Chapter 4
“Remarkable display last night, Your Grace.” Lord Althorp settled into the chair beside Tristan.
He reached for his wine with great enthusiasm.
“Never seen a woman best a duke at mathematics before. Quite the entertainment. Though I must say, the poetry round was what had Lady Pendleton losing three shillings. She was quite certain you would win.”
“How unfortunate for Lady Pendleton,” Tristan said, unfolding his napkin.
“Indeed. And then of course there was the race that almost happened.” Althorp chuckled, dabbing his mouth. “Pity about that. A lady lifting her skirts across the south lawn in the dark would have been quite a sight.”
Tristan looked at him with the particular expression he reserved for people who were testing the outermost limits of his patience. “If you will excuse me, Althorp, I believe the first course is arriving.”
“Of course, of course.” The man turned obligingly toward the soup.
Tristan’s eyes drifted, without his permission, to the other side of the centerpiece. Miss Quinten seemed to be engaged in a spirited conversation with a young baronet.
Eldrige? Seriously?
The man was known not only as a bore but also as a rake. Yet, Miss Quinten was practically preening. Was the conversation truly spirited, or did his family diamonds persuade her to be more amiable?
The man is a buffoon.
Miss Quinten was wearing a high-collared gray gown. Her hair was pinned back into a bun so tight it must have been painful. It felt more like a suit of armor than a party dress. To everyone who would look at her, she looked dull and uptight, the opposite of a seductress.
A clever disguise, Tristan thought, his eyes on the pulse point on her neck. He imagined he could see it throbbing, a red-blooded woman hiding within a cold nun who would only laugh at a buffoon’s jests.
The vision of her in her chemise was still vivid, as she trembled in fury and fear.
Her hair had been wild and unpinned, as was she.
A hot temper and a passion hid within that woman; he had caught glimpses of it.
Watching her play a part for the ton made him wonder how many buttons it would take to cajole the fire to the surface.
At the moment, Cathy was not looking in his direction at all. She was behaving as if the competition and the shared bed had never happened.
Tristan could not help but stare and keep staring.
He watched even the way her throat moved as she swallowed a little of her wine.
He watched how those intelligent eyes sparkled at something the baronet said.
She might be Miss Priggish to everyone present, but he had felt the heat of her palm.
He had heard her voice as she straddled sleep and wakefulness.
How could she be so gracefully composed when mere hours ago, she bit his palm?
“It is quite a tragedy. Would you not think so?”
Tristan blinked as he was pulled from his current reverie. He forced his gaze onto the woman sitting to his right. Anne looked quite virginal in a gown of cream and blue silk. Tomorrow, she would be wearing white. She was smiling, but he could swear the mirth did not reach her eyes.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Longrove?” he asked.
“I am referring to the Quintens,” Anne whispered, leaning closer. Her floral scent assaulted his senses. “Last night was a ghastly affair. One would think Miss Quinten would behave appropriately given the current state of their finances and their father’s vices.”
Anne gestured subtly toward Harleigh Quinten, who was sitting at the other end of the table.
Cathy’s father seemed close to dozing off in his seat, his chin already resting on his chest. His wine glass was empty, though it was clear it was not his first of the evening.
Instead of his usual disgust at people who shamed their families so openly, Tristan felt a pang of sympathy for Cathy.
He caught the pity in her eyes for her father.
A moment of raw shame appeared on her face before she masked it with a smile for the baronet.
“Miss Quinten carries a heavy burden,” he said softly. “As Harleigh Quinten’s eldest daughter.”
“Well, she is not carrying her burden with enough grace,” Anne retorted.
She said it firmly. Then, she quickly switched to a much sweeter voice, which made Tristan wonder if the former was merely an act.
“She is doing it with unladylike arrogance. My mama says that women in Miss Quinten’s position should always carry themselves with humility.
Challenging a duke to certain games was embarrassing for everyone last night.
Do not fret, though, Your Grace. I have already forgiven your part in that mess.
I know men can be easily tempted by such challenges.
It is in your nature to be competitive, after all. ”
Anne reached out to pat his hand. Tristan guessed it was meant to be reassuring, but her hand felt cool and possessive over him.
“Nevertheless, I truly apologize for my unseemly conduct,” he said, the words feeling rehearsed. “I can find no excuses for it.”
“Oh, Your Grace, please do not mention it,” she purred, her eyes darting to something else. “We will proceed as planned and get married tomorrow. Everything has been forgotten and forgiven.”
And yet, they were just talking about it.
As the dinner progressed, the guests were served endless courses of the finest meat, such as pheasant and venison, followed by a dessert of tarts and cake.
Cathy was laughing with the baronet and yet another young man who inserted himself in the conversation.
The laughter sounded genuine, slicing through the dull atmosphere of the dining hall.
The rich, melodic sound elicited a sharp sense of jealousy.
What joke could the baronet have told that might soften Cathy’s icy demeanor?
I do not care what she does. I should not care who she laughs with.
In his own little corner, her grandfather, Lord Norman, was talking about fighting in the Peninsular War. His voice was too loud because he was likely unable to hear himself or anyone else well.
“The Frenchman earlier asked me about the aspic,” the baron barked. “I was talking about the war, and he asked me that.”
The young woman sitting next to him looked confused, while his wife appeared to be holding on to the last of her self-control.
“I believe the man might have been asking about your tactics, Grandpapa!” Cathy shouted, trying her best to be heard by the old baron.
“Mathematics? Child, no, not everyone likes mathematics as you do. I am positive he asked about aspics. I am not sure they served any tonight, though,” Lord Marlow said, waving his hand. “His Grace should know about the battle. He was there.”
“I was not yet born then, Lord Marlow,” Tristan shouted. “You may be referring to my grandfather, Lord Iger.”
“A tiger? Yes, you fought like a tiger!” Norman bellowed, chuckling with unbridled glee.
Cathy’s eyes met Tristan’s at that moment when Lord Marlow was still at the peak of his hilarity.
For that one heartbeat, the mask slipped, and the distance they always returned to vanished.
He saw how exhausted she was. How trapped.
He suddenly felt an irrational urge to stand up and take her out of the room to comfort her.
After all, he felt the same exhaustion. They were both prisoners of their names.
Both of them had realized that they were trapped in a continuous performance to please the people around them, and these people did not truly care about whether they bled or died as long as they did not cause a scandal in the process.
After dinner, Tristan walked around, trying to catch a glimpse of a high-collared gray dress.
He needed to speak to Miss Quinten. He was not quite certain why he needed to.
The woman threw him out of the room. Still, he could not help but want to resolve the tension from early this morning.
He did not want to get married the next day, with a physical ache weighing on his chest. Of course, he reminded himself that the need to see her had something to do with hushing her.
“Pray Miss Quinten does not utter a word about this, or else we are all finished.”
When he turned a corner, it was not Cathy he found but Lord Marlow. The old man was squinting at a painting. Tristan leaned forward to see that it was a well-executed one of a stag hunt.
For a nearly deaf old man, Lord Marlow quickly sensed Tristan’s presence. He turned around and gave him a big smile, and exclaimed, “There he is, the Roaring Tiger who saved us all.”
He did have his ear trumpet directed at Tristan.
“Lord Marlow,” Tristan said, giving a slight bow.
“I was wondering if you have seen…” He paused, knowing that he could not possibly ask for Cathy.
The old man would wonder what he needed his granddaughter for.
Looking for Kathleen Quinten at this hour was as good as any confession. “Have you seen Brandon? Lord Seffield?”
“Are you looking for the girl?”
What girl?
“No. I am looking for Lord Seffield,” Tristan repeated into the device.
“Lord Seffield?” the old baron asked, his eyes brightening. “Yes, I believe he told me to tell you that he would wait for you in the library.”
“That is strange; no offense, Lord Marlow,” Tristan commented, frowning. “Brandon has no interest in reading. He struggles just lifting a newspaper page.”
“He must be trying to improve himself!” the baron insisted, nodding for emphasis. “Off with you, then. Do not keep your friend waiting in a room he hates.”
Why would Brandon wait for him in the library?
But it seemed that Lord Marlow was not at his clearest, so he might not have heard it right.
Perhaps his friend wanted to apologize, or perhaps he remembered something from last night.
Even though it was not his intention to look for Brandon at this hour, it looked like he had no choice.
Lord Marlow helped him, and his curiosity had already been sparked.
So, he thanked the old man and made his way toward the back of the house, where the library would be.
The corridors were dimmer there, but the silence was a reprieve from the chatter in the drawing room.
Still, he could not help but breathe harder as the air became colder, and dread started to set in.
Portraits seemed to be watching with judgmental eyes.
It was his fault for trusting a deaf and possibly senile old man.
When he reached the library, he flung the door open. Brandon did not deserve a knock after what he had done in the morning. The room at least had some light, though the fire was nearly out. It cast long shadows across the floor, but one particular shadow stood out.
“Brandon?” he called.