The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  It was definitely time to get dressed. She spied her chemise on the floor and turned to crawl out of the cocoon.

  Steely fingers closed like a manacle about her wrist.

  He didn’t tug or restrain her; he didn’t have to. She knew she couldn’t break free until he consented to let her go.

  She sank back into the coverlet. He was staring up at the ceiling; she couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Let’s just see if I’ve got this straight.”

  His voice was even, but there was an edge to it that left her wary.

  “You’re a twenty-six-year-old virgin—I beg your pardon, ex-virgin. You have no other entanglements, romantic or otherwise. Correct?”

  She would have loved to tell him this was pointless, but from experience she knew humoring difficult males was the fastest way to deal with their megrims. “Yes.”

  “Am I also correct in stating that you set out deliberately to seduce me?”

  She pressed her lips together, then conceded, “Not immediately.”

  “But today. That”—his thumb had started to draw distracting little circles on the inside of her wrist—“was intended. Deliberate. You were set on having me…what? Initiate you?”

  He turned his head and looked at her. She blushed, but forced herself to nod. “Yes. Just that.”

  “Hmm.” He went back to staring at the ceiling. “And now, having accomplished your goal, you expect to say: ‘Thank you, Tristan, that was very nice,’ and carry on as if it never happened.”

  She hadn’t thought that far. She frowned. “I assumed, eventually, we’d go our separate ways.” She studied his profile. “There’s no consequences to this, no reason we need do anything because of it.”

  The corner of his lips lifted; she couldn’t tell which of the possible moods the gesture reflected.

  “Except,” he stated, his voice still even, but with the accents increasingly clipped, “you’ve miscalculated.”

  She really didn’t want to ask, especially given his tone, but he simply waited, so she had to. “How?”

  “You may not expect me to marry you. However, as the one who was seduced, I expect you to marry me.”

  He turned his head, met her gaze—let her read in the blazing hazel of his eyes that he was absolutely serious.

  She stared—read the message twice. Her jaw actually slackened, then she snapped her lips shut. “That is nonsensical! You don’t want to marry me—you know you don’t. You’re simply being difficult.” With a twist and a tug, she wrenched her wrist free, aware she managed only because he let her. She scrambled from the bed. Anger, fear, irritation, and trepidation were a heady mix. She made for her chemise.

  Tristan sat up as she left the bed, his gaze locking on the bruises circling her upper arms. Then he remembered the attack, and breathed again. Mountford had marked her, not him.

  Then she bent and swiped up her chemise, and he saw the smudges on her hips, the faint bluish marks his fingers had left on the alabaster skin of her bottom. She turned, struggling into the chemise, and he saw similar marks on her breasts.

  Softly swore.

  “What?” She yanked her chemise down and glared at him.

  Lips compressed, he shook his head. “Nothing.” He stood, and reached for his trousers.

  Something dark, something powerful and dangerous was churning inside him. Burgeoning, struggling to break free.

  He couldn’t think.

  He grabbed her dress from the bed and shook it out; there was only the slightest stain, and a small red spot. The sight rattled his control. He blocked it out, and carried the gown to her.

  She took it, conveying her thanks with a haughty inclination of her head. He nearly laughed. She thought he was letting her walk free.

  He shrugged into his shirt, quickly buttoned it, tucked it into his waistband, then quickly and expertly knotted his cravat. All the while he watched her. She was used to having a maid; she couldn’t do up her gown on her own.

  When he was fully dressed, he picked up her cloak. “Here. Let me.” He handed her the cloak; she glanced at him, then took it. And turned, presenting him with her back.

  He quickly laced up her gown. As he tied off the laces, his fingers slowed. He hooked one finger beneath the laces, anchoring her before him. Leaning down, he spoke softly in her ear. “I haven’t changed my mind. I intend to marry you.”

  She stood poker straight, looking ahead, then she turned her head and met his eyes. “I haven’t changed my mind either. I don’t want to get married.” She held his gaze, then added, “I never truly did.”

  He hadn’t been able to shift her.

  The argument had raged all the way down the stairs, reduced to hissed whispers as they crossed the ground floor because of Biggs, only to escalate again when they reached the relative safety of the garden.

  Nothing he’d said had swayed her.

  When, driven to complete and total exasperation by the notion that a lady of twenty-six whom he’d just very pleasurably initiated into the delights of intimacy should refuse to wed him, title, wealth, houses, and all, he’d threatened to march straight up her garden path and demand her hand from her uncle and her brother, revealing all if she made that necessary, she’d gasped, halted, turned to him—and nearly slain him with a look of horrified vulnerability.

  “You said what was between us would remain between us.”

  There’d been real fear in her eyes.

  He’d backed down.

  In real disgust had heard himself gruffly assuring her that of course he wouldn’t do any such thing.

  Hoisted with his own petard.

  Worse, hoisted with his honor.

  Late that night, slumped before the fire in his library, Tristan tried to find a way through the morass that had, without warning, appeared around his feet.

  Slowly sipping French brandy, he replayed all their exchanges, tried to read the thoughts, the emotions, behind her words. Some he couldn’t be certain of, some he couldn’t define, but of one thing he felt reasonably sure. She honestly didn’t think she—a twenty-six-year-old ape-leader—her words—was capable of attracting and holding the honest and honorable attentions of a man like him.

  Raising his glass, eyes on the flames, he let the fine liquor slide down his throat.

  Admitted, quietly, to himself, that he didn’t truly care what she thought.

  He had to have her—in his house, within his walls, in his bed. Safe. Had to; he no longer had any choice. The dark, dangerous emotion she’d stirred to life and now unleashed would not permit any other outcome.

  He hadn’t known he had it in him, that degree of feeling. Yet that evening, when he’d been forced to stand on the garden path and watch her—let her—walk away from him, he’d finally realized what that roiling emotion was.

  Possessiveness.

  He’d come very close to giving it free rein.

  He’d always been a protective man, witness his erstwhile occupation, and now his tribe of old dears. He’d always understood that much of himself, but with Leonora his feelings went far beyond any protective instinct.

  Given that, he didn’t have much time. There was a very definite limit to his patience; there always had been.

  Rapidly he mentally scanned all the arrangements he’d put in place in pursuit of Mountford, including those he’d initiated that evening after returning from Montrose Place.

  For the moment, that line would hold. He could turn his attention to the other front on which he was engaged.

  He had to convince Leonora to marry him; he had to change her mind.

  How?

  Ten minutes later he rose and went to seek his old dears. Information, he’d always maintained, was the key to any successful campaign.

  The dinner with her aunts, a not-infrequent event in the weeks leading up to the Season when her aunt Mildred, Lady Warsingham, would come to try and convince Leonora to cast her hat into the matrimonial ring, was a near disaster.

  A fact directly
attributable to Trentham, even in his absence.

  The next morning, Leonora was still having trouble subduing her blushes, still battling to keep her mind from dwelling on those moments when, panting and heated, she’d lain beneath him and watched him above her, moving in that deep, compulsive rhythm, her body accepting the surges of his, the rolling, relentless physical fusion.

  She’d watched his face, seen passion strip away all his charm and leave the harsh angles and planes etched with something far more primitive.

  Fascinating. Enthralling.

  And utterly distracting.

  She threw herself into sorting and rearranging every scrap of paper in her escritoire.

  At twelve, the doorbell pealed. She heard Castor cross the hall and open the door. The next instant Mildred’s voice rang out. “In the parlor, is she? Don’t worry—I’ll see myself in.”

  Leonora pushed her piles of papers into the escritoire, closed it, and rose. Wondering what had brought her aunt back to Montrose Place so soon, she faced the door and patiently waited to find out.

  Mildred swept in, stylishly turned out in black and white. “Well, my dear!” She advanced on Leonora. “Here you sit, all by yourself. I wish you would consent to come with me on my visits, but I know you won’t, so I won’t bother bemoaning that.”

  Leonora dutifully kissed Mildred’s scented cheek, and murmured her gratitude.

  “Dreadful child.” Mildred subsided onto the chaise and settled her skirts. “Now, I had to come because I have simply wonderful news! I have tickets for Mr. Kean’s new play for this very evening. The theater is already sold out for weeks ahead—it’s going to be the play of the Season. But by a fabulous stroke of magnanimous fate, a dear friend gave me tickets, and I have a spare. Gertie will come, of course. And you will come, too, won’t you?” Mildred looked at her beseechingly. “You know Gertie will mutter all through the performance otherwise—she always behaves when you’re there.”

  Gertie was her other aunt, Mildred’s older, unmarried sister. Gertie had strong views about gentlemen, and while she refrained from voicing these in Leonora’s presence, deeming her niece still too young and impressionable to hear such caustic truths, she had never spared her sister from her blistering observations, blessedly delivered sotto voce.

  Sinking into the armchair opposite Mildred, Leonora hesitated. Visiting the theater with her aunt generally meant meeting at least two gentlemen Mildred had decided were eligible partis for her hand. But such a visit also meant watching a play, during which no one would dare talk. She would be free to lose herself in the performance. With luck, it might succeed in distracting her from Trentham and his performance.

  And a chance to see the inimitable Edmund Kean was not to be lightly refused.

  “Very well.” She refocused on Mildred in time to see triumph fleetingly light her aunt’s eyes. She narrowed her own. “But I refuse to be paraded like a well-bred mare during the interval.”

  Mildred dismissed the quibble with a wave. “If you wish, you may remain in your seat throughout the break. Now, you will wear your midnight blue silk, won’t you? I know you care nothing for your appearance, so you may do it to please me.”

  The hopeful look in Mildred’s eyes was impossible to deny; Leonora felt her lips curve. “As such a sought-after opportunity comes through you, I can hardly refuse.” The midnight blue gown was one of her favorites, so appeasing her aunt cost her nothing. “But I warn you—I won’t put up with any Bond Street beau whispering sweet nothings in my ear during the performance.”

  Mildred sighed. She shook her head as she rose. “When we were girls, having eligible gentlemen whisper in our ears was the highlight of the night.” She glanced at Leonora. “I’m due at Lady Henry’s, then Mrs. Arbuthnot’s, so I must away. I’ll call for you in the carriage around eight.”

  Leonora nodded her agreement, then saw her aunt to the door.

  She returned to the parlor more pensive. Perhaps going out into the ton, at least for the few weeks before the Season proper commenced, might be wise.

  Might distract her from the lingering effects of her seduction.

  Might help her recover from the shock of Trentham offering to marry her. And the even greater shock of him insisting that she should.

  She didn’t understand his reasoning, but he’d seemed very set on it. A few weeks in society being exposed to other men would no doubt remind her why she’d never wed.

  She suspected nothing. Not until the carriage drew up before the theater steps and a harried groom opened the door did the faintest glimmer of a suspicion cross her mind.

  And by then it was too late.

  Trentham stepped forward and calmly held out his hand to assist her from the carriage.

  Jaw slack, she stared at him.

  Mildred’s elbow dug into her ribs; she started, then threw a swift, fulminating glance at her aunt before haughtily reaching out and placing her fingers in Trentham’s palm.

  She had no choice. Carriages were banking up; the steps of the theater hosting the most talked-about play was not the place to create a scene—to tell a gentleman what one thought of him and his machinations. To inform her aunt that this time she’d gone too far.

  Cloaked in chilly hauteur, she allowed him to help her down, then stood, feigning icy indifference, idly surveying the fashionable hordes streaming up the theater steps and through the open doors while he greeted her aunts and assisted them to the pavement.

  Mildred, resplendent in her favorite black and white, forcefully linked her arm in Gertie’s and forged her way up the steps.

  Coolly, Trentham turned to her and offered his arm.

  She met his gaze, to her surprise saw no triumph in his hazel eyes, but rather a careful watchfulness. The sight mollified her somewhat; she consented to lay the tips of her fingers on his sleeve and allow him to guide her in her aunts’ wake.

  Tristan considered the angle of Leonora’s chin and preserved his silence. They joined her aunts in the foyer, where the crush had brought them to a standstill. He took the lead and with no great difficulty cleared a path to the stairs upward, drawing Leonora with him; her aunts followed close behind. Once on the stairs the press of bodies eased; covering Leonora’s hand on his sleeve, he led his party up to the semicircular corridor leading to the boxes.

  He glanced at Leonora as they neared the door of the box he’d hired. “I’ve heard that Mr. Kean is the best actor of the day, and tonight’s play a worthy showcase for his talents. I thought you might enjoy it.”

  She met his eyes briefly, then inclined her head, still haughtily aloof. Reaching the box, he held aside the heavy curtain screening the doorway; she swept in, her head high. He waited for her aunts to pass him, then followed, allowing the curtain to fall closed behind him.

  Lady Warsingham and her sister bustled to the front of the box and disposed themselves in two of the three seats along the front. Leonora had paused in the shadows by the wall; her narrowed gaze was fixed on Lady Warsingham, who was busy noting all the notables in the other boxes, exchanging nods, determinedly not looking Leonora’s way.

  He hesitated, then approached.

  Her attention swung to him; her eyes flared. “How did you manage this?” She spoke in a hissed whisper. “I never told you she was my aunt.”

  He raised a brow. “I have my sources.”

  “And the tickets.” She glanced out at the boxes, quickly filling with those lucky enough to have secured a place. “Your cousins told me you never go out in society.”

  “As you can see, that’s not strictly true.”

  She glanced back at him, expecting more.

  He met her gaze. “I’ve little use for society in general, but I’m not here to spend my evening with the ton.”

  She frowned, somewhat warily asked, “Why are you here then?”

  He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then murmured, “To spend my evening with you.”

  A bell clanged in the corridor. He reached for her arm and guided
her to the remaining chair at the front of the box. She threw him a skeptical glance, then sat. He drew the fourth chair around, set it to her left, angled toward her, and settled to watch the performance.

  It was worth every penny of the small fortune he’d paid. His eyes rarely strayed to the stage; his gaze remained on Leonora’s face, watching the emotions flitting across her features, delicate, pure; and, in this setting, unguarded. Although initially aware of him, Edmund Kean’s magic quickly drew her in; he sat and watched, content, perceptive, intrigued.

  He had no idea why she’d refused him—why, according to her, she had no interest in marriage at all. Her aunts, subjected to his most subtle interrogation, had been unable to shed any light on the matter, which meant he was going into this battle blind.

  Not that that materially affected his strategy. As far as he’d ever heard, there was only one way to win a reluctant lady.

  When the curtain came down at the end of the first act, Leonora sighed, then remembered where she was, and with whom. She glanced at Trentham, was unsurprised to find his gaze steady on her face.

  She smiled. Coolly. “I’d very much like some refreshment.”

  His eyes held hers for a moment, then his lips curved and he inclined his head, accepting the commission. His gaze went past her and he rose.

  Leonora swiveled and saw Gertie and Mildred on their feet, gathering their reticules and shawls.

  Mildred beamed at her and Trentham; her gaze settled on his face. “We’re off to parade in the corridor and meet everyone. Leonora hates to be subjected to the crush, but I’m sure we can rely on you to entertain her.”

  For the second time that evening, Leonora’s jaw fell slack. Stunned, she watched her aunts bustle out, watched Trentham hold the heavy curtain aside for them to escape. Given her earlier insistence on avoiding the ritual parade, she could hardly complain, and there was nothing the least improper in her and Trentham remaining in the box alone; they were in public, under the gaze of any number of the ton’s matrons.

  He let the curtain fall and turned back to her.

  She cleared her throat. “I really am quite parched…” Refreshments were available by the stairs; reaching the booth and returning would keep him occupied for a good portion of the interval.