It beckoned.
Enticed.
Fed Tristan’s need.
But it was her need that he played to, that he watched and gauged, that ultimately had him easing his hold on her, gathering her in one arm while he raised a hand to her face. To trace her cheek, frame her jaw, hold her still while he methodically plundered. Yet at no stage did he seek to overwhelm her; that, he knew, was not the route to ensnare her.
To seduce her was an instinct he no longer sought to fight. He eased his fingers from the delicate curve of her jaw and sent them lower, flirting with her senses until her lips turned demanding, then caressing lightly, enough to educate her imagination, enough to feed her hunger, not enough to sate it.
Her breasts swelled beneath his tracing touch; he ached to take more, to claim more, but held back. Strategy and tactics were his strong suit; in this as in all things, he was playing to win.
When her fingers clenched on his skull, he consented to palm her breast, to fondle, still lightly, still inciting rather than satisfying. He felt her senses leap, sensed her nerves tightening. Felt her nipple pebble against his palm.
Had to drag a breath deep and hold it, then, gradually, step by step, he eased back from the kiss. Gradually unclenched the muscles locking her to him. Gradually let her surface from the kiss.
But he didn’t take his hand from her breast.
When he released her lips and lifted his head, he was still lightly tracing, back and forth across the swell, teasingly circling her nipple. Her lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes, looked into his.
Her lips were lightly swollen, her eyes wide.
He looked down.
She followed his gaze.
Her lungs locked.
He counted the seconds before she remembered to breathe, knew she had to be dizzy. But she didn’t step back.
It was he who shifted his caressing hand to her upper arm, grasped gently, then slid his hand down to hers. He lifted it to his lips, met her eyes as, faint color in her cheeks, she looked up at him.
He smiled, but hid the true tenor of the gesture. “Come.” Setting her hand on his sleeve, he turned her to the house. “We need to start back to town.”
The journey was a godsend. Leonora took full advantage of the hour during which Trentham was engrossed with his cattle, smoothly tacking through the traffic that grew heavier as they entered the capital, to calm her mind. To try to restore—reclaim—her customary assurance.
She glanced at him often, wondering what he was thinking, but other than an occasional enigmatic glance—leaving her certain he was partly amused but still quite intent—he said nothing. Aside from all else, his tiger was up behind them, too close to allow any private words.
Indeed, she wasn’t sure she wanted any. Any explanation. Not that he’d shown any sign of giving her one, but that seemed to be part of the game.
Part of the building exhilaration, the excitement. The craving.
That last she hadn’t expected, but she certainly felt it—could now understand what she never had before—what caused women, even ladies of eminent sense, to cater to a gentleman’s physical demands.
Not that Trentham had made any real demands. Yet. That was her point.
If she could know when he would, and what those demands might be, she’d be better placed to plan her response.
As matters were…she was left to speculate.
She was sunk in that endeavor when the curricle slowed. She blinked and looked around, and discovered they were home. Trentham drew the curricle up before Number 12. Handing the reins to the tiger, he climbed down, then lifted her to the pavement.
Hands about her waist he looked down at her.
She looked back, and made no attempt to move away.
His lips curved. He opened them—
Footsteps crunched on gravel nearby. They both turned to look.