The Lady Chosen Read Free Page B

in Surrey.” Tristan met the others’ gazes. “If we can decide on what we want as our stronghold, I can slip into town and make the arrangements without creating any ripples.”
    Charles’s eyes narrowed; his gaze grew distant. “Some-place close to everywhere, but not too close.”
    “It needs to be in an area easily reachable, but not obvious.” Deverell tapped the table in thought. “The fewer in the neighborhood who recognize us the better.”
    “A house, perhaps…”
    They tossed around their requirements, and quickly agreed that a house in one of the quieter areas outside but close to Mayfair yet away from the heart of town would serve them best. A house with reception rooms and space enough for them all to congregate, with a room in which they could meet with ladies if necessary, but the rest of the house to be female-free, with at least three bedchambers in case of need, and kitchens and staff quarters—and a staff who understood their requirements…
    “That’s it.” Jack slapped the table. “Here!” He grabbed up his tankard and raised it. “I give you Prinny and his unpopularity—if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here today and wouldn’t have had the opportunity to make all our futures that much safer.”
    With wide grins, they all drank, then Charles pushed back his chair, rose, and lifted his tankard. “Gentlemen—I give you our club! Our last bastion against the matchmakers of the ton, our secured base from which we’ll infiltrate, identify, and isolate the lady we each want, then take the ton by storm and capture her!”
    The others cheered, thumped the table, and rose.
    Charles inclined his head to Christian. “I give you the bastion which will allow us to take charge of our destinies and rule our own hearths. Gentlemen!” Charles raised his tankard high. “I give you the Bastion Club!”
    They all roared their approval and drank.
    And the Bastion Club was born.

Chapter
One
    Lust and a virtuous woman—only a fool combined the two.
    Tristan Wemyss, fourth Earl of Trentham, reflected that he’d rarely been called a fool, yet here he stood, gazing out of a window at an undoubtedly virtuous lady and indulging in all manner of lustful thoughts.
    Understandable, perhaps; the lady was tall, dark-haired, and possessed a willowy, subtly curvaceous figure displayed to advantage as, strolling the back garden of the neighboring house, she paused here and there, bending to examine some foliage or flower in the lush and strangely riotous garden beds.
    It was February, the weather as bleak and chill as in that month it was wont to be, yet the garden next door displayed abundant growth, thick leaves in dark greens and bronzes from unusual plants that seemed to thrive despite the frosts. Admittedly, there were trees and shrubs leafless and lifelorn scattered throughout the deep beds, yet the garden exuded an air of winter life quite absent from most London gardens in that season.
    Not that he possessed any interest in horticulture; itwas the lady who held his interest, with her gliding, graceful walk, with the tilt of her head as she examined a bloom. Her hair, the color of rich mahogany, was coiled in a coronet about her head; he couldn’t from this distance divine her expression, yet her face was a pale oval, features delicate and pure.
    A wolfhound, shaggy and brindle-coated, snuffled idly at her heels; it usually accompanied her whenever she wandered outside.
    His instincts, well honed and reliable, informed him that today the lady’s attention was perfunctory, in abeyance, that she was killing time while she waited for something. Or someone.
    “M’lord?”
    Tristan turned. He was standing in the bay window of the library on the first floor in the rear corner of the terrace house at Number 12 Montrose Place. He and his six coconspirators, the members of the Bastion Club, had bought the house three weeks ago; they were in the process of equipping it to serve as their private