The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1) - Page 137

Leaving him to usher her into the library, alone at last.

He paused to give Havers instructions for the carriage. Leonora went to stand before the fire, a goodly blaze throwing heat into the room. Outside, a chill wind blew and heavy clouds blocked the moon; not a pleasant evening.

Holding out her hands to the flames, she heard the door click softly shut, sensed Tristan draw near.

She turned; his hands slid about her waist as she did. Her palms came to rest on his chest. She locked her eyes on his. “I’m glad you arranged this—there are a number of matters we should talk about.”

He blinked. He didn’t let her go, yet he didn’t draw her closer. Their hips and thighs were lightly, teasingly, brushing; her breasts were just touching his chest. His hands spanned her waist; she was neither in his arms nor out of them, yet wholly within his control. He looked down into her eyes. “What matters are those?”

“Matters such as where we’ll live—how you imagine our life should run.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to live here, in London, among the ton?”

“Not especially. I’ve never felt any great attraction to the ton. I’m comfortable enough in it, but I don’t crave its dubious excitements.”

His lips twitched. He lowered his head. “Thank heaven for that.”

She laid a finger across his lips before they could capture hers. Felt his hands release her waist, his palms slide over her silk-clad back. From beneath her lashes, she met his eyes, drew a quick breath. “So we’ll live at Mallingham Manor?”

Against her finger, his lips curved distractingly. “If you can bear to live buried in the country.”

“Surrey is hardly the depths of buccolic rusticity.” She lowered her hand.

His lips came nearer, hovered an inch from hers. “I meant the old dears. Can you cope with them?”

He waited; she struggled to think. “Yes.” She understood the old ladies, recognized their ways, foresaw no difficulty dealing with them. “They’re well-disposed—I understand them, and they understand us.”

He made a derisive sound; it feathered over her lips, made them throb. “You may understand them—they frequently leave me at a total loss. There was something a few months ago about the vicarage curtains that completely passed me by.”

She was finding it hard not to laugh; his lips were so close, it seemed terribly dangerous, like letting her guard down with a wolf about to pounce.

“So you truly will be mine?”

She was about to laughingly offer her mouth and herself in proof when something in his tone struck her; she met his eyes—realized he was deadly serious. “I’m already yours. You know it.”

His lips, still distractingly near, twisted; he shifted, easing her closer—his restlessness reached her, washed over her in a wave of tangible, shifting uncertainty. With the fuller touch of their bodies heat flared; he bent his head and set his lips to the corner of hers.

“I’m not your average gentleman.”

The words whispered over her cheek.

“I know.” She turned her head and their lips met.

After a brief exchange, he drew away, sent his lips tracing upward, over her cheekbone to her temple, then down until his breath warmed the hollow beneath her ear.

“I’ve lived dangerously, beyond all laws, for a decade. I’m not as civilized as I ought to be. You know that, don’t you?”

She did, indeed, know that; the knowledge was crawling her nerves, anticipation sliding like heated silk down her veins. More to the immediate point, amazing though it seemed, she realized he was still unsure of her. And that whatever the matter he’d wanted to discuss, it was still on his mind, and she’d yet to hear of it.

Pushing up her hands, she caught and framed his face, and boldy kissed him. Trapped him, caught him, drew him in. Moved into him. Felt his response, felt his hands spread over her back, firm, then mold her to him.

When she finally consented to let him free, he raised his head and looked down at her; his eyes were dark, turbulent.

“Tell me.” Her voice was husky, but commanding. Demanding. “What is it you wanted to say?”

A long moment passed; she was conscious of their breaths, of their pulses throbbing. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he drew a short breath. His eyes had never left hers.

“Don’t. Go. Into. Danger.”

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
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