Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tristan had never felt more guilty about anything in his life.
He had only meant to tease Caroline Whitby, not ruin the engagement she’d clearly had her heart set on.
When she coldly bade her brother farewell and left without so much as a look in Tristan’s direction, he was certain he’d done something monumentally wrong.
Saving her from marriage to an insipid horse-mad bore was not, evidently, a good thing.
Tristan loved horses. His twin loved horses. Any decent gentlemen with an ounce of sense appreciated horses. Edwin Dennison? He was utterly engrossed with the animals, and not in a pleasing way.
But that was none of Tristan’s business. His only task at present was to apologize for inadvertently wronging her. Tristan chased Caroline from the room. When he asked to speak to her, she stopped, then immediately resumed walking away from him.
“Caroline, please?” he repeated.
She spun to face him, anger sparking in her striking blue eyes.
Her dark hair was styled back and her graceful neck bent so she could look up into his face.
Had he known what a beauty she’d become, he would have broached the idea of courting her himself when he’d talked to James earlier, instead of proclaiming that they wouldn’t be a good fit.
Disregard his earlier remarks. He certainly didn’t care if his wife disliked horses.
“I have no interest in speaking to you,” she said.
“Will you at least permit me to apologize? I hadn’t any idea my foolish words would come in the way of you and Dennison.”
Her mouth pinched, her cheeks glowing. “Yet, you’ve done just that.”
“I was only speaking the truth.”
Caroline glared.
Tristan needed to appeal to her. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She gave a quiet scoff. “I’ve only spent six weeks convincing him I’m worthy of marriage, despite having nothing to recommend me but a decent dowry, and now you’ve ruined my chances.”
“You love him?” he asked.
Caroline lowered her chin. “That is presumptuous of you.”
She was correct. Tristan should never have asked. And yet…her dismay appeared to be a result of losing an offer of marriage, not losing Dennison in particular.
“It’s relevant,” he said. “I promise.”
Caroline’s blue eyes narrowed. She stepped toward the wall in the corridor, allowing another couple to pass. “The state of my heart is irrelevant. You’ve taken my security, Tristan. Something you would never understand.”
“I understand far more than you know.” If he did not secure a wife with—how did she say it?—a decent dowry, his money would dry up before long. If he did not find a bride before all his friends, he would lose that money even faster.
She closed her eyes briefly. “It doesn’t signify now. What’s done is done.”
“Not entirely.” Tristan’s heart raced. He hadn’t been in Caroline’s company for at least five years, but she didn’t appear much altered.
He knew her to have a good, kind heart. He enjoyed being around her family.
Her home neighbored his. It was a prime situation for marriage.
If she was willing to remove clear to Yorkshire, surely she would find a home in Mayfair amenable.
Besides, Tristan merely needed a wife. He’d prefer a woman he knew he could trust over a stranger he only met this month.
“Do you mean to imply that Mr. Dennison could change his mind?” she asked.
Tristan cringed. The look on that man’s face had spoken of deep betrayal. He was hurting. Knowing Dennison, he could never respect a person who did not like horses, either. “That’s impossible for me to know.”
Caroline huffed. “Then allow me to leave.”
“Not until you’ve heard my proposal.”
She stilled, her eyes flicking up to meet his.
Poor choice in words, perhaps, but he meant them. “I will marry you, Caro. We are not strangers to one another, and I have come tonight in search of a bride. Perhaps we can solve one another’s dilemmas.”
She stared at him, her lips parting slightly.
He could not force his attention away from them, the thought circling his mind that if she was to agree to his mad scheme, he would be granted the opportunity to kiss those lips.
He imagined Caroline kissed with the same earnestness she operated under in general.
“No.”
Tristan blinked. “No?” he repeated, surprised.
“I thank you for the…civil…offer, but I would sooner marry a toad.”
He’d not thought she could surprise him further, but it would appear her anger was stronger than he had realized.
Caroline took a step closer to him, her chest rising and falling swiftly as though she struggled to contain her frustration.
“In fact, I would be most obliged if I never had to set eyes upon you again, Mr. Shepherd. You would do me a grand favor…” Her words became breathy, her gaze unfocused. “A favor…”
No sooner had the word slurred from her lips than her eyes fluttered closed, and she collapsed.
Tristan’s arms darted out, catching her before she could fall to the marble floor. Her head rolled against his shoulder as he scooped her into his arms, her gloved hand flopping out.
“Caroline!” Mrs. Whitby exclaimed, rushing down the corridor toward them. Had she been hovering unseen? Watching them? Or had Tristan been so caught up in Caroline’s lips he hadn’t noticed her mother standing nearby?
She gave him a wild-eyed look of fear.
“A retiring room, perhaps?” Tristan suggested. “Smelling salts will be just the thing.”
“Two doors that way,” Mrs. Whitby said. “I have no salts, but I know someone who will.”
She disappeared into the ball, leaving Tristan alone with a woman in his arms. A woman who despised him, evidently.
He carried her toward the door her mother had indicated and found a fire built up in the hearth and two women seated on the sofa, deep in quiet conversation.
One of them he recognized to be their host, Lady Petunia.
“Goodness,” she said, her hand fluttering over her heart. Her gray hair was styled high, her gown the latest mode despite her age.
“Miss Whitby has had a good deal of excitement.” His arms strained against the woman in them. “Is there a place I might lay her down?”
“Just here,” Lady Petunia said, rising immediately. Her partner did as well.
Caroline’s head lolled to the side as Tristan laid her on the sofa. With her eyes closed, her lashes fanning against pale cheeks, she looked innocent and sweet. She was just as lovely now as she was when she argued with him.
Gads, what had gotten into Tristan? One beautiful woman spiked his heart rate and he had started seeing romance where there was none?
She’d rather marry a toad.
“The poor dear!” Lady Petunia said, clutching at the elaborately jeweled necklace over her chest.
“Her mother has gone in search of smelling salts,” he told the women.
The door opened and Mrs. Whitby blew in, brandishing a small vial, an older woman in a feathered turban on her tail. Uncapping the vial, Mrs. Whitby held it beneath Caroline’s nose.
She stirred, her nose wrinkling before she blinked her eyes open slowly. When they settled on Tristan, Caroline groaned. “Not the toad.”
Did she not esteem toads above him? He supposed it was not the time for semantics. “Forgive me, Miss Whitby, for distressing you with my warts. I hoped to ensure you were well before taking my leave.”
She frowned. “What happened?”
“You’ve had too much excitement, darling,” Mrs. Whitby said.
Caroline looked to her mother. “Dennison,” she whispered, as though everything had occurred to her once more. That was confirmed when she angled her glower toward Tristan.
“The carriage is ready,” Mrs. Whitby cut in. “When you feel prepared to walk, we’ll take you home.”
“We?”
Mrs. Whitby looked to Tristan. “I hoped to engage Mr. Shepherd’s assistance.”
Instead of the woman’s own brother? If only Caroline had been allowed time to inform her mother of Tristan’s foolish proposal and Caroline’s subsequent dismissal. He could have offered to go in search of James, but that would waste time, and Caroline still looked pale. “I’m happy to assist.”
“I knew you would be,” Mrs. Whitby said.
Caroline still frowned.
Swallowing his reservations, Tristan put his hand out for her. “May I help you to stand?”
“I can stand well enough on my own, thank you.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman in the turban said. “But the young man seems quite willing, and you wouldn’t want to swoon again.”
“She makes a fair point,” Tristan said quietly. “I’m very willing.”
Caroline glared at him before putting her hand in his and squeezing hard. If she was trying to punish him for his comment, she had missed the mark. He rather liked the feeling of her hand in his, silk gloves and all.
He pulled her up, sliding his other hand behind her back to support her. “Shall we walk to your carriage?”
Her hand tightened again, making Tristan’s stomach dip in a strange way. Why did setting her back up give him the oddest sense of satisfaction? Evidently, he enjoyed getting a rise out of Caroline.
Well, that wasn’t new. It had just been years since he’d been given the opportunity. Instead of chasing her up trees and cheating mercilessly at jack straws, his weapon of choice now was verbal quips.
She walked with him toward the door, ignoring the hushed, feverous whispers coming from the women they had left behind. Mrs. Whitby took their leave of the three other women in the room and followed Tristan and Caroline down the narrow corridor toward the front door.
Once the cool March air hit their skin, Caroline drew away. Torches lit the street and glowed on the exterior of the Whitby coach. Wheels rumbled loudly on the cobbled road as a hired hack drove away from the house.
Tristan followed her down the steps and put out a hand to help her into her carriage, which she accepted, sighing heavily as she did so.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he said, before offering his hand to her mother.
Mrs. Whitby paused, one shoe poised on the step. “Thank you for your assistance this evening. If you see my son inside, will you inform him that we’ve gone home?”
“Of course. I am happy to help.”
“You are a dear.” She gave him an affectionate smile, her dark blonde hair glinting in the torchlight from the side of the carriage. She peered at him with distinct understanding. “Your mother would be proud of you, Mr. Shepherd.”
A jolt ran through his chest. Would his mother be proud of his offhand proposal to a woman after ruining her carefully constructed relationship?
Tristan might have believed he’d inadvertently helped Caroline dodge an unhappy marriage, but that was truly no business of his to begin with.
It had been an accident, however, so he would do his best to forget it forthwith.
“Good night, Mrs. Whitby.”
She nodded once, allowing him to help her up the step.
As he stood on the paving stones and watched their carriage rumble away, he let out a long sigh that felt entirely out of place.
There was no reason for him to feel wistful, surely.
Yet that was precisely what was buzzing about his stomach like a pair of active bees.
Putting Caroline to the back of his mind, Tristan returned to the ball. He still needed to find a wife.
The following morning arrived too quickly.
It was nearly noon, but Tristan did not feel as though he had slept enough.
Lady Petunia’s ball had been an utter waste.
He danced with half a dozen young, eligible ladies, each of whom bored him immensely.
He found his mind consistently turning back to the way he’d royally mucked up Caroline’s engagement.
It did not help that the women who had watched him carry in a swooning Caroline had soon after gone to the ballroom and told many willing ears that she had left the ball in a state.
When one of Tristan’s dance partners relayed the information to him as though they had an interesting tidbit to share, he’d decided he was finished for the evening.
Now he sat at the breakfast table in his quiet house, eating ham and rolls and considering how he could have acted differently.
As far as carrying her—no, he’d had no other choice.
In regard to ruining her engagement, there had been no way for him to know he was revealing vital information she wanted to keep from Dennison.
Whether she wanted to begin a marriage under such false pretenses was no business of his.
The bread in his mouth grew claggy, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to accomplish much today until he’d made it right.
Short of offering for Caroline again, he wasn’t certain what he could do.
Visiting Dennison was outside of the bounds of appropriate behavior.
Tristan had no right to do something so drastic.
Unless he had Caroline’s permission.
Or, better yet, her brother had her permission to see what could be done.
Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and rose.
“Will you need a carriage, sir?” Miller asked, accurately surmising Tristan had the look of a man with purpose.
“Not today, Miller. It’s looking to be a fine day, so I will walk.”