“No,” Henrietta spat back. He saw her gaze dart to Hartley. Was that fear he saw in her eyes? What had happened between the two of them? That little look strengthened his resolve. He was getting to the bottom of this tonight—he didn’t care what it took.
“Move out of the way, Henrietta,” he growled, trying to keep his voice low.
“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “I refuse. This is my house, and you can’t just come in as you please, bringing whoever you want. John would agree with me.”
“If John knew what Hartley was claiming about you,” he countered, unable to keep his voice soft, “he would understand very well why I have brought him here to be dealt with.”
Even in the candlelight, he saw her blanch at his words. The little temptress. She knew that Hartley was mad for her and spreading lies about what she had done with him…and, for some reason, she didn’t want her brother to know.
“No,” she said again, wildly. “I won’t let you in. John wouldn’t give credence to such nonsense.”
“You know that isn’t true. Move out of the way, Henrietta. Now.”
He met her gaze over the threshold. Her eyes were shimmering in the light, that soft shade of blue once more catching him, snaring at something inside of him. He felt all his muscles tense, as if his entry was about something more, something bigger, but he couldn’t understand what. It occurred to him again that John wasn’t home. She was there by herself. Had he ever been with her alone before? Of course, over the years, he must have been, many times, even. And yet now it felt different. A weight shifted into his gut at the thought of being alone with her, inside, and with no threat of interruption. His fingers itched at the prospect, imagining how he wanted to trace the hem of her robe and then, gently, slowly, tug it open to see what treasure that plain cloth might reveal.
Just as he had that thought, her gaze changed, surprise lighting her eyes, and even though he knew she couldn’t hear his thoughts, he felt like she had. She gave him, just for a second, a sad little half-smile—as if she felt sorry for him. That smile told him what he had been long trying to deny to himself. Henrietta Breminster was no longer the girl he had watched grow up. She was not only a sophisticated young lady of the world, but, somehow, almost jaded. Worse, it should make him sad to see that remorseful little smile on her face. Instead it aroused him. Because if Henrietta wasn’t that young girl anymore, it meant everything had changed. And anything could happen.
She was still perched in the entrance and he had a sense that she was close to relenting—close to letting them through the door.
He opened his mouth to urge her again.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Henrietta,” Drent said, “but Hart isn’t a feather, and I can’t be held responsible for not dropping him much longer.”
“For heaven’s sake,” she cried, her exasperation at a height he had never seen it before, not even on the occasion three years ago when John insisted that she have Mrs. Warburton make over a dress that he had decreed criminally indecent. “Very well.”
With those words, she swept to the side, and they lugged Hartley through the entryway. Henrietta closed the door as they heaped Hartley into an armchair in the hall. Trem had a sense that it was meant to be almost exclusively decorative, so he was relieved when it didn’t buckle under the weight of the drunken earl.
Trem turned around and saw Henrietta staring at the three men before her. The anxious expression on her face angered him.
He was going to sort out this infernal business. John wasn’t here, so he would act in his stead. He had certainly known the family long enough to do such a thing.
Trem strode across the entryway and took Henrietta by the wrist, pulling her into the small drawing room off the hall. She huffed a small protest, but didn’t resist, which further told him that she had truly no idea what she was doing.
He had to take control.
“Stay,” he commanded over his shoulder to Drent, who gulped back an assent.
Trem would find out the true nature of the connection between Hartley and Henrietta. He didn’t understand why she hadn’t told John that the young lord was spreading rumors about her, but he would soon enough. And whatever it was, he would fix it.
He just had to make sure he didn’t cross any lines himself. Even his fingers around her narrow wrist, the feel of the smooth skin just below her sleeve, threatened his self-possession. He hadn’t realized how much he had noticed her as of late. He wasn’t sure how his feelings could have undergone such a change beneath his own awareness. But the quickening of his pulse told him that he no longer felt the way he always had towards her. A new feeling for her had taken root inside of him.
No, he told himself. He would be master of himself. And there would be no debauching of Henrietta Breminster.
Chapter Four
Henrietta should not have enjoyed being manhandled by Trem so much. When he had grabbed her, she had emitted an angry squeak to keep her dignity, but the truth was that she loved the feeling of his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Even if they were a bit viselike at the moment.
After all, she had been lying to herself earlier. She had been lying to herself for years, in fact. But she was a bad liar. She had never believed her assurances to herself that any of her brother’s best friends would do as her future husband. There was only one who had ever really mattered to her.
While Leith had always been the classically handsome, proper one, and Montaigne by far the most roguish, Trem had always been her favorite. He was John’s true best friend, the one he had brought home to Edington since she was a girl. He had always spent Christmas there with them.
She would never forget the Christmas she was fourteen. She had put off making the gift baskets for the staff, even though she had begged Mrs. Morrison to let her take over the duty. But she had delayed and delayed—to the point that, the day before Christmas, she had not a ribbon or an orange prepared. She was too embarrassed to tell John or her father that she had neglected the responsibility so terribly. Trem had found her crying in the library. He had made it so easy for her to tell him what was wrong. And he had helped her. He had had an estate of his own to manage, he had told her, since he was two years old, so he had made every mistake a person could. He had taken her to town to buy the necessaries and stayed up half the night with her making the baskets. He had always been someone she trusted, someone she found easy to talk to, so when she had come to the age of love and romance—well, there could only have ever been one prince of her fantasies, one man of her dreams, whether they involved matrimony or…other pleasures.
Now, it felt like they had never been quite this alone before, even though she knew that couldn’t possibly be true.
She had thought of him a thousand times in private darkness when she had only herself to please. After all, who wouldn’t want him? He was handsome as a prize horse at Tattersalls, with a quick, easy humor that charmed everyone, and a smile that she had seen melt any number of women—and not a few men—into his pliable admirers. Most of all, however, he had an air about him, ineffable and inexplicable, that was more than the sum of these parts. It was a self-possession, a mystery, something dark and light, mostly sweet but a little bitter. It made his touch zing through her—and then it made her ache in ways that she would be loath to admit out loud.
Once he had closed the door to the sitting room, Trem dropped her wrist.
