Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

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,

finds 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.