Chapter 7 #2
“Speak with me,” Tristan urged, his face now inches from hers.
He could see the bruise in her lower lip.
It was tiny, but he knew what had caused it.
His kiss. Perhaps the best way to heal it was to kiss it again.
Again and again. “I jumped over the dais to be here. I at least want to know if you felt that there was something more after what happened between us.”
“Nothing happened!” Cathy exclaimed, her eyes filled with horror. She darted glances left and right, wondering if anyone was hearing the exchange.
“I told you I cannot go back there,” he said wearily, even as the air thickened between them, belying the words of resignation coming out of their mouths.
Never had Tristan found silence to be so appealing.
He would often mask it with drink, women, and boxing.
Now, he was just focused on the woman before him, with the way her chest heaved, making the silk of her dress cling to her like a second skin.
If he had a choice, he would have already scooped her up to take her away from here. From everyone else.
Perhaps it was all about pursuing the forbidden. This feeling had already consumed them last night. Tristan wondered what it would have been like if Brandon had not found them. How far would Miss Priggish keep her walls up and reveal Miss Kathleen Quinten? No, did he dare wish for Cathy, instead?
It seemed that Cathy was making her appearance once more. As Tristan’s gaze dipped to her mouth, everything else disappeared. There was no more distant clamoring and birds tweeting or running...
Wait.
Yes, there was a sound of running headed their way. It was a throng. Voices could be heard, too.
“There he is! The Duke of Baxter!”
“Is that Miss Quinten with him?”
The shouts shattered the moment Tristan had hoped for.
They sprang apart, but it was clearly too late.
A mob of wedding guests had left the chapel to follow them.
Lord Longrove looked as if he were about to have an apoplexy.
Miss Longrove was sobbing hard, with her shoulders shaking.
Lady Marlow was behind the group, looking like she would strike both Cathy and Tristan with her cane.
“Dear Lord,” Miss Longrove whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes were immediately on Tristan’s disheveled state, which was caused by his run from the dais. He had not gotten to kiss Cathy at all. He had been close to. Then, the bride’s eyes widened at Cathy’s face.
“It is true, then. I have been hearing whispers since the competition. Then, the morning after. And now? What else can I say?” she muttered.
“You cad!” Arthur Longrove, Anne’s brother, cried. He stepped in front of his sister, frankly an admirable move, and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You leave your beautiful bride at the altar to tryst with Miss Priggish behind a church? I thought you were better than this, Baxter.”
“It is not what it looks like,” Tristan protested, even as his voice dropped to a more dangerous timbre. Just as Arthur stepped in front of his sister, he stepped in front of Cathy. She had gone through too much already. She did not have to feel the direct heat of everyone’s glares.
“It is not what it looks like?” echoed Lord Longrove. “It certainly looks clear to me that someone has been compromised in front of the entire parish. You have insulted my family in front of everyone!”
“I challenge you to a duel, Baxter!” Arthur shouted, drawing a glove from his pocket.
He slapped it against his palm while staring at Tristan.
It was the mildest of challenges. Anne’s brother could have just slapped the glove across his face, and the Duke wondered if his title somehow made the other man hesitate.
“I will not allow a rake and his giant mistress to trample over my sister’s honor! ”
“Mistress!” shouted Cathy indignantly, even as Tristan struggled to keep her behind his back.
“A duel?” Lord Marlow cried at about the same time, his voice louder than anyone else’s.
He pushed through the crowd, with Napoleon purring in his arms as if he had never done mischief in all his life.
The ginger menace looked completely self-satisfied.
“Pure nonsense. Duels are for mere lads who cannot even shoot straight and have not seen the realities of war.”
The crowd seemed to have settled, with each person seemingly eager to listen to the old baron, who had been at the center of jests not too long ago.
“Norman, this is not a war!” Lady Marlow warned. “Stay out of this!”
“Well, Your Grace,” Norman began, as he turned toward Tristan.
“Longrove is right. The way I see it, you have compromised my granddaughter and left your bride for her. The only way this could end is to formalize the choice. You can fix it with a ring around her finger. Longrove may have threatened you with a duel, but I am threatening you with my saber, one fit for a tiger.”
A choked silence followed. Everyone’s eyes seemed to bulge as they realized what had happened. An old man seemed to be the voice of reason, though no one wanted to follow it. After a few moments, Anne wailed and threw herself into her mother’s arms.
“Marry her?” Lady Longrove cried. “Miss Priggish? Over my daughter?”
Tristan spied how Cathy’s eyes rolled at that. He agreed with her. It was too much to have to resort to an attack of character at this point, but he also understood. He had run away from a promise. It was all his fault.
“This is not over, Baxter,” Lord Longrove yelled, shaking his index finger at Tristan.
“You may be a duke, but you have done something so dishonorable that the rest of the ton would agree with me that no ounce of respect should be reserved for you in London. You should be held as a pariah! As for Miss Quinten, she already is one. I suppose those who have nothing to lose are quite dangerous! Slithering snakes they can be!”
Tristan heard the gasp from Cathy. As much as she pretended she did not care, she felt all the abuse that the ton had so far thrown at her. This here? It was his fault. He felt her tremble behind him even though he did not turn to see. It would probably break him to find her in actual tears now.
Yet, the woman everyone called Miss Priggish had had enough.
She stepped out from behind him, pulling herself roughly away from his grasp.
She faced the wedding party, her spine straight.
This time, she used her height to her full advantage.
Someone gasped from the crowd. Cathy no longer looked pale.
She was red. Angry. Her shoulders were stiff.
“Enough.”
Cathy scanned the crowd, her eyes not afraid to meet everyone else’s. She looked at the Longroves, her family, the vicar, and then Tristan. Her eyes held a grief that she seemed to have been keeping inside her for years. Tristan felt the weight in his chest.
“I am not a prize, nor am I a consolation for a wedding that failed before I even stepped into the chapel,” Cathy said, her voice ringing true.
“I am not going to get married merely to fix a scandal. I did nothing wrong, but my reputation is now in tatters. Whether I marry or not no longer matters.”
“Of course, it does, dear girl,” muttered Lady Marlow.
Cathy acted as if she did not hear her grandmother. She turned to her grandfather, who looked solemn for once.
“I thank you, Grandpapa. You have defended me so well. However, I will not be marrying anyone. Not today or the week after to appease a crowd. More likely, not ever. I will not be an accidental bride.”
“Miss Quinten, wait...” Tristan pleaded, reaching for her.
Something tore inside of him when she recoiled from his touch. It could be two things. She was afraid of the fire between them, or she regretted everything that transpired. The latter felt like a lance to the heart.
“No, Your Grace. This is all very improper,” she whispered. “There is still be something to be done. You are a duke. Explanations can be made about this particular tryst, as they called it. Your perfect life still awaits.”
With that, she turned and fled toward the gardens this time, where the stables could be found.
Her lavender skirts flew behind her. Tristan stood frozen.
Yes, he could have run after her. Her touch.
Her kiss. They were all too warm and vivid on him.
However, years of discipline and duty had made him stay where he was.
He was still in the cage.