She nodded, walking by his side, leaning on his arm. They drew level with the gate of Number 12, and she stopped.

She drew in a deep breath, then met his eyes. “If you don’t mind, perhaps I could come in and help you check the furniture.” She smiled, definitely tremulously, then looked away. Somewhat breathlessly added, “I’d prefer to stay with you for a little while longer, to catch my breath before going in to face the household.”

She ran her uncle’s household; there’d no doubt be people waiting to speak to her as soon as she went in.

He hesitated, but Gasthorpe wasn’t around to disapprove. And on the list of activities likely to lift a woman’s spirits, viewing new furniture probably ranked high. “If you wish.” He steered her through the gate and up the path to the door. While she was viewing, he’d use the time to think of how better to protect her. He couldn’t, unfortunately, expect her to remain a prisoner within doors.

Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the front door. Frowned as he handed her over the threshold. “Where’s your hound?”

“She’s being taken for a walk in the park.” She glanced back at him as he closed the door. “The footmen take her—she’s too strong for me.”

He nodded, noting that once again she’d followed his thought—that if she walked at all, then she should walk with Henrietta. But if the dog was too strong, then beyond the garden that wasn’t a viable option.

She led the way to the stairs; he followed. They’d reached the first steps when a cough drew their attention to the door to the kitchens.

Biggs stood in the opening. He saluted. “On watch here, m’lud.”

Tristan smiled his charming smile. “Thank you, Biggs. Miss Carling and I are just taking stock of the new furniture. We’ll let ourselves out later. Carry on.”

Biggs bobbed to Leonora, snapped off another salute, then turned and descended into the kitchens. The faint aroma of a pie drifted to their nostrils.

Leonora met his gaze, a smile in her eyes, then she turned, grasped the banister, and went on.

He watched, but she didn’t falter. However, when they reached the second-floor landing, she glanced at him and drew in a tight breath.

Frowning anew, he took her arm. “Here.” He urged her into the largest bedroom, the one over the library. “Sit down.” A large armchair sat angled to the window; he led her to it.

She subsided into the chair with a little sigh. Smiled weakly up at him. “I don’t faint.”

He narrowed his eyes at her; she was no longer pale, but there was an odd tenseness about her. “Just sit there and study the furniture you can see. I’ll check the other rooms, then you can give me your verdict.”

Leonora nodded, closed her eyes, and let her head rest against the chair’s back. “I’ll wait here.”

He hesitated, looking down at her, then he turned and left her.

When he was gone, she opened her eyes and studied the room. The large bow window looked over the back garden; during the day it would let in ample light, but now, with night encroaching, the room was gathering shadows. A fireplace stood in the center of the wall opposite her chair; a fire was set but not lit.

A chaise was positioned at an angle to the fireplace; beyond it, in the far corner of the room, stood a massive armoire in dark polished wood.

The same polished wood adorned the even more massive four-poster bed. Staring at the expanse of ruby silk coverlet, she thought of Trentham; presumably his friends were similarly large. Dark red brocade curtains were looped back about the carved posts at the head of the bed. The last light lingered on the curves and twists in the ornately carved headboard, repeated on the turned posts at the bed’s foot. With its thick mattress, the bed was a substantial piece, solid, stable.

The central feature of the room; the focus of her senses.

It was, she decided, the perfect venue for her seduction.

Far better than his conservatory.

And there was no one to interrupt, to interfere. Gasthorpe was in Surrey and Biggs in the kitchens, too far away to hear anything—provided they closed the door.

She turned to look at the solid oak door.

The encounter with Mountford had only deepened her determination to press ahead. She wasn’t so much shaky as tense; she needed to feel Trentham’s arms around her to convince herself she was safe.

She wanted to be in his arms, wanted to be close to him. Wanted the physical contact, the shared sensual pleasure. Needed the experience, now more than ever.

Two minutes later, Trentham strolled back in.

She waved to the door. “Close that so I can see the tallboy.”

He turned and did as she asked.

She dutifully studied the tall chest of drawers thus revealed.

“So”—ambling up, he halted beside the chair and looked down at her—“do the amenities meet with your approval?”

She looked up at him, slowly smiled. “Indeed, they appear quite perfect.”

Rakes undoubtedly had it right; when opportunity presented, one had to pounce.

She held up her hand.

Tristan grasped it and smoothly drew her to her feet. He’d expected her to step away; instead, she’d shifted her feet—she straightened directly in front of him, so close her breasts brushed his coat.

She looked into his face, then moved closer still. Reached up and drew his head down to hers. Pressed her lips to his in a blatant, openmouthed kiss, one he only just stopped himself from falling headfirst into.

His control uncharacteristically quaked. He gripped her waist—hard—to stop himself from devouring her.

She ended the caress and drew back, but only a fraction; she lifted her lids and met his gaze. Her eyes glinted vibrantly blue beneath her lashes. Holding his gaze, she reached for the ties of her cloak, tugged, then let the garment fall to the floor. “I wanted to thank you.”

Her voice was husky, low; its timbre slid through him. His body clenched, recognizing her meaning; he was pulling her closer, tight, body to body, lowering his head, before the echo had died.

She stopped him with one finger, sliding the tip across his lower lip. Her gaze followed the motion; instead of moving away, she moved closer yet—let herself sink against him. “You were there when I needed you.”

Unthinking, he gathered her to him; her lids lifted, and she met his eyes. Slid her hand up to his nape again. Her lids drifted down, and she stretched upward against him. “Thank you.”

He took her mouth as she offered it. Sank deep and drank, felt not just pleasure but reassurance slide through his veins. It seemed only right that she thanked him like this; he saw no reason to refuse the moment, to do anything other than sate his senses with the tribute she surrendered.

Her arms slid up, twined about his neck; she pressed close, her body a promise of bliss.

Between them, the embers they’d left smoldering flared, then flames leapt beneath their skins. He felt the fire ignite; confident he had her measure, he let it burn.

Let his fingers find their way to her breasts; when the sweet mounds were tight and straining, he reached for her laces. Dealt with them and the ribbons of her chemise with practiced ease.

Her breasts spilled into his hands; she gasped through the kiss. Possessively kneading, he held her, drew her on, urged the flames higher.

He broke from the kiss, nudged her head up, set his lips to the taut tendon in her throat. Traced it down to where her pulse beat frantically, then licked, laved. Sucked.

She gasped; the sound echoed in the silence, drove him on. Steering her around, he sank onto the chair’s arm, drawing her with him, pressing her gown and chemise to her waist.

So he could feast.

She’d offered her bounty; he accepted. With lips and tongue, took and claimed. Traced the full curves. Pressed hot kisses to the tightly ruched peaks. Listened to her fractured breathing. Felt her fingers tightening on his skull as he teased.

Then he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth, rasped it lightly, and she tensed. He sucked gently, then soothed the taut nubbin with his tongue. Waited until she’d relaxed before drawing it deep and suckling.

She cried out, her body bowing in his arms.

He showed no mercy, suckling voraciously first at one breast, then the other.

Her fingers spasmed, holding him to her. He slid his hands down from her waist, back and over her hips, and captured her bottom; spreading his thighs, he drew her hips to him. Wedged her close so her stomach rode against him, both easing and teasing the fiery ache.

Closing his hands, he kneaded, and felt more than heard her gasp. He didn’t stop but explored more intimately, holding her at his mercy, his lips taunting and teasing her swollen breasts while he evocatively shifted her lower body, molding hips, stomach, and thighs to him as he wished.

Then she dragged in a breath and bent her head. He released her breasts, looked up, and she captured his mouth. Slid in, caressed and heated him, stole his breath, gave it back.

He felt her fingers at his throat, then she flicked his cravat loose. Their mouths melded; they took and gave while her fingers slid down his chest.

Opening his shirt.

Tugging it free of his waistband. Trailing her fingertips over his chest, taunting, feather-light. Maddening.

“Take off your coat.”

The words whispered through his brain. His skin was burning; it seemed a good idea.

He released her for a second, stood, shrugged.

Cravat, coat, and shirt fell back across the chair.

Bad move.