Dalziel inclined his head in turn. “I’ll advise them to do so.”
His gaze, fathomless, lingered on her for a moment, then switched to Tristan. “I take it”—the words were even, yet gentler—“that this is farewell, then?”
Tristan held his gaze, then his lips quirked. He rose, and extended his hand. “Indeed. As close to farewell as those in our business ever get.”
An answering smile fleetingly softened Dalziel’s face as rising, too, he gripped Tristan’s hand. Then he released it, and bowed to Leonora. “Your servant, Miss Carling. I won’t pretend I would much rather you did not exist, but fate has clearly overruled me.” His lazy smile robbed the words of any offense. “I sincerely wish you both well.”
“Thank you.” Feeling far more in charity with him than she had expected, Leonora politely nodded.
Then she turned. Tristan took her hand, opened the door, and they left the small office in the bowels of Whitehall.
“Why did you take me to meet him?”
“Dalziel?”
“Yes, Dalziel. He obviously wasn’t expecting me—he clearly saw my presence as some message. What?”
Tristan looked into her face as the carriage slowed for a corner, then righted and rolled on. “I took you because seeing you, meeting you, was the one message he could neither ignore nor misconstrue. He is my past; you—” He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then closed his hand about hers. “You,” he said, his voice deep and low, “are my future.”
She considered what little she could read in his shadowed face. “So all that”—with her other hand, she gestured back toward Whitehall—“is at an end—behind you?”
He nodded. Lifted her trapped fingers to his lips. “The end of one life—the beginning of another.”
She looked into his face, into his dark eyes, then slowly smiled. Leaving her hand in his, she leaned closer. “Good.”
His new life—he was impatient to get on with it.
He was a master of strategy and tactics, of exploiting situations for his own ends; by the next morning, he had his latest plan in place.
At ten, he called to take Leonora for a drive, and kidnapped her. He whisked her down to Mallingham Manor, currently devoid of old dears—they were all still in London, busily devoting themselves to his cause.
The same cause to which, after an intimate luncheon, he devoted himself with exemplary zeal.
When the clock on the mantelpiece of the earl’s bedchamber chimed three o’clock, he stretched, luxuriating in the slide of the silk sheets over his skin, and even more in the warmth of Leonora slumped boneless against him.
He glanced down. The tumbled mahogany silk of her hair screened her face. Beneath the sheet, he curved a hand about her hip, possessively caressed.
“Hmm-mm.” The sated sound was that of a woman well loved. After a moment, she mumbled, “You planned this, didn’t you?”
He grinned; a touch of the wolf still remained. “I’ve been plotting for some time to get you into this bed.” His bed, the earl’s bed. Where she belonged.
“As distinct from all those nooks you were so successful in finding in all the hostesses’s houses?” Lifting her head, she pushed back her hair, then rearranged herself against him, propping her arms on his chest so she could look into his face.
“Indeed—they were merely necessary evils, dictated by the vagaries of the battle.”
She looked into his eyes. “I’m not a battle—I told you before.”
“But you are something I had to win.” He let a heartbeat pass, then added, “And I’ve triumphed.”
Lips curving, Leonora searched his eyes and didn’t bother to deny it. “And have you found victory to be sweet?”
He closed his hands over her hips, held her to him. “Sweeter than I’d expected.”
“Indeed?” Ignoring the rush of warmth over her skin, she raised a brow. “Well, now you’ve plotted and planned and got me into your bed, what next?”
“As I aim to keep you here, I suspect we’d better get married.” Lifting one hand, he caught and played with strands of her hair. “I wanted to ask—did you want a big wedding?”
She hadn’t really thought. He was rushing her—calling the shots—yet…she didn’t want to waste any more of their lives either.
Here—lying naked with him in his bed—the physical sensations underscored the real attraction, all that had tempted her into his arms. It wasn’t just the pleasure that wrapped them about, but the comfort, the security, the promise of all their lives combined could be.
She refocused on his eyes. “No. A small ceremony with our families would suit very well.”
“Good.” His lashes flickered down.
She sensed the spurt of relief he tried to hide. “What is it?” She was learning; rarely did he not have some plan afoot.
His eyes flicked up to hers. He shrugged lightly. “I was hoping you’d agree to a small wedding. Much easier and faster to organize.”
“Well, we can discuss the details with your great-aunts and my aunts when we return to town.” She frowned, recollecting. “It’s the De Veres’ ball tonight—we have to attend.”
“No. We don’t.”
His tone was firm—decided; she glanced at him, puzzled. “We don’t?”
“I’ve had enough of the ton’s entertainments to last me for a year. And when they hear our news, I’m sure the hostesses will excuse us—after all, they love that sort of gossip and should be grateful to those of us who supply it.”
She stared at him. “What news? What gossip?”
“Why that we’re so head over heels in love that we refused to countenance any delay and have organized to be married in the chapel here tomorrow, in the presence of our combined families and a few selected friends.”
Silence reigned; she could barely take it in…then she did. “Tell me the details.” With one finger, she prodded his bare chest. “All of them. How is this supposed to work?”
He caught her finger, dutifully recited, “Jeremy and Humphrey will arrive this evening, then…”
She listened, and had to approve. Between them, he, his old dears, and her aunts had covered everything, even a gown for her to wear. He had a special license; the reverend of the village church who acted as chaplain for the estate would be delighted to marry them…
Head over heels in love.
She suddenly realized he’d not only said it, but was living it. Openly, in a manner guaranteed to demonstrate that fact to all the ton.
She refocused on his face, on the hard angles and planes that hadn’t changed, hadn’t softened in the least, that were now, here with her, totally devoid of his charming social mask. He was still talking, telling her of the arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Her eyes misted; freeing her finger, she laid it across his lips.
He stopped talking, met her gaze.
She smiled down at him; her heart overflowed. “I love you. So yes, I’ll marry you tomorrow.”
He searched her eyes, then his arms closed around her. “Thank God for that.”
She chuckled, sank down, laying her head on his shoulder. Felt his arms settle, holding her tight. “This is really all a plot to avoid having to attend any more balls and soirées, isn’t it?”
“And musicales. Don’t forget those.” Tristan bent his head and brushed a kiss to her forehead. Caught her gaze, softly said, “I’d much rather spend my evenings here, with you. Attending to my future.”
Her eyes, the periwinkle blue intense and brilliant, held his for a long moment, then she smiled, shifted, and drew his lips to hers.
He took what she offered, gave all he had in return.
Lust and a virtuous woman.
Fate had chosen his lady for him, and done a bloody good job.
Announcing
the next book in
the Bastion Club series
A GENTLEMAN’S HONOR
The tale of how Anthony Blake,
Viscount Torrington,
fi
nds his fated bride
will follow next month
On the shelves October 2003!
An excerpt from Chapter 1 follows
With every step Tony took along Park Street, his resistance to entering Amery House, to attending his godmother’s soirée and smiling and chatting and doing the pretty by a gaggle of young ladies with whom he had nothing in common—and who, if they knew the man he truly was, would probably faint—waxed stronger. Indeed, his reluctance over the whole damn business was veering toward the despondent.
Not by the wildest, most dramatic flight of fancy could he imagine being married to any of the young beauties he’d thus far had paraded before him. They were…too young. Too innocent, too untouched by life. He felt no connection with them whatsoever. The fact that they—each and every one—would happily accept his suit if he chose to favor them, and think themselves blessed, raised serious questions as to their intelligence.
He was not, had never been, an easy man. One look at him should tell any sane woman that. He would certainly not be an easy husband. The position of his wife was one that would demand a great deal of its holder, an aspect of which the sweet young things seemed to have no inkling.
His wife…
Not so many years ago, the thought of searching for her would have had him laughing. He had not, then, imagined finding a wife was something that would unduly exercise him—when he needed to marry, the right lady would be there, miraculously waiting.
He hadn’t, then, appreciated just how important, how vital, her role vis à vis himself would be.
Now he was faced with that anticipated need to marry—and an even greater need to find the right wife—but the right lady had thus far shown no inclination even to make an appearance.
The fact he had no idea what she looked like, what she was like, what aspects of her character or personality would be the vital clue—the crucial elements in her that he needed—did not make his task any easier.
He wanted a wife. That much he accepted—the restlessness that seemed to enmesh his very soul left him in no doubt of that—but exactly what he wanted, let alone why…that was the point on which he’d run aground.
Identify the target.
The first rule in planning any successful sortie.
Until he succeeded in satisfying that requirement, he couldn’t even start his campaign; the frustration irked—and fueled his habitual impatience to unprecedented heights.
Hunting a wife was ten times worse than hunting spies had ever been.
His footsteps echoed. Another, distant footfall sounded; his agent’s senses, still very much a part of him, flaring to full attention, he looked up.
Through the mist wreathing the street, he saw a man, well-muffled in coat and hat and carrying a cane, step away from the garden gate of…Amery House.
The man was too far away to recognize, and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.
Tony’s godmother’s house stood at the corner of Park and Green streets, its front door facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path that led up to the drawing room terrace.
By now the soirée would be in full swing. The thought of the feminine chatter, the high-pitched laughter—the giggles—the measuring glances of the matrons, the calculation in so many eyes, welled and pressed down on him.
On his left, the garden gate drew nearer. The temptation to take that route, to slip inside without any announcement, to mingle and quickly look over the field, then perhaps to retreat before even his godmother knew he was there, surfaced…
His hand closed around the wrought iron latch and he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; he passed through and closed it quietly behind him. From ahead, through the silent garden, heavily shadowed by large and ancient trees, the sound of conversation and laughter drifted down to him.
Mentally girding his loins, he drew in a deep breath, then went quickly up the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the back garden.
Through ingrained habit, he moved silently.
The woman crouching by the side of the man lying sprawled on his back, shoulders propped against the trunk of the largest tree in the garden, didn’t hear him.
The tableau exploded into Tony’s vision as he gained the top of the steps. Senses instantly alert, fully deployed, he paused.
Slim, svelte, gowned for the evening in silk, her dark hair piled high, with a silvery shawl wrapped about her shoulders and clutched tight in one, white-knuckled hand, the lady slowly, very slowly, rose. In her other hand, she held a long, scalloped stilletto; streaks of blood beaded on the wicked blade.
She held the dagger with the hilt loosely gripped in her right fist, the dagger point downward. She stared at the blade as if it were a snake.
A drop of dark liquid fell from the dagger’s point.
The lady shuddered.
Impulsively, Tony stepped forward, driven to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.
A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked at him blankly.
Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”
Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was clearly battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.
Tamping down that irrational urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.
“Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited…
After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready and died.
Stay calm. He willed the order at her; a cursory inspection confirmed she was right on both counts. The man was dead; he’d been knifed very neatly, a single deadly thrust between the ribs from the back. “Who is he—do you know?”
“A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”
He glanced up. “You knew him.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!” Then she caught her breath, closed her eyes, made a valiant and quite transparent attempt to catch her wits. “That is…”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”
With her free hand, she waved back at the house. She dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air. A headache…there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze returned to the body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”
Tony rose, shifting so that in looking at him, she was no longer looking at the body. “Did you see anyone leaving?”
She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, taking in the silent shadows, then abruptly swung her gaze back to him.
He sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”
His tone seemed to reassure her; her sudden tenseness eased fractionally.
He glanced again at the sprawled corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”
She blinked at him.
Moving slowly, he reached for her elbow. She permitted it, let him turn her, unresisting, and steer her back toward the terrace. She moved like a puppet, still very much in shock. He glanced at her pale face, but the shadows revealed little. “Did Ruskin have a wife, do you know?”
She started; he felt the jerk through his hold on her arm. From beneath her lashes, she cast him a shocked glance. “No.” Her voice was tight, strained. Finding his gaze on her face, she looked ahead. “No wife.”
If anything, she’d paled even more. He prayed she wouldn’t swoon, at least not before he got her inside. Appearing at his godmother’s soirée via the terrace doors with a lady senseless in his arms would create a stir even more intense than murder.
She start
ed shaking as they went up the steps, but she didn’t let go; she clung to her composure with a grim determination he was experienced enough to admire.
The terrace doors were ajar; they walked into the drawing room without attracting any particular attention. Finally in good light, he looked down at her, studied her, with his gaze traced her features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, her lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils on her head, exposing the delicate curve of her nape, the fine bones of her shoulders. Despite the circumstances, he felt the unmistakable flare of sensual attraction; given his earlier impulse, he wasn’t all that surprised.
She looked up, met his gaze. Her eyes were more green than hazel, large and well-set under arched brows; they were presently wide, their expression dazed, distant. Haunted.
He recognized the signs, but she seemed in no danger of succumbing to the vapors. Spying a chair along the wall, he guided her to it; she sank down with relief. “I must speak with Lady Amery’s butler. If you’ll remain here, I’ll send a footman with a glass of water.”
Her eyes lifted to his face. Her expression remained almost blank. “Please. If you would…”
He inclined his head; he was conscious of an inward wrench as he turned and headed into the crowd.
He found a footman first and dispatched him to revive the lady. Ignoring the many who tried to catch his eye, he found Clusters, the Amerys’ butler, in the hall, and pulled him into the library to explain the situation and give the necessary orders.
He’d been visiting Amery House since he’d been six months old; the staff knew him well. They acted on his orders, summoning his lordship from the cardroom and her ladyship from the drawing room, and sending a footman running for the Watch.
He wasn’t entirely surprised by the ensuing circus; his godmother was French, after all, and in this instance, she was ably supported by the Watch captain, a supercilious sort who saw difficulties where none existed. Having taken the man’s measure with one glance, Tony omitted mentioning the lady’s presence. There was in his view no reason to expose her to further and unnecessary trauma; given the dead man’s size and the way she’d held the dagger, it was difficult if not impossible to convincingly cast her as the killer.
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