Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

“Oh.” Her certainty dissipated; her belligerence deflated. Nevertheless, she felt forced to ask, “So you weren’t behind the earlier offers? Or the other incidents?”

“Earlier offers? I take it someone was keen to buy your uncle’s house?”

“Indeed. Very keen.” They’d well-nigh driven her demented. “However, if it wasn’t you or your friends…” She paused. “Are you sure none of your friends…?”

“Quite sure. We were in this together from the first.”

“I see.” Determined, she drew breath, lifted her chin even higher. He was a full head taller than she; it was difficult to adopt a censorious stance. “In that case, I feel I must ask what you intend to do with Number 12, now you have bought it. I understand neither you nor your friends will be taking up residence.”

Her thoughts—her suspicions—were there to be read, clear in her lovely blue eyes. Their shade was arresting, neither violet nor plain blue; they reminded Tristan of periwinkles at twilight. Her sudden appearance, the brief—all too brief—moment of collision when, against all odds, she’d run into his arms…in light of his earlier thoughts of her, in light of the obsession that had been building over the past weeks while, from the library of Number 12, he’d watched her walk her garden, the abrupt introduction had left him adrift.

The obvious direction of her thoughts rapidly hauled him back to earth.

He raised a brow, faintly haughty. “My friends and I merely wish for a quiet place in which to meet. I assure you our interests are in no way nefarious, illicit, or…” He’d been going to say “socially unacceptable”; the matrons of the ton would probably not agree. Holding her gaze, he glibly substituted, “Such as to cause any raised eyebrows even among the most prudish.”

Far from being put in her place, she narrowed her eyes. “I thought that’s what gentlemen’s clubs were for. There are any number of such establishments only blocks away in Mayfair.”

“Indeed. We, however, value our privacy.” He wasn’t going to explain the reasons for their club. Before she could think of some way to probe further, he seized the initiative. “These people who tried to buy your uncle’s house. How insistent were they?”

Remembered aggravation flared in her eyes. “Too insistent. They made themselves—or rather the agent—into a definite pest.”

“They never approached your uncle directly?”

She frowned. “No. Stolemore handled all their offers, but that was quite bad enough.”

“How so?”

When she hesitated, he offered, “Stolemore was the agent for the sale of Number 12. I’m on my way to speak with him. Was it he who was obnoxious, or…?”

She grimaced. “I really can’t say that it was he. Indeed, I suspect it was the party he was acting for—no agent could remain in business if he habitually behaved in such a manner, and at times Stolemore seemed embarrassed.”

“I see.” He caught her gaze. “And what were the other ‘incidents’ that occurred?”

She didn’t want to tell him, was wishing she’d never mentioned them; that was clear in her eyes, in the way her lips set.

Unperturbed, he simply waited; his gaze locked with hers, he let the silence stretch, his stance unthreatening, but immovable. As many had before, she read his message arright. Somewhat waspishly replied, “There have been two attempts to break into our house.”

He frowned. “Both attempts after you’d refused to sell?”

“The first was a week after Stolemore finally accepted defeat and went away.”

He hesitated, but it was she who put his thoughts into words.

“Of course, there’s nothing to connect the attempted burglaries with the offer to buy the house.”

Except that she believed the connection was there.

“I thought,” she continued, “that if you and your friends had been the mystery purchasers interested in our house, then that would mean that the attempted burglaries and”—she caught herself, hauled in a breath—“were not connected but to do with something else.”

He inclined his head; her logic, as far as it went, was sound, yet it was plain she hadn’t told him all. He debated whether to press her, to ask outright if the burglaries were the sum total of the reasons why she’d come barreling out to do battle with him, deliberately disregarding the social niceties. She cast a quick glance toward her uncle’s gate. Questioning her could wait; at this juncture, Stolemore might be more forthcoming. When she glanced back at him, he smiled. Charmingly. “I believe you now have the better of me.”

When she blinked at him, he went on, “Given we’re to be neighbors of sorts, I think it would be acceptable for you to tell me your name.”

She eyed him, not warily but assessingly. Then she inclined her head, held out her hand. “Miss Leonora Carling.”

His smile broadening, he grasped her fingers briefly, was visited by an urge to hold on to them for longer. She wasn’t married after all. “Good afternoon, Miss Carling. And your uncle is?”

“Sir Humphrey Carling.”

“And your brother?”

A frown started to grow in her eyes. “Jeremy Carling.”

His smile remained, all reassurance. “And have you lived here long? Is it as peaceful a neighborhood as it seems at first glance?”

Her narrowing eyes told him she hadn’t been deceived; she answered only his second question. “Entirely peaceful.”

Until recently. Leonora held his disturbingly sharp gaze, and added, as repressively as she could, “One hopes it will remain so.”

She saw his lips twitch before he glanced down.

“Indeed.” With a wave, he invited her to walk with him the few steps back to the gate.

She turned, only then realized her acquiescence was a tacit acknowledgment that she’d come racing out purely to meet him. She glanced up, caught his gaze—knew he’d seen the action for the admission it was. Bad enough. The glint she glimpsed in his hazel eyes, a flash that made her senses seize, her breath catch, was infinitely more disturbing.

But then his lashes veiled his eyes, and he smiled, as charmingly as before. She felt increasingly sure the expression was a mask.

He halted before the gate and held out his hand.

Courtesy forced her to surrender her fingers once more to his grasp.

His hand closed; his sharp, too-farseeing eyes trapped her gaze. “I’ll look forward to extending our acquaintance, Miss Carling. Pray convey my greetings to your uncle; I will call to pay my respects shortly.”

She inclined her head, consciously clinging to graciousness while she longed to pull her fingers free. It was an effort to keep them from fluttering in his; his touch, cool, firm, a fraction too strong, affected her equilibrium in a most peculiar way. “Good afternoon, Lord Trentham.”

He released her and bowed elegantly.

She turned, went through the gate, then swung it shut. Her eyes touched his briefly before she faced the house.

That fleeting connection was enough to steal her breath once again.

Walking up the path, she tried to force her lungs to work, but could feel his gaze still on her. Then she heard the scrape of boots as he turned, the sound of firm footsteps as he headed down the pavement. She finally breathed in, then exhaled in relief. What was it about Trentham that so set her on edge?

And on the edge of what?

The feel of his hard fingers and faintly callused palm about her hand lingered, a sensual memory imprinted on her mind. Recollection niggled, but as before proved elusive. She’d never met him before, of that she was sure, yet something about him was faintly familiar.

Inwardly shaking her head, she climbed the porch steps and determinedly forced her mind to the duties she’d left waiting.