Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Three days later
The sun poured heat into a countryside unencumbered by a single cloud in the sky. Tristan let it soak into him as he allowed his silver bay to alternate between a trot and a canter according to its own mood. This was the sort of day one left England for.
Only this morning, he’d received an invitation from Lord Archer to join his party for an outing in the Chianti Hills.
It will be a lark, and there will be opera singers.
Tristan had snorted and thought about tossing the invitation into the rubbish. After all, he was a known recluse, his refusal would only be expected. Further, he wasn’t particularly keen on joining a Windermere party—with opera singers—in the countryside. Not in the plural sense, anyway.
But in the singular—as in one particular Windermere…
He was very much interested.
It had been three days, and he couldn’t get the blasted woman out of his mind.
He’d tried sculpting her from memory—the elegant column of her neck…
the delicate line of her clavicle…the exquisite turn of her wrist…
and other parts, too. Parts only a lover would know.
The feminine indent of her waist. The subtle flare of her hips.
The firm curve of her derriere. The sweet perfection of her breasts.
His tongue could still taste the salt of her.
He’d thought he could sculpt the memory of her into submission. But it refused to submit, instead insisting on dominating his every waking hour, and his sleeping ones, too.
He’d had no choice but to accept her brother’s invitation. He must see her again, if only to rid himself of the memory of her. Or…
Was it to form new memories of her?
Was he truly so weak?
It was entirely possible.
For here was the thing: he’d taken her virginity. That had been weakness, of the mind and body, no matter that she’d had a choice in the matter. He should’ve known better. He did know better.
So, why was he actually here?
To right a situation that had gotten out of hand?
Bloody hell.
The bay topped the hill they’d been climbing this last quarter hour, and Tristan tugged the reins to take in the view.
The Chianti Hills rolled soft and green and brown all around him, some hills wild with tall grasses and woodland, others tamed by the grape vines that the hills gave their name.
Though the area lacked the hustle and bustle of the city, no few people passed him on his ride.
The odd donkey cart. Pairs of women on foot, walking to the nearest village or visiting a neighbor.
This was the pace of life for Tristan. When he returned to England in just a few months, he’d decided he would be spending the majority of the year at the family seat in Gloucestershire.
He rather thought he would enjoy it, too.
Italy had taught him something about the pleasures in life.
It wasn’t one’s physical location that mattered as much as what one carried inside them.
Or was it someone who had taught him that?
“Ripon!” came a shout.
Not a hundred yards distant, in the middle of a field, lounged Lord Archer, waving, his curls shining platinum beneath the unrelenting sun.
This must be the Windermere picnic spot.
He could see why with the view of rolling hills and even the white glint of the Florentine duomo in the distance.
Tristan dismounted from his bay and handed over the reins to a servant before walking over to Archer and his friend Lord Kilmuir.
Tristan knew the latter as a nodding acquaintance from Eton many years ago, not much more than that.
But even he could see the man had taken a turn for the morose, which Archer seemed utterly unbothered by.
Woman troubles, no doubt.
Tristan glanced around and found no sign of anyone else. Had he misunderstood Archer’s invitation?
“Any trouble finding us?” asked Archer, already extending a cup of something surely intoxicating toward Tristan.
“None at all.”
He continued to cast his gaze about. Toward the nearest grove of olive trees. Across the plain of tall grass stretching down the hill. Not a trace of another Windermere.
Not a trace of her.
Disappointment stole through him. What was he doing here? He hadn’t the faintest interest in drinking the afternoon away with Archer and his morose friend. He saw but one way forward—the direct. “Is it only the three of us in the party?”
“Oh, no, the women have struck off in a ramble. Scattered amongst the hills like dandelions.” Archer didn’t seem too concerned. “And thank God for that.”
“Oh?” asked Tristan.
Archer popped a grape into his mouth and spoke around it, “Amelia received a letter from England this morning that’s got her all in a tizzy.”
Kilmuir pushed to a stand. “I’m off on a ramble meself,” he said in his light Scottish burr.
“But Ravensworth will be here any minute with opera singers,” said Archer.
Kilmuir grunted and stalked off toward the olive trees.
Just then came the sound of carriage wheels crunching across dirt and gravel, accompanied by a wafting of feminine laughter. Tristan caught a glimpse of ostrich feathers. Ravensworth and the opera singers had arrived.
Tristan took that as his cue to embark on a ramble himself and told Archer as much.
“But the opera singers, Ripon,” said Archer.
“More for you,” said Tristan and tipped his hat. He headed in the direction opposite the one taken by Kilmuir. No morose Scotsmen for him today.
Across the tall grass he strode. This was no lazy afternoon ramble. He had a woman to find.
On the other side of a thin blade of cherry laurels and halfway down a small hillside, he caught sight of two female figures on a blanket—one with silky raven-black hair and the other with a riot of short blonde curls.
His heart performed a neat little flip in his chest before his mind caught up with the reaction.
Lady Amelia had long, flowing curls. This was Lady Delilah and their cousin Miss Windermere.
“If it isn’t the Duke of Ripon,” called out Lady Delilah, holding a hand to her forehead. “How interesting to see you here.” Both women stared at him with matching curious expressions.
“Just here for an afternoon ramble.”
Their heads canted at the exact same angle. They weren’t convinced. “Tell me, Your Grace,” continued Lady Delilah, “what is your opinion of Christopher Marlowe?”
“The playwright?” A conversation with the Windermeres certainly never took the usual turn.
As one, the ladies nodded.
He had a feeling there was a correct answer, and he wasn’t about to deliver it. “I haven’t one.”
He gave them a tip of the hat and was on his way.
“If you see Amelia, give her our regards.”
A flurry of soft giggles might have met his back. No matter. Lady Amelia was near. He sensed it.
Just inside an oak woodland at the bottom of yet another hill, he encountered a narrow stream.
Instinct had him cutting left and following its shallow bank upstream.
If he knew Lady Amelia Windermere at all—and he did, quite well—she would be situated alongside the mellow trickle of water flowing lazily over rocks and moss with a charcoal or paintbrush in her hand.
He rounded a bend and found her not thirty feet away just as he’d imagined her: tucked in a little patch of grass beside the water, green checked blanket spread beneath her, charcoal in hand, sketchbook on her lap, gaze both dreamy and focused, lost in the state of creation.
She must have caught movement in the corner of her eye for her gaze flicked up and held his.
He kept placing one foot in front of the other until he reached the edge of her blanket.
She looked a vision, Lady Amelia Windermere, in her mint-green sprigged muslin dress and hair tied loosely back, her curls having their own ideas about their bound state. In truth, she looked like a woman waiting to be ravished. Which, of course, she wasn’t. But the way she was staring up at him…
Or was she?
With care, she set her sketching materials off to the side and pushed to a stand.
No words had yet been spoken, but they didn’t seem all that necessary.
Between them lay not five feet which she crossed with a few steps; now separated by mere inches, a light blush staining her cheeks, her mouth parted in an upturned O, her delicate, crisp scent of lavender just reaching him.
Her breath came in shallow bursts as if she’d run a great distance.
She reached a tentative hand out and caressed his cheek while pressing the flat of her other palm against his chest, his heart a gallop against his ribs. How he’d craved her touch these last three days. Ached for it, in fact. But his body was greedy and wanted more than the caress of a cheek.
It wanted all of her.
But it was hers to give, not his to take.
She lifted to the tips of her toes and touched soft lips to his, her hands finding the back of his head, her fingernails a light scrape across his scalp.
Goose bumps lifted across his skin as he found the small of her back and pressed her up against the length of his body, deepening the kiss.
Still, no words had passed their lips, but their bodies knew what to say.
All at once, tentativeness transformed into greed.
She was pushing his coat off his shoulders and unknotting his cravat.
He was blindly searching for the buttons of her bodice and sorely tempted to rip them off when they refused to give way.
She’d become frustrated with the buttons of his waistcoat and had no such qualms, one button flying into the grass, another plunking into the stream.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling this frantic need for a woman, to have her touch upon him, to have her flesh made one with his. Through the gray superfine of his trousers, her fingers traced the hard length of his manhood. He sucked in a sharp breath. Help him.