzy. But she didn’t step back.

It was he who shifted his caressing hand to her upper arm, grasped gently, then slid his hand down to hers. He lifted it to his lips, met her eyes as, faint color in her cheeks, she looked up at him.

He smiled, but hid the true tenor of the gesture. “Come.” Setting her hand on his sleeve, he turned her to the house. “We need to start back to town.”

The journey was a godsend. Leonora took full advantage of the hour during which Trentham was engrossed with his cattle, smoothly tacking through the traffic that grew heavier as they entered the capital, to calm her mind. To try to restore—reclaim—her customary assurance.

She glanced at him often, wondering what he was thinking, but other than an occasional enigmatic glance—leaving her certain he was partly amused but still quite intent—he said nothing. Aside from all else, his tiger was up behind them, too close to allow any private words.

Indeed, she wasn’t sure she wanted any. Any explanation. Not that he’d shown any sign of giving her one, but that seemed to be part of the game.

Part of the building exhilaration, the excitement. The craving.

That last she hadn’t expected, but she certainly felt it—could now understand what she never had before—what caused women, even ladies of eminent sense, to cater to a gentleman’s physical demands.

Not that Trentham had made any real demands. Yet. That was her point.

If she could know when he would, and what those demands might be, she’d be better placed to plan her response.

As matters were…she was left to speculate.

She was sunk in that endeavor when the curricle slowed. She blinked and looked around, and discovered they were home. Trentham drew the curricle up before Number 12. Handing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down, then lifted her to the pavement.

Hands about her waist he looked down at her.

She looked back, and made no attempt to move away.

His lips curved. He opened them—

Footsteps crunched on gravel nearby. They both turned to look.

Gasthorpe, the majordomo, a thickset man with crisp salt-and-pepper hair, came hurrying down the path from Number 12. Reaching them, he bowed. “Miss Carling.”

She’d made a point of meeting Gasthorpe the day after he’d taken up residence. She smiled and inclined her head.

He turned to Trentham. “My lord, forgive the interruption, but I wanted to make sure you called in. The carters have delivered the furniture for the first floor. I would be grateful if you would cast your eye over the items, and advise me if you approve.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be in in a moment—”

“Actually”—Leonora gripped Trentham’s arm, drawing his gaze to her face—“I would love to see what you’ve done to Mr. Morrissey’s house. May I come in while you check the furniture?” She smiled. “I would be happy to help—a lady’s eye is often quite different in such matters.”

Trentham looked at her, then glanced at Gasthorpe. “It’s rather late. Your uncle and brother—”

“Won’t have noticed I left the house.” Her curiosity was rampant; she kept her eyes wide, fixed on Trentham’s face.

His lips twisted, then set; again he glanced at Gasthorpe. “If you insist.” She took his arm and he turned toward the path. “But only the first floor has been furnished as yet.”

She wondered why he was being so uncharacteristically diffident, then put it down to being a gentleman more or less in charge of fitting out a house. Something he no doubt felt ill equipped to do.

Ignoring his reticence, she swept up the path beside him. Gasthorpe had gone ahead and stood holding the door. She stepped over the threshold and paused to look around. She’d last glimpsed the hall in the shadows of night, when the painters’ cloths had been down, the room stripped and bare.

The transformation was now complete. The hall was surprisingly light and airy, not dark and gloomy—an impression she associated with gentlemen’s clubs. However, there was not a single item of delicacy to soften the austere, starkly elegant lines; no sprigged wallpaper, not even any scrollwork. It was rather cold, almost bleak in its eschewing of all things feminine, yet she could see men—men like Trentham—gathering there.

They wouldn’t notice the softness that was missing.

Trentham didn’t offer to show her the downstairs rooms; with a gesture, he directed her to the stairs. She climbed them, noting the high gloss on the banister, the thickness of the stair carpet. Clearly expense had not been a consideration.