“Mama is going to be miffed.” Eyes dancing, Crissy glanced at Leonora. “She was all for stealing a march on all others with daughters to establish this Season—she’s got my youngest sister to puff off, and she’s set her sights on this earl who has to marry.”

Leonora blinked. “An earl who has to marry?”

Crissy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It seems this poor soul has only recently inherited and has to marry before July or lose his wealth. But he’ll retain his houses and his dependents, neither of which would be easy to maintain on a pauper’s budget.”

A chill touched Leonora’s spine. “I hadn’t heard. Which earl?”

Crissy waved. “Doubtless no one thought to mention it—you’re not interested in a husband, after all.” She grimaced. “I always thought you were quite touched, being so set against marriage, but now…I have to admit there are times I think you had it right.” Her expression clouded briefly, but then brightened. “Indeed, I’m here determined to enjoy myself and not think about being married at all. If this poor earl is as hunted as it sounds he’ll be, maybe I’ll offer him a safe harbor? I’ve heard he’s astonishingly handsome—so rare when combined with wealth and title—”

“What title?” Leonora broke in without compunction; Crissy could ramble for hours.

“Oh—didn’t I say? It’s Trillingwell, Trellham—something like that.”

“Trentham?”

“Yes! That’s it.” Crissy swung to face her. “You have heard.”

“I assure you I hadn’t, but I do thank you for telling me.”

Crissy blinked, then studied her face. “Why, you sly thing—you know him.”

Leonora narrowed her eyes to slits—not at Crissy but at a dark head she could see tacking toward her through the crowd. “I do indeed know him.” In the biblical sense, what was more. “If you’ll excuse me…I daresay we’ll meet again if you’re to remain in town.”

Crissy grabbed her hand as she stepped out.

“Just tell me—is he as handsome as they say?”

Leonora raised her brows. “He’s too handsome for his own good.” Twisting free of Crissy’s slackening grip, she stalked into the crowd, on a direct collision course with the earl who had to marry.

Tristan knew something was wrong the instant Leonora appeared abruptly before him. The daggers stabbing from her eyes were difficult to miss; the fingertip she jabbed into his chest was even more pointed.

“I want to talk to you. Now!”

The words were hissed, her temper clearly seething.

He consulted his conscience; it remained clear. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll be delighted to tell you, but I suspect you’d prefer to hear me out in private.” Her eyes bored into his. “What little nook have you found for us tonight?”

He held her gaze and considered the tiny servants’ pantry, which, he’d been assured, was the only possible venue for totally private engagements in Hammond House. Unlit, it would be dark and closed in—perfect for what he’d had in mind…“There is no place in this house suitable for any private conversation.”

Especially not if she lost her temper, the leash of which looked to be already fraying.

Her eyes snapped. “Now is the time to live up to your reputation. Find one.”

His talents swung into action; he took her hand, set it on his sleeve, somewhat relieved that she permitted it. “Where are your aunts?”

She waved to the side of the room. “In the chairs over there.”

He headed that way, his attention on her, avoiding all the glances cast his way. Bending close, he spoke softly. “You’ve developed a headache—a migraine. Tell your aunts you feel quite ill and must leave immediately. I’ll offer to drive you home in my carriage—” He broke off, halted, beckoned a footman; when the footman arrived, he issued a terse order—the footman hurried off.

They resumed their progress. “I’ve already sent for my carriage.” He glanced at her. “If you could soften your spine, wilt a little, we might have some chance of pulling this off. We have to ensure your aunts stay here.”

That last wasn’t easy, but whatever the particular bee Leonora had got stuck in her bonnet, she was bound and determined to have her moment with him; it wasn’t so much her acting abilities that won the day as the impression she radiated that if people did not fall in with her stated wishes, she was liable to become violent.

Mildred cast him an anxious glance. “If you’re sure…?”

He nodded. “My carriage is waiting—you have my word I’ll take her straight home.”

Leonora glanced at him, eyes narrow; he kept his expression impassive.

With the air of females bowing to a stronger—and somewhat incomprehensible—will, Mildred and Gertie remained where they were and allowed him to escort Leonora from the room, and thence from the house.

As instructed, his carriage was waiting; he handed Leonora in, then followed. The footman shut the door; a whip cracked, and the carriage lurched forward.

In the dark, he caught her hand, squeezed it. “Not yet.” He spoke softly. “My coachman doesn’t need to hear, and Green Street is only around the corner.”

Leonora glanced at him. “Green Street?”

“I promised to take you home. My home. Where else are we to find a private room with adequate lighting for a discussion?”

She had no argument with that; indeed, she was glad he recognized the need for lighting—she wanted to be able to see his face. Inwardly seething, she grudgingly waited in silence.

His hand remained closed about hers. As they rattled through the night, his thumb stroked, almost absentmindedly. She glanced at him; he was gazing out of the window—she couldn’t tell if he even realized what he was doing, much less if he intended it to soothe her temper.

The touch was soothing, but it didn’t dampen her ire.

If anything, it stoked it.

How dare he be so insufferably complacent, so confident and assured, when she’d just discovered his ulterior motive, which he must have guessed she’d learn?

The carriage turned, not into Green Street, but into a narrow lane, the mews serving a row of large houses. It rocked to a halt. Tristan stirred, opened the door, and descended.

She heard him speak to his coachman, then he turned to her, beckoned. She gave him her hand and alighted; he whisked her through a garden gate before she had a chance to get her bearings.

“Where are we?”

Tristan had followed her through the gate; he shut it behind them. On the other side of the high stone wall, she heard the carriage rumble off.

“My gardens.” He nodded to the house on the other side of an expanse of lawn visible through a screen of bushes. “Arriving via the front door would necessitate explanations.”

“What about your coachman?”

“What about him?”

She humphed. His hand touched her back and she started along the path through the bushes. As they stepped free of the concealing shadows, he took her hand and came up beside her. The narrow path followed the garden beds bordering that wing of the house; he led her past the conservatory, past what looked like a study, and on to the long room she recognized as the morning room where his old ladies had entertained her weeks earlier.

He halted before a pair of French doors. “You didn’t see this.” He placed his hand, palm flat, on the frame of the doors where they met, just where the lock linked them. He gave one sharp push, and the lock clicked; the doors swung inward.

“Good gracious!”

“Sssh!” He swept her in, then closed the doors. The morning room lay in darkness. At such a late hour, this wing of the house was deserted. Taking her hand, he drew her across the room to the steps leading up to the corridor. Pausing in the shadows on the steps, he looked to the left, to where the front hall was bathed in golden light.

Peeking past him, she could see no evidence of footmen or butler.

He turned and urged her to the right, along a short, unlighted corridor. Reaching past her, he opened the door at the end and pushed it wide.

She entered; he followed and quietly shut the door.

“Wait,” he breathed, then moved past her.

Faint moonlight gleamed on a heavy desk, illuminated the large chair behind it and four other chairs placed around the room. A number of cabinets and chests of drawers lined the walls. Then Tristan drew the curtains and all light vanished.

An instant later came the scrape of tinder; flame flared, lighting his face, limning the austere planes as he adjusted the lamp’s wick, then reset the glass.

The warm glow spread and filled the room.

He looked at her, then waved her to the two armchairs set before the hearth. When she reached them, he came up beside her and lifted her cloak from her shoulders. He laid it aside, then bent to the embers still glowing in the hearth; sinking into one of the armchairs, she watched as he efficiently restoked the fire until it was again an acceptable blaze.

Straightening, he looked down at her. “I’m going to have some brandy. Do you want anything?”

She watched him cross to a tantalus against the wall. She doubted he would have sherry in his study. “I’ll have a glass of brandy, too.”

He glanced at her again, brows rising, but he poured brandy into two balloons, then returned and handed her one. She had to use both hands to hold it.

“Now.” He sank into the other armchair, stretched his legs out before him, crossed his ankles, then sipped, and fixed his hazel gaze on her. “What is this all about?”

The brandy was a distraction; she set the balloon carefully on the small table beside the chair.

“This,” she said, uncaring of how waspish she sounded, “is about you needing to marry.”