Chapter 37
thirty-seven
The thunder shook the night as Effie entered Tristan’s house.
After their passionate kiss in the stable, he’d asked her to come for dinner, and she’d accepted the invitation without hesitation.
She hadn’t thought about changing her mind.
She’d made the decision, and that was it.
No afterthought. Quite the opposite. She was eager to see him.
Their deal was still going on, and she couldn’t be more pleased to fulfil it.
When she arrived, rain splattered against the windows of the dining room, distorting the view of the garden.
The air was thick with his restlessness and the scent of white soup.
Soft candlelight lit the room, but the atmosphere was far from calm.
Tristan was pacing, raking a nervous hand through his hair.
She didn’t need to ask how he was faring.
She closed the door behind her, and he came to a grinding halt.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“I know I’m ruining everything, but I want to go.” His chest rose and fell quickly. “If you hadn’t been coming, I would have left an hour ago.”
“But I’m here, and you aren’t going. Besides, your body hasn’t recovered yet. If your ribs get punched again, they might crack and puncture your lungs.” She hesitated to get closer, not sure how he would react, or if he wanted her closer.
“What triggered the need?” She removed her capelet, not waiting for him. “You were fine this morning in the stable.”
“I don’t know. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
He raised his gaze to her. “You.”
“Me? Why?”
“I fear I might lose you.” His voice quivered. “Especially after today.”
She ran to him. “I’m here. You aren’t going to lose me.”
“I can’t control this fear.” He drew in a few deep breaths. The hard lines on his face showed the battle he was fighting against his urge. “I want to go.”
She took his hand. “Do you want to go somewhere else to distract yourself? Drury Lane, perhaps?”
He shook his head, gripping her hand as a drowning man would grip a rescuer.
“Music? We can easily find a concert in Covent Garden.”
He turned his wild gaze on her. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“Punch me.” He pointed at his ribs, right over the biggest bruise. “Where it hurts the most, so you won’t have to use too much energy.”
“Tristan, don’t ask me that.”
“Just once.” His pupils were dilated, and his breathing became uneven.
“I’ve never punched anything.”
“It’s not difficult.” He took her hand and closed it in a fist. “Curl the fingers inwards and fold the thumb across the top halves of your index and middle finger to protect them.” He touched her knuckles. “You hit me with your knuckles only.”
“Tristan, I beg you. I can’t do it.”
“Just once.” He sounded desperate.
She exhaled and withdrew her arm to get ready to punch him. He opened his jacket and spread his arms to make himself an easy target. A moment of silence passed. She punched him lightly.
“Harder,” he said. “I didn’t feel anything.”
She tried again, feeling his hard muscles against her knuckles.
“Harder,” he said again. “Don’t be gentle with me.”
“Tristan…”
“I need this.” He was shaking. “I want you to be ferocious to me.”
She released a shaky breath and tried again with more energy.
He scoffed. “Harder.”
A flare of anger overcame her. “No!” She took a step back.
“When I said I wanted to help you, I didn’t mean by hitting you.
You can’t ask me that. I will not hurt you.
And it’s vile of you to ask me that. You must find the strength to fight this absurd craving of yours in another way, but I won’t punch you. ”
His facial muscles tightened to the point his face transformed. The thunder roared, and a bolt of lightning limned his silhouette from behind.
“You promised,” she said. “I trusted you.”
Tristan strode past her and walked out of the room, leaving her alone with the storm and her failure.
Voices came from the hallway. A door was shut. Then Harris entered the dining room, his face as grim as the weather.
“I gather His Lordship decided to go, my lady.”
A sob rasped her throat. “I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry. How arrogant of me to think I could help him.”
“Oh, dear lady.” The butler crossed the room to stand close to her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She cried in earnest. “But I didn’t help him at all.”
He touched her shoulder tentatively. “I beg to differ. He has made great progress since he spent time with you. I’ve been with the Montcrest family for almost fifty years.”
She wiped her eyes. “Fifty?”
“I was thirteen when I started serving as a hall boy in this very house. His Lordship’s grandfather was the marquess back then. I watched His Lordship grow up and went through the family’s ordeal.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
He poured her a glass of water. “The late marquess was a good man. He helped me when…” He straightened the plates and the forks. “I had a gambling problem.”
Now she understood why Harris was so patient with Tristan. Gambling was an addiction, too.
He cleared his throat. “Another lord would have given me the sack and left me to my miserable fate. Not the marquess. He paid my debts and helped me get rid of that vicious habit. I owe him my life and dignity. I could never leave his son alone. Don’t be discouraged, my lady.
It’ll take time, but with your help, His Lordship will get better. ”
She put her hand over his. “Thank you, Harris. You give me hope.”
Rain slipped underneath Tristan’s collar and down his neck. His suit was soaked through, and he was chilled to the marrow. Dawn was approaching with its cold light, and shivers caused his teeth to chatter.
He’d sent his coachman home hours ago and had wandered through London’s streets since then, half hoping to be attacked by a footpad.
No such luck.
Still, the cold rain and the night’s chill had a calming effect on his temper.
After he’d stormed out of his dining room and left Effie alone, he’d meant to go to The Octagon and lose himself. But Effie’s words had haunted him and echoed in his mind without mercy, worse than his twitch.
It’s vile of you. Absurd craving. You promised. I trusted you.
He’d been called worse things than vile, but the insult said by Effie had a deep, intimate effect on him.
Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to enter The Octagon.
He’d wanted to go to the ring more than ever, yet his body had refused to move as if it’d reached a limit of pain and nonsense beyond which it wouldn’t be pushed.
He’d sent the coachman home and walked under the rain all night, shivering and thinking, sometimes just shivering.
As a grey dawn rose behind the storm, a blushing light sneaked through the angry clouds.
He stopped at Effie’s house. The warm yellow lights glowing from the ground floor were like a beacon.
What he feared the most had happened. He’d dragged her bright light into his twisted world, and she’d put him in his place with her honesty.
The least he could do was to apologise to her and hope she wouldn’t tell him to rot in hell.
Not feeling very lord-like, he walked to the rear of the house and knocked on the back door.
A scullery maid opened it. “You can drop the—my lord!” She gasped and curtsied.
“I must see Lady Effie.” He stepped under the door canopy to get a break from the pounding rain.
The maid twisted her apron. “My lord…this is…” She shouted over her shoulder, “Mrs. Young! Mrs. Young!”
“What is the meaning of this?” A tall woman with greying hair came into view. She fell silent upon seeing him. Her chatelaine stopped clinking. “Lord Montcrest. You’re drenched.”
He was growing tired of waiting, and shivering with cold didn’t make him less irritable. “It’s pissing down.”
The maid and the housekeeper gasped at his oath.
“My apologies, but I need to see Lady Effie,” he said again in a gentler tone.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this is most inappropriate,” Mrs. Young said, seemingly petrified.
The maid nodded.
“Can we let Lady Effie decide?” He craned his neck to see past the housekeeper.
“Yes, of course. I was surprised…” Mrs. Young stepped back and forth. “Is Lady Effie up?” she asked the maid.
“She was served her breakfast in her bedroom a while ago. She didn’t feel well enough to go down to the dining room.”
“Send Rose to tell Her Ladyship that Lord Montcrest insists on seeing her now.” Mrs. Young gave him a concerned look. “Would you like to wait here? Or perhaps you want to go to the drawing room?” She held the door open.
“Here is fine.” He stepped into the anteroom to the kitchen, inhaling the scent of apples, tea, and fresh butter.
“Would you like a cup of tea, my lord?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, my lord. If you’ll excuse me.” Mrs. Young hurried to the kitchen, leaving him alone.
Water pooled at his feet as he waited.
Voices came from the kitchen. Footsteps pounded, and then Effie appeared in a lovely light pink morning gown as beautiful as a fresh summer day.
“Tristan.” She raked an assessing gaze over him as if searching for a bleeding wound. “Are you all right?”
“No.” He brushed his wet hair from his face.
“What happened to you?”
A small crowd of servants gathered behind her, murmuring. His idea of knocking on the rear door had been a stupid one, but that wouldn’t be the first or last stupid thing he’d ever done.
She cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should have a cup of tea in the drawing room. Please come through, so we can let the servants do their work.”
He followed her across the kitchen, amongst the scandalised glances of the maids, footmen, and kitchen workers.
“You’ll catch a cold in those wet clothes,” she said, entering a warm room with large windows overlooking the glorious sunrise.
The early morning sun struggled to come through the clouds, but it was putting up a fierce fight against the bad weather.
A flurry of activities followed as a footman took his wet coat. The butler gave him a towel and stoked the fire without disguising his complete disapproval with a sour expression. When tea was finally served, he had the opportunity to talk to Effie.
“Do you need Dr. O’Neil?” she asked.
Steam rose from his clothes.
“No. I didn’t go to The Octagon last night,” he said, sipping his tea.
“Really?” A bit of colour returned to her cheeks.
“I walked in the rain all night.” He wanted to say more, but those were words to be said when they had complete privacy.
Coming here like that had been a mistake.
He couldn’t expect to be left alone with Effie after such an entrance.
The butler kept peeking inside the room, the footmen came and went every other second, and the voices from the corridor meant other servants were close.
Not to mention Winchester might come in at any moment.
He put his cup down. “Forgive my rudeness. I’ll go home now.”
“You’ve just arrived.”
“I’ll see you later, I hope.” He bowed low. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
She followed him when he walked to the front door. “Tristan.”
He took his drenched coat from the footman. “Yes?”
She glanced at the small army of servants hanging around. “I’ll see you later.”