She cast him a severe glance as he ushered her through the gallery doors. “Do all earls get such special privileges?”
He met her gaze. “Only special earls.”
Her lips curved before she looked away.
He hadn’t expected to gain all that much from the excursion, to his mind a minor exercise in his wider strategy. Instead, he found himself engrossed in a spirited discussion on the merits of landscapes over portraiture.
“People are so alive! They’re what life’s about.”
“But the scenes are the essence of the country, of England—the people are a function of the place.”
“Nonsense! Just look at this costermonger.” She pointed to an excellent line drawing of a man with a barrow. “One glance and you’d know exactly where he came from—even what borough of London. The people personify the place—they’re a representation of it, too.”
They were in one of the smaller rooms in the labyrinthine gallery; from the corner of his eye, he saw the other group in the chamber move on through the door, leaving them alone.
Leaning on his arm, studying a busy river scene populated with half a regiment of dockworkers, Leonora hadn’t noticed. Obedient to his tug, she strolled on to the next work—a plain and simple landscape.
She humphed, glanced back at the river scene, then up at him. “You can’t expect me to believe you’d rather have an empty landscape than a picture of people.”
He looked into her face. She stood close; her lips, her warmth, beckoned. Her hand lay trustingly on his arm.
Desire and more unexpectedly surfaced.
He didn’t try to mask it, to screen it from his face or his eyes.
“People in general don’t interest me.” He met her gaze, let his voice deepen. “But there’s one picture of you I’d like to see again, to experience again.”
She held his gaze. A soft blush slowly rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. She knew exactly what image he was thinking of—of her naked and wanting beneath him. She drew a brief breath. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
He felt her quiver.
“It’s not going to happen—you won’t see that picture again.”
He studied her, felt both humble and amazed that she didn’t see him for what he was—that she believed, not naively but with simple conviction, that if she stood firm, he wouldn’t step beyond the bounds of honor and seize her.
She was wrong, but he valued her trust, treasured it too much to unnecessarily shake it.
So he raised a brow, smiled. “On that I fear we’re unlikely to agree.”
As he’d anticipated, she sniffed, put her nose in the air, and turned to the next work of art.
He let one day go by—a day he spent checking with his various contacts, all those whom he’d set the task of locating Montgomery Mountford—before returning to Montrose Place and inveigling Leonora to accompany him on a drive to Richmond. He’d done his forward planning; the Star and Garter was apparently the place to see and be seen.
It was the “be seen” aspect he required.
Leonora felt curiously lighthearted as she walked beneath the trees, her hand locked in Trentham’s. Not precisely de rigueur, but when she’d pointed that out, he’d merely raised a brow and continued holding her hand.
Her mood was due to him; she couldn’t imagine feeling this way with any other gentleman she’d known. She knew it was dangerous, that she would miss the unexpected closeness, the totally unanticipated sharing—the subtle thrill of walking beside a wolf—when he finally gave in and bade her adieu.
She didn’t care. When the time came, she’d mope, but for now she was determined to grasp the moment, a fleeting interlude as spring bloomed. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined such a state of ease could arise from intimacy, from one simple act of physical sharing.
There wouldn’t be any repetition. Despite what she’d thought, he hadn’t intended it to happen in
the first place, and no matter what he said, he wouldn’t precipitate another encounter against her wishes. Now that she knew he felt honor-bound to marry her, she knew better than to lie with him again. She wasn’t such a fool as to tempt fate further.
No matter how she felt when with him.