Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
He did it again. Each time Caroline had hit her ball, Tristan followed it closely.
She had bumped the ball well out of the bounds of the game in order to test her theory that he was allowing her to win, and he had followed her so perfectly, it was highly improbable the move had been anything but intentional.
Odious, insufferable man. She stared at the ball, mouth agape. “You are allowing me to win.”
Tristan leaned on his mallet again like a cane, unbothered. One infuriatingly perfect eyebrow arched. “How do you know I am not merely enjoying my time with you and anxious for it to continue?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Tristan straightened. “I am never anything but serious when it comes to pall mall.”
“You are never serious, you mean,” she returned, marching toward her ball.
As she positioned her mallet to strike his ball out of the way, two dark shadows fell over her, blocking the sun.
She straightened to find a pair of gentlemen watching her expectantly, a tall, slender one and a shorter man with wavy hair.
Both of them were handsome with intelligent countenances.
“You’ve been keeping this a secret,” the taller man said, looking at Tristan, who approached them slowly. His hair was dark blond and his eyes green. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Tristan.”
“You’ve likely had your nose buried in your logistics reports,” Tristan returned with an easy smile. He turned his attention to Caroline. “Do you have the pleasure of knowing my friends, or should I introduce them?”
“I do not yet have that pleasure.”
“Splendid. Miss Whitby, allow me to introduce my friends, Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stanton.”
She curtsied to the men. Mr. Hartley smiled at her, but Mr. Stanton glanced away, bored, after his perfunctory polite greeting.
“Any relation to James Whitby?” Mr. Hartley asked.
“I am his sister,” Caroline said.
Tristan seemed to move closer. “The Whitbys are my neighbors in Surrey, you will recall.”
“Of course.” Mr. Stanton sighed, tugging at the sleeve of his tan coat. “You’ve been friends for years, then.”
Why would that make him sound disappointed? Caroline looked at each of their faces when a moment of clarity fell over her. The only reason they would find her friendship with Tristan to be a threat was if they were involved in the wager, too. “You are all part of the same wager, I presume.”
Mr. Hartley looked at Tristan sharply. “You’ve told her of it? Does this mean the both of you are—”
“No,” he said firmly. “Miss Whitby knows better than to entertain the idea of being my wife.”
“Knows better, does she?” Mr. Hartley said, amusement glittering in his eyes. Even Mr. Stanton’s interest appeared piqued. “I think we’re in greater danger than we imagined.”
Tristan’s expression turned stony, though Caroline could hardly credit why. “If you will excuse us, we have a game to finish.”
“You’ll find us later, I hope. We’ve much to discuss,” Mr. Hartley said.
“If I win, I’ll find you, Rosie. If not, you can be sure I’ll return home immediately to lick my wounds.”
Mr. Hartley frowned.
“You would not abandon me,” Caroline said.
She did not understand the nuances between the men, but it was apparent Tristan didn’t want to speak about her to his friends, which only made her want to force the topic.
“You’ll recall that we arrived together.
I am depending on your carriage to return me home. ”
The look he cast her way was void of all humor. “How could I possibly have forgotten? I will find you gentlemen as soon as I can, after all.”
The men walked away, amused. Tristan only looked perturbed.
“Are they not your good friends?” She feigned innocence.
“Some of my closest friends, in fact.”
Caroline lined up her mallet again, focusing on the grass. “Then why do you seem displeased to have the opportunity to speak to them?”
“Because they think they know the situation between us, Caro. I’ve done too good a job in giving the perception I am interested in an alliance with you, and you have given a perception you return the sentiment.”
She straightened, waiting for him to continue.
His eyes snapped. “If they believe I’m close to marriage, it will only make them try harder to find wives in order to cut me out. You’ve just made my need for marriage even greater.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed,” he said, stepping closer. There was at least the length of a book’s space between them, but she felt he was practically breathing down her neck.
Her skin prickled with awareness. She maintained her position, looking into his eyes and marveling at how their brown irises could look so beautiful in the sunlight, yet so deep and dark in the shade.
Caroline could smell his shaving soap, the hints of bergamot and citrus hitting her nose with the sense of familiarity.
Softness flashed in his eyes while he looked down at her.
His gaze dipped to her mouth, making her breath stall.
Then he shook his head slightly. “That was not your doing. Shall we finish the game? I think we have made our point with Dennison. If I wanted to win another wager, I’d lay odds he is preparing to find you when I chance to leave your side. ”
“That would be too soon.” She forced herself not to seek out Mr. Dennison in the crowd, nor to discover if he was watching them at that moment.
Given Tristan’s confidence, it was clear he had been tracking the man, which made one thing abundantly plain: the way he’d been treating her during the game of pall mall had only been part of the plot to regain Mr. Dennison’s affection.
She’d found herself reacting to him time and again, needing to remind herself he didn’t mean it.
He’d only offered for her because of his wager and his guilt. He only flirted with her because he flirted with everyone. His compliments were not real; they were fabricated. He was doing his part to help her obtain the proposal he had foiled.
Inhaling slowly, she repeated those things to herself as she looked in his deep brown eyes.
“You underestimate your appeal, Caro.”
She ignored her rapidly racing heart, reminding herself once again that Tristan had ulterior motives. He did not mean what he said. “In that case, I will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“On the contrary.” He seemed to lean closer, but she stood her ground. “You are meant to help me find a wife, I believe. We will neither of us be in debt to the other.”
He was correct. But when she considered the eligible women of her acquaintance, she couldn’t quite imagine any of them with Tristan. “I will continue to look for someone who can tolerate your attitude.”
“Thank you.” His smile grew wide. “I take that to mean you have a difficult time tolerating me?”
“Not at all,” she promised, dimpling up at him. “Though I would be greatly appreciative if I could finish my turn.”
“Of course.” Tristan stepped back, gesturing to where their balls sat side by side on the grass.
Caroline let out a whoosh of air, able to breathe again.
She took a moment to allow her pulse to return to normal, then swung back the mallet and let it crack against the ball, hitting it toward the iron ring.
For a moment she imagined it was going to roll through and finish the game, but it stopped just outside of the half-dome, to her dismay.
“Nearly there,” Tristan said, lining up to take his shot. He hit his ball, and it flew across the grass, colliding with Caroline’s and pushing it through the hoop.
“Thank you,” she said tightly, setting off across the lawn to retrieve her ball. She inhaled cool fresh air. Nothing about her interactions with Tristan were especially romantic, yet she could not help the increased rate of her pulse when she was around him.
Old, dormant attraction had been revived within her like an unwieldy hedge, and it took consistent effort to keep it trimmed and orderly.
She really ought to burn it down entirely.
“I’ll escort you to your mother,” Tristan offered, lifting his ball and walking beside her to return their mallets to the front.
He offered his elbow once they’d been divested of their pall mall implements and she placed her hand there, plucking at her skirt as she looked for her mother.
She spotted her near the table of refreshments speaking to a handful of older women.
The conversation centered around Kitty, it seemed, and whether she could expect a proposal from Lord Bengard. Caroline drew in a breath for patience.
“You do not wish to fly to Miss Fielding’s defense?” Tristan whispered, leaning close. There was a tone of teasing to his words that didn’t settle well in her gut.
She looked up at his smiling eyes. “I thought I had put the matter to rest between us.”
“Your vigorous defense of her character was noted, and I do not imagine she would easily be taken in by a cad, but Bengard is no ordinary cad. The man has age on his side and, subsequently, he has practice.”
“Practice?” she repeated, put out by the choice in words. “You mean to imply he has acted this way before?”
“On more than one occasion,” Tristan said.
“Do you refer to Miss Cartwright?” That was the name of the woman who had told Kitty stories of Lord Bengard, was it not?
“I haven’t any notion who that is,” Tristan said. “Honestly, I shouldn’t say anything about it, as all my information comes secondhand. We should return to my friends and allow them to speak on the matter instead.”
“I’d rather not,” she said quietly, tuning her ear toward the matrons’ conversation. They were still discussing Kitty and Lord Bengard.
“The viscount won’t offer for her,” Lady Tilbury said now. “He’s too stuck in his ways. A man doesn’t reach the comfortable age of five and thirty without developing unbreakable habits.”
“If Mr. Fielding approves of the union, what are we to say to it?” Mother asked.
“She’ll not have a union,” another woman said, fanning herself rigorously. Her graying curls were stuffed beneath an elaborate bonnet with a large plume bouncing on the front.
Mother adjusted her glove. “For Kitty’s sake, I hope you are all wrong.”
“I harbor the same hope as you, but far more cynicism.” Lady Tilbury opened her reticule, searching for something. She gave up, allowing it to swing freely from her wrist.
The women seemed to notice Caroline and Tristan, casting appreciative glances over Tristan’s form. He was handsome. His dark gray coat stretched easily over his broad shoulders and his hair was finely styled beneath his hat. His jaw was smooth, his eyes intelligent.
Caroline was very much in danger of developing a greater affection for him if she was not careful.
“Miss Whitby,” a man said behind her. She caught her mother’s widened eyes and knew at once this would be Mr. Dennison. As she looked over her shoulder, she found she was correct. He stood there, tall and slender, his lips pressed together as if waiting in anxiety.
“Mr. Dennison.” Caroline bobbed a curtsy, her voice far breathier than she would have liked. She was eager to learn if he was only greeting her or if he wanted an opportunity to speak to her privately.
He cleared his throat. “I wondered if I could persuade you—”
“Oh, there is the maze, Miss Whitby,” Tristan cut in, pointing across the lawn to the opening in the tall hedges. “Are you ready to see if you can…” He looked up as though noticing he had rudely interjected in the middle of Mr. Dennison’s speech. “Forgive me, Dennison. You were saying something.”
“Only the same as you, evidently.” His mouth pinched. “I wondered if you would like to try your hand at the maze with me, Miss Whitby.”
Caroline blinked. Tristan had interjected for a reason, but was it to provide Mr. Dennison the idea of taking her into the maze, or did he have another purpose? “I should enjoy that very much,” she said.
“Splendid. Shall we all go together?” Tristan offered, winking at her. “I have not tried my hand at a maze in some years. I do wonder if my sense of direction has improved at all. I suppose we shall soon learn.”
Mr. Dennison was stunned. “Together? I had been hoping to…well, yes, I suppose it should be all right to walk through it together.”
Caroline found her mother watching this with great interest. “Would you like to come, Mama?”
“No, darling. I am too old for mazes now. They only irritate me. You go along.”
Caroline looked from Tristan to Mr. Dennison. “Very well. Shall we?”