She nodded in greeting, conscious of his sharp gaze, of how closely he studied her before leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, only two feet away.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him, then looked back at her flowers. “You?”

After a moment, he said, “I’ve just come from next door. You’ll see more of us coming and going in future.”

She frowned. “How many of you are there?”

“Seven.”

“And you’re all ex-…Guards?”

He hesitated, then replied. “Yes.”

The idea intrigued. Before she could think of her next question, he stirred, shifted closer.

She was instantly aware of his nearness, of the flaring response that rushed through her. She turned her head and looked at him.

Met his gaze—fell into it.

Couldn’t look away. Could only stand there, her heart thudding, her pulse throbbing in her lips as he leaned slowly closer, then brushed an achingly incomplete kiss over her mouth.

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

He breathed the words over her hungry lips.

“No. I’m still thinking.”

He drew back enough to catch her eyes. “How much thinking does it take?”

The question broke the spell; she narrowed her eyes at him, then turned back to her flowers. “More than you know.”

He resettled against the doorframe, his gaze on her face. After a moment, he said, “So tell me.”

She pressed her lips tight, went to shake her head—then remembered all she’d thought of in the long watches of the night. She drew a deep breath, slowly let it out. Kept her eyes on the flowers. “It’s not a simple thing.”

He said nothing, just waited.

She had to draw another breath. “It’s been a long time since I…trusted anyone, anyone at all to…do things for me. To help me.” That had been one outcome, possibly the most outwardly obvious, of her shrinking from others.

“You came to me—asked for my help—when you saw the burglar at the bottom of your garden.”

Lips tight, she shook her head. “No. I came to you because you were my only way forward.”

“You saw me as a source of information?”

She nodded. “You did help, but I never asked you—you never offered, you simply gave. That”—she paused as it came clear in her mind, then went on—“that’s what’s been happening between us all along. I never asked for help—you simply gave it, and you’re strong enough that refusing was never a real option, and there seemed no reason to fight you given we were seeking the same end…”

Her voice quavered and she stopped.

He moved closer, took her hand.

His touch threatened to shatter her control, but then his thumb stroked; an indefinable warmth flooded her, soothed, reassured.

She lifted her head, dragged in a shaky breath.

He stepped closer yet, slid his arms around her, drew her back against him.

“Stop fighting it.” The words were dark, a sorceror’s command in her mind. “Stop fighting me.”

She sighed, long, deep; her body relaxed against the warm solid rock of his. “I’m trying. I will.” She pressed her head back, looked up over her shoulder. Met his hazel eyes. “But it won’t happen today.”

He gave her time. Reluctantly.

She spent her days trying to decipher Cedric’s journals, searching for any mention of secret formulae, or of work done in association with Carruthers. She’d discovered that the entries weren’t in any chronological order; on any given topic they were almost random—first in one book, then in another—linked, it seemed, by some unwritten code.

Her nights she spent in the ton, at balls and parties, always with Tristan by her side. His attention, fixed and unwavering, was noted by all; the few brave ladies who had attempted to distract him were given short shrift. Extremely short indeed. Thereafter, the ton settled to speculate on their wedding date.

That evening, as they strolled about Lady Court’s ballroom, she explained about Cedric’s journals.

Tristan frowned. “What Mountford’s after must be something to do with Cedric’s work. There seems nothing else in Number 14 that might account for this much interest.”

“How much interest?” She glanced at him. “What have you learned?”

“Mountford—I still don’t have a better name—is still about London. He’s been sighted, but keeps moving; I haven’t been able to catch up with him yet.”

She didn’t envy Mountford when he did. “Have you heard anything from Yorkshire.”

“Yes and no. From the solicitor’s files, we traced Carruthers’s principal heir—one Jonathon Martinbury. He’s a solicitor’s clerk in York. He recently completed his articles, and was known to have been planning to travel to London, presumably to celebrate.” He glanced at her, met her gaze. “It seems he received your letter, sent on from the solicitor in Harrogate, and brought his plans forward. He left on the mail coach two days later, but I’ve yet to locate him in town.”

She frowned. “How odd. I would have thought, if he’d altered his plans in response to my letter, he would have called.”

“Indeed, but one should never try to predict the priorities of young men. We don’t know why he’d decided to visit London in the first place.”

She grimaced. “True.”

No more was said that night. Ever since their talk in his study, and their subsequent exchange in the garden hall, Tristan had refrained from arranging to indulge their senses beyond what could be achieved in the ballrooms. Even there, they were both intensely aware of each other, not just on the physical plane; each touch, each sliding caress, each shared glance, only added to the hunger.

She could feel it crawling her nerves; she didn’t need to meet his often darkened eyes to know it rode him even harder.

But she had wanted time, and he gave her that.

One thing asked for—one thing received.

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom that night, she acknowledged that, accepted it.

Once she was sunk in her bed, cozy and warm, returned to it.

She couldn’t hesitate for forever. Not even for another day. It wasn’t fair—not to him, not to her. She was toying with, tormenting, both of them. For no reason, not one that had relevance or power anymore.

Outside her door, Henrietta growled, then her nails scrabbled, clicked; the sound faded as the hound headed for the stairs. Leonora registered the fact, but distantly; she remained focused, undistracted.

Accept Tristan, or live without him.

Not a choice. Not for her. Not now.

She was going to take the chance—accept the risk and go forward.

The decision firmed in her mind; she waited, expecting some pulling back, some instinctive recoil, but if it was there, it was swamped beneath an upwelling tide of certainty. Of sureness.

Almost of joy.

It suddenly occurred to her that deciding to accept that inherent vulnerability was at least half the battle. Certainly for her.

She suddenly felt lighthearted, immediately started plotting how to tell Tristan of her decision—how to most appropriately break the news…

She had no idea how much time had passed when the realization that Henrietta had not returned to her position before her door slid into her mind.

That distracted her.

Henrietta often wandered the house at night, but never for long. She always returned to her favorite spot on the corridor rug outside Leonora’s door.

She wasn’t there now.

Leonora knew it even before, tugging her wrapper around her, she eased open her door and looked.

At empty space.

Faint light from the stairhead reached down the corridor; she hesitated, then, pulling her wrapper firmly about her, headed for the stairs.

She remembered Henrietta’s low growl before the hound had gone off. It might have been in response to a cat crossing the back garden. Then again…

What if Mountford was trying to break in again?

What if he harmed Henrietta?

Her heart leapt. She’d had the hound since she was a tiny scrap of fur; Henrietta was in truth her closest confidante, the silent recipient of hundreds of secrets.

Gliding wraithlike down the stairs, she told herself not to be silly. It would be a cat. There were lots of cats in Montrose Place. Maybe two cats, and that was why Henrietta hadn’t yet come back upstairs.

She reached the bottom of the main stairs and debated whether to light a candle. Belowstairs would be black; she might even stumble over Henrietta, who would expect her to see her.

Stopping by the side table at the back of the front hall, she used the tinderbox left there to strike a match and light one of the candles left waiting. Picking up the simple candlestick, she pushed through the green baize door.

Holding the candle high, she walked down the corridor. The walls leapt out at her as the candlelight touched them, but all seemed familiar, normal. Her slippers slapping on the cold tile, she passed the butler’s pantry and the housekeeper’s room, then came to the short flight of stairs leading down to the kitchens.

She paused and looked down. All below was inky black, except for patches of faint moonlight slanting in through the kitchen windows and through the small fanlight above the back door. In the diffuse light from the latter, she could just make out the shaggy outline of Henrietta; the hound was curled up against the corridor wall, her head on her paws.

“Henrietta?” Straining her eyes, Leonora peered down.

Henrietta didn’t move, didn’t twitch.

Something was wrong. Henrietta wasn’t that young. Greatly fearing the hound had suffered a seizure, Leonora grabbed up her trailing night rail and rushed down the stairs.