The look on Gertie’s face was unashamedly wicked; the thought it evoked in Leonora’s mind was definitely attractive.
“I take your point…” She stared into the distance, her mind juggling possibilities. “Give him what he’s angled for, but…” Refocusing on Gertie, she beamed. “Of course!”
The number of invitations had grown to nineteen; she felt almost giddy with defiance.
She swung to Mildred; she’d been watching Gertie, a rather bemused expression on her face. “Before Lady Holland’s, perhaps we should attend the Carstairs’s rout?”
They did; Leonora used the event as a refresher to dust off and buff up her social skills. By the time she walked into Lady Holland’s elegant rooms, her confidence was riding high. She knew she looked well in her deep topaz silk, her hair piled high, topaz drops in her ears, pearls looped about her throat.
Following in Mildred’s and Gertie’s wake, she curtsied before Lady Holland, who shook her hand and uttered the usual pleasantries, all the while observing her through shrewd and intelligent eyes.
“I understand you’ve made a conquest,” her ladyship remarked.
Leonora raised her brows lightly, let her lips curve. “Entirely unintentionally, I assure you.”
Lady Holland’s eyes widened; she looked intrigued.
Leonora let her smile deepen; head high, she glided on.
From where he’d retreated to lounge against the drawing-room wall, Tristan watched the exchange, saw Lady Holland’s surprise, caught the amused glance she shot him as Leonora moved into the crowd.
He ignored it, fixed his gaze on his quarry, and pushed away from the wall.
He’d arrived unfashionably early, uncaring that her ladyship, who had always taken an interest in his career, would correctly guess his reasons. The past two hours had been ones of inaction, of unutterable boredom, reminding him why he’d never felt he’d missed anything in joining the army at twenty. Now Leonora had consented to arrive, he could get on with things.
The invitations he’d arranged through his own offices and those of his town-bound old dears would ensure that for the next week he’d be able to come up with her every night, somewhere in the ton.
Somewhere conducive to furthering his goal.
Beyond that, even if the damn woman still held firm, society being what it was, the invitations would continue of their own accord, creating opportunities for him to exploit until she surrendered.
He had her in his sights; she wouldn’t escape.
Closing the distance between them, he came up alongside her as her aunts sank onto a chaise by one side of the room. His appearance preempted a number of other gentlemen who had noticed Leonora and thought to test the waters.
He’d discovered that Lady Warsingham was by no means unknown within the ton; nor was her niece. The prevailing view of Leonora was that she was a willful lady stubbornly and intractably opposed to marriage. Although her age placed her beyond the ranks of the marriageable misses, her beauty, assurance, and behavior cast her in the light of a challenge, at least in the eyes of men who viewed challenging ladies with interest.
Such gentlemen would no doubt take note of his interest and look elsewhere. If they were wise.
He bowed to the older ladies, both of whom beamed at him.
He turned to Leonora and encountered an arch and distinctly chilly glance. “Miss Carling.
She gave him her hand and curtsied. He bowed, raised her, and set her hand on his sleeve.
Only to have her lift it off and turn to greet a couple who’d strolled up.
“Leonora! I declare we haven’t seen you for an age!”
“Good evening, Daphne. Mr. Merryweather.” Leonora touched cheeks with the brown-haired Daphne, a lady of bounteous charms, then shook hands with the gentleman whose coloring and features proclaimed him Daphne’s brother.
She shot Tristan a glance, then smoothly included him, introducing him as the Earl of Trentham.
“I say!” Merryweather’s eyes lit. “I heard you were in the Guards at Waterloo.”
“Indeed.” He uttered the word as repressively as he could, but Merryweather failed to take the hint. He babbled on with the usual questions; inwardly sighing, Tristan gave his practiced answers.
Leonora, more attuned to his tones, shot him a curious glance, but then Daphne claimed her attention.