No matter how much fate tempted her.

She slanted him a glance.

He caught it, raised a brow. “A penny for your thoughts.”

She laughed, shook her head. “My thoughts are much too precious.” Much too dangerous.

“What are they worth?”

“More than you can possibly pay.”

When he didn’t immediately reply, she glanced at him.

He met her gaze. “Are you sure?”

She was about to dismiss the question with a laugh, then she read his true meaning in his eyes. Realized on a rush of understanding that, as so often seemed to occur, his thoughts and hers were very much in tune. That he knew what she’d been thinking—and quite literally meant he’d pay anything she asked…

It was all there in his eyes, engraved in crystalline hazel, sharp and clear. He rarely adopted his mask with her now, not when they were private.

Their steps had slowed; they halted. She dragged in a tight breath. “Yes.” Regardless of the price he was prepared to pay, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept.

They stood facing each other while a long moment passed. It should have turned awkward, but, as in the gallery, a deeper understanding—an acceptance each of the other—prevented it.

Eventually, he simply said, “We’ll see.”

She smiled, easily, companionably, and they resumed their walk.

After inspecting the deer and ambling under the oaks and beeches, they returned to his curricle and repaired to the Star and Garter.

“I haven’t been here for years,” she admitted as she took her seat at a table by the window. “Not since the year I came out.”

She waited while he ordered tea and crumpets, then said, “I have to admit I have difficulty seeing you as a young man on the town.”

“Probably because I never was one.” He settled back, held her gaze. “I went into the Guards at twenty, more or less straight from Oxford.” He shrugged. “It was the accepted route in my branch of the family—we were the military arm.”

“So where were you stationed? You must have attended balls in the nearest town?”

He kept her entertained with tales of his exploits, and that of his peers, then turned the table and drew out her memories of her first Season. She had enough she could say to make a decent showing; if he realized her accounts were edited, he gave no sign.

They’d moved on to her observations of the ton and its present inhabitants when a party at a nearby table, all standing to leave, tipped over a chair. She glanced around—and realized, from the fixed stares of the three girls and their mother that the reason for the commotion was that all attention had been locked on them.

The mother, an overdressed matron, cast a supercilious, purse-lipped glance their way, then moved to gather her chicks. “Come, girls!”

Two moved to obey; the third stared for a moment longer, then turned and hissed, her whisper clearly audible, “Did Lady Mott say when the wedding would be?”

Leonora continued to stare at the retreating backs. Her wits were tumbling, shooting off in all directions; as scene after scene replayed in her mind, she felt chilled, then overheated. Temper—an eruption more powerful than any she’d known—overtook her. Slowly, she turned her head, and met Trentham’s gaze.

Read in the hard hazel not an ounce of contrition, not even a hint of exculpation, but simple, clear, and unequivocal confirmation.

“You fiend.” She breathed the word. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her teacup.

His eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

He hadn’t shifted from his lounging pose, but she knew how fast he could move.

She suddenly felt dizzy, giddy; she couldn’t breathe. She pushed up out of her chair. “Let me out of here.”

Her voice wavered but he acted; she was dimly aware that he was watching her closely. He got her outside, swept aside all hurdles; she was too overwrought to stand on pride and not take advantage of the escape he arranged.

But the instant her half boots touched the grass in the park, she jerked her hand from his arm and strode out. Away from him. Away from the temptation of hitting him—trying to hit him; she knew he wouldn’t let her.

Gall burned her throat; she’d thought him out of his depth in the ton, but it was she who had had her eyes closed. Lulled into doe-eyed trust by a wolf—who hadn’t even bothered to wear wool!

She gritted her teeth against a scream, one directed against herself. She’d known what he was like from the first—a remarkably ruthless man.

Abruptly, she came to a halt. Panic would get her nowhere, especially with a man like him. She had to think, had to act—in the right way.

So what had he done? What had he actually accomplished? And how could she negate or reverse it?

She stood still as her wits slowly realigned. A measure of calm descended; it wasn’t—couldn’t be—as bad as she’d thought.

She spun around and wasn’t the least surprised to discover him two feet away, watching her.

Carefully.

She locked her eyes on his. “Have you said anything to anyone about us?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No.”

“So that girl was simply…” She gestured with both hands.

“Extrapolating.”

She narrowed her eyes. “As you knew everyone would.”

He didn’t reply.

She continued to look daggers at him as the realization that all was not lost—that he hadn’t created a social snare she couldn’t simply step out of—seeped through her. Her temper subsided; her annoyance did not. “This is not a game.”

A moment went by before he said, “All life is a game.”

“And you play to win?” She infused the words with something close to contempt.

He stirred, then reached out, took her hand.

To her utter surprise, he jerked her to him.

She gasped as she landed against his chest.

Felt his arm lock her to him.

Felt smoldering embers burst into flame.

He looked down at her, then carried the hand he’d trapped to his lips. Slowly brushed his lips to her fingers, then across her palm, lastly pressed them to her wrist. Holding her gaze, holding her captive all the while.

His eyes burned, reflecting all she could sense flaring between them.

“What’s between you and me remains between you and me, but it hasn’t gone away.” He held her gaze. “And it won’t.”

He lowered his head. She dragged in a breath. “But I don’t want it.”

From under his lashes, his eyes met hers, then he murmured, “Too late.”

And kissed her.

*   *   *

She’d called him a fiend, and she’d been right.

By noon the next day, Leonora knew what it felt like to be under siege.

When Trentham—damn his arrogant hide—had finally consented to release her, she’d been left in no doubt whatsoever that they were locked in combat.

“I am not going to marry you.” She’d made the declaration with as much strength as she’d been able to muster, in the circumstances not as much as she’d have liked.

He’d looked at her, growled—actually growled—then grabbed her hand and marched off to his curricle.

On the way home, she’d preserved a frigid silence, not because various pithy phrases hadn’t been burning her tongue, but because of his tiger, perched behind them. She’d had to wait until Trentham handed her to the pavement before Number 14 to fix him with a narrow-eyed glare, and demand, “Why? Why me? Give me one sane reason why you want to marry me.”

Hazel eyes glinting, he’d looked down at her, then bent closer and murmured, “Do you remember that picture we spoke of?”

She’d quelled a sudden urge to step back. Searched his eyes briefly before asking, “What of it?”

“The prospect of seeing it every morning and every night constitutes an eminently sane reason to me.”

She’d blinked; a blush had risen to her cheeks. For an instant, she’d stared at him, her stomach clenching tight, then she’d stepped back. “You’re crazed.”

She’d spun on her heel, pushed open the front gate, and stalked up the garden path.

The invitations had started arriving with the first post that morning.

One or two she could have ignored; fifteen by lunch-time, and all from the most powerful hostesses, were simply impossible to dismiss. How he had managed it she didn’t know, but his message was clear—she could not avoid him. Either she met him on neutral ground, meaning within the social round of the ton, or…

That implied “or” was seriously worrisome.

He was not a man she could easily predict; her failure to foresee his objectives to date was what had got her into this mess in the first place.

“Or…” sounded far too dangerous, and when it came down to it, no matter what he did, as long as she adhered to the simple word “No” she would be perfectly safe, perfectly secure.

Mildred, with Gertie in tow, arrived at four o’clock.

“My dear!” Mildred sailed into the parlor like a black-and-white galleon. “Lady Holland called and insisted I bring you to her soirée this evening.” Subsiding with a silken swish onto the chaise, Mildred turned eyes filled with zeal upon her. “I had no idea Trentham had such connections.”

Leonora suppressed a growl of her own. “Nor had I.” Lady Holland, for heaven’s sake! “The man’s a fiend!”

Mildred blinked. “Fiend?”

She resumed her activity—pacing before the hearth. “He’s doing this to”—she gestured wildly—“flush me out!”

“Flush you…” Mildred looked concerned. “My dear, are you feeling quite the thing?”

Turning, she looked at Mildred, then switched her gaze to Gertie, who had paused before an armchair.