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Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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pitch-dark beyond the glass. Next door, Number 12 loomed, a black block in the gloom. With no light gleaming in any window or winking between curtains, it was easy to guess it was uninhabited.
She’d been a good neighbor to old Mr. Morrissey;irascible old scoundrel that he’d been, he’d nevertheless been grateful for her visits. She’d missed him when he’d died. The house had passed to Lord March, a distant connection who, having a perfectly good mansion in Mayfair, had had no use for the Belgravia house. She hadn’t been surprised that he’d sold it.
Trentham, or his friends, were apparently acquainted with his lordship. Like his lordship, Trentham was probably, at that moment, preparing for a night on the town.
Leaning back in the chair, she tugged at the stiff little drawer that clung to the underside of the circular table. Wrestling it open, she considered the large, heavy key that rested within, half-buried by old lists and notes.
She reached in and retrieved the key, laid it on the table.
Had Trentham thought to change the locks?
Chapter
Three
He couldn’t risk lighting a match to check his watch. Stoically, Tristan settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall of the porter’s alcove off the front hall. And waited.
About him, the shell of the Bastion Club lay silent. Empty. Outside, a bitter wind blew, sending flurries of sleet raking across the windows. He estimated it was past ten o’clock; in such freezing weather, the burglar was unlikely to dally much beyond midnight.
Waiting like this, silent and still in the dark for a contact, a meeting, or to witness some illicit event had been commonplace until recently; he hadn’t forgotten how to let time slip past. How to free his mind from his body so he remained a statue, senses alert, attuned to all around him, ready to snap back to the moment at the slightest movement, while his mind roamed, keeping him occupied and awake, but elsewhere.
Unfortunately, tonight, he didn’t appreciate the direction in which his mind wanted to go. Leonora Carling was certain distraction; he’d spent most of the day lecturing himself on the unwisdom of pursuing the sensual responsehe evoked in her—and she, correspondingly and even more strongly, evoked in him.
He was well aware she didn’t recognize it for what it was. Didn’t see it as a danger despite her susceptibility. Such innocence would normally have dampened his ardor; with her, for some ungodly reason, it only whetted his appetite further.
His attraction to her was a complication he definitely did not need. He had to find a wife, and that quickly; he required a sweet-tempered, biddable, gentle female who would cause him not a moment’s angst, who would run his houses, keep his troop of elderly relatives in line, and otherwise devote herself to bearing and raising his children. He did not expect her to spend much time with him; he had for too long been alone—he now preferred it that way.
With the clock ticking on the outrageous terms of his great-uncle’s will, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by a strong-willed, independent-minded, prickly termagent, one he suspected was a spinster by design, and was, moreover, possessed of a waspish tongue and, when she chose to deploy it, a distinctly chilly hauteur.
There was no purpose in thinking of her.
He couldn’t seem to stop.
He shifted, easing his shoulders, then leaned back again. What with taking up the reins of his inheritance, getting accustomed to having a tribe of old dears under his feet on a daily basis, inhabiting his houses and complicating his life, as well as considering how best to secure a wife, he’d let the small matter of a mistress or any other avenue of sexual release slide to the back of his mind.
In hindsight, not a wise decision.
Leonora had cannoned into him and set spark to tinder. Their subsequent exchanges hadn’t doused the flame.Her haughty dismissiveness was the equivalent of a blatant challenge, one
She’d been a good neighbor to old Mr. Morrissey;irascible old scoundrel that he’d been, he’d nevertheless been grateful for her visits. She’d missed him when he’d died. The house had passed to Lord March, a distant connection who, having a perfectly good mansion in Mayfair, had had no use for the Belgravia house. She hadn’t been surprised that he’d sold it.
Trentham, or his friends, were apparently acquainted with his lordship. Like his lordship, Trentham was probably, at that moment, preparing for a night on the town.
Leaning back in the chair, she tugged at the stiff little drawer that clung to the underside of the circular table. Wrestling it open, she considered the large, heavy key that rested within, half-buried by old lists and notes.
She reached in and retrieved the key, laid it on the table.
Had Trentham thought to change the locks?
Chapter
Three
He couldn’t risk lighting a match to check his watch. Stoically, Tristan settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall of the porter’s alcove off the front hall. And waited.
About him, the shell of the Bastion Club lay silent. Empty. Outside, a bitter wind blew, sending flurries of sleet raking across the windows. He estimated it was past ten o’clock; in such freezing weather, the burglar was unlikely to dally much beyond midnight.
Waiting like this, silent and still in the dark for a contact, a meeting, or to witness some illicit event had been commonplace until recently; he hadn’t forgotten how to let time slip past. How to free his mind from his body so he remained a statue, senses alert, attuned to all around him, ready to snap back to the moment at the slightest movement, while his mind roamed, keeping him occupied and awake, but elsewhere.
Unfortunately, tonight, he didn’t appreciate the direction in which his mind wanted to go. Leonora Carling was certain distraction; he’d spent most of the day lecturing himself on the unwisdom of pursuing the sensual responsehe evoked in her—and she, correspondingly and even more strongly, evoked in him.
He was well aware she didn’t recognize it for what it was. Didn’t see it as a danger despite her susceptibility. Such innocence would normally have dampened his ardor; with her, for some ungodly reason, it only whetted his appetite further.
His attraction to her was a complication he definitely did not need. He had to find a wife, and that quickly; he required a sweet-tempered, biddable, gentle female who would cause him not a moment’s angst, who would run his houses, keep his troop of elderly relatives in line, and otherwise devote herself to bearing and raising his children. He did not expect her to spend much time with him; he had for too long been alone—he now preferred it that way.
With the clock ticking on the outrageous terms of his great-uncle’s will, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by a strong-willed, independent-minded, prickly termagent, one he suspected was a spinster by design, and was, moreover, possessed of a waspish tongue and, when she chose to deploy it, a distinctly chilly hauteur.
There was no purpose in thinking of her.
He couldn’t seem to stop.
He shifted, easing his shoulders, then leaned back again. What with taking up the reins of his inheritance, getting accustomed to having a tribe of old dears under his feet on a daily basis, inhabiting his houses and complicating his life, as well as considering how best to secure a wife, he’d let the small matter of a mistress or any other avenue of sexual release slide to the back of his mind.
In hindsight, not a wise decision.
Leonora had cannoned into him and set spark to tinder. Their subsequent exchanges hadn’t doused the flame.Her haughty dismissiveness was the equivalent of a blatant challenge, one
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