Everything he had uttered was true. The only impurity was in his motivation and in his goals. But he could not allow himself to feel guilt over his intentions. Lady Leonora was his enemy. She was the sister of the man who had singlehandedly caused Morgan’s imprisonment with his rash, stubborn, stupid posturing.
For a moment, he wished she was turnip-faced, or a bitter harridan, or an arrogant wench. Anything other than the humble, timid, gloriously beautiful lady who had lived her entire life on the periphery of everyone else’s.
But he could not change her any more than he could change himself. And he could not quench the burning need within him, the raging fire, with anything other than her complete sacrifice.
“You pay me a great compliment, my lord,” she said then, disrupting his inner war.
Enemy, he reminded himself with lethal force.This woman is your enemy as surely as her brother.
He would not be weak. With great effort, he summoned up a Lothario’s smile. She was the sort of woman he could not cozen into meeting him in a darkened alcove or an abandoned chamber, and he realized that now. He would have to woo her in a different manner—first a few shots fired, then retreat, and then the final charge.
“The compliment is all mine, Lady Leonora,” he assured her, forcing his gaze to seek out the turban, who watched their interchange with unabashed maternal curiosity and calculation.
The mother would not be a hindrance to his cause, at least. She had already decided he was the matrimonial prize her daughter required to save her from spinsterhood. How wrong she was. He was no prize. If anything, he was a curse.
“More words,” Lady Leonora said, giving him another start.
His gaze snapped back to hers. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“You offer me words, my lord,” she elaborated, giving him a half-smile that made him want to crush her mouth with his. “But I find the greatest indication of anyone’s true intentions is through action alone. The tongue tends to be the easiest muscle in one’s body to use, does it not?”
Bloody hell.He would like to use his tongue. Upon her.
He swallowed against a sudden rush of lust caused by Lady Leonora indicating she preferred action to words and referencing her tongue. By all that was holy, he would show her action, and he would show her the manner in which he preferred to use his tongue against her. There would be no words. Only deeds.
“Perhaps you are correct, Lady Leonora,” he said softly. “But I dare not keep you from Lady Rayne any longer. I would not wish to tarry with you overly long and cause any hint of scandal to attach itself to your name.”
What rot.In truth, he had every intention of causing her scandal. Of forcing her to wed him by compromising her so thoroughly she had no other option save becoming his marchioness. But not now. Not quite yet. First, he needed to convince her his intentions were pure and true. He would wait for the right moment to strike.
“Yes,” she said, her tone growing subdued, her expression freezing, becoming guarded once more. “Of course, my lord.”
He guided her in the direction of her mother, a new plan formulating in his mind. After all, there had to be a manner in which he could draw her to his side sooner rather than later. He only needed to be wise and to play his cards like a proper gambler.
*
“Did he sayanything else?” Mama prodded.
A lengthy span of time had passed between the Marquess of Searle returning Leonora to her mother’s side and now. In that time, she had watched him dance with no less than three other ladies. All of them had been debutantes, younger and more beautiful than she. One of them, Lady Sarah Bolingbroke, was the toast of the Season. A diamond of the first water. She was everything Leonora was not, dark-haired and regal, elegant and graceful, beautiful, sought after…not suffering from a limp.
Of course, everything he had said had been mere flummery.
Why would it be anything else? Why would the Marquess of Searle, the most sought-after bachelor in London, be interested in a spinster who could scarcely manage one minuet without embarrassing herself?
“Leonora?” Mama asked once more, reminding her of her silence.
The Marquess of Searle robbed her of thought. It was as if he had entered her realm and lit all the candles and lamps within, only to flood the chambers with water thereafter.
“He said nothing,” she lied flatly.
In truth, he had spoken empty promises. Precisely what one would expect of a handsome man who had all London kneeling at his feet. He was a hero unparalleled. He had defeated the French menace with nothing but his own bare hands and determination. He had saved himself.
And for one enchanted dance, she had dreamed he was the saving grace of her as well.
Now she knew differently. He was the same as every other gentleman.
“It did not seem like it was nothing,” Mama added. “You were engaged in conversation for quite some time following the minuet. It seemed, at the very least, promising.”
Leonora closed her eyes for a moment as she inhaled deeply. Her mother had been pressing her for additional details from the moment Lord Searle had bowed and taken his leave. She supposed she could not blame Mama, for no gentleman had shown such an interest in her in some time, not since that horrid wager. When she opened her eyes at last, Mama was watching her with an odd expression.
