Chapter 5
It didn’t take Tristan long to remember why he rarely went to balls.
First, there was the company. He had nothing against a good crowd, especially if there happened to be a boxing match in the middle of it.
What he didn’t enjoy were the stares of women: some sly, some scandalized, some just rabidly curious.
Lady Malcolm had gazed at him in amazement when he followed Bennet through her door, and that turned out to be the most polite reaction he got.
Every now and then he would meet the eye of a particularly bold female and give her a wicked smile.
The young ones blushed, the old ones turned their backs, and the ones in the middle sometimes smiled back.
He didn’t care. There was only one female he had come to vanquish tonight, and she was late.
“It seems a pity to serve your penance when the judge isn’t even here,” he remarked to Bennet, who was leaning morosely against the fireplace mantel at the far end of the room.
“If I leave, Mother is sure to turn up ten minutes later and flay me for ducking out.” He flagged down a passing footman and took two glasses of wine from the servant’s tray. “Might as well drink at Malcolm’s expense.”
The second problem with balls, Tristan thought, was the wine. Few hosts served their best wine to the hundreds of guests who came to balls. He sipped from the glass Bennet handed him and sighed. It was either very average burgundy or watered. He didn’t see the point in drinking it at all.
Bennet had already gulped down most of his. “Can’t imagine what maggot got into my mother’s brain. Why should she want me married already? Oughtn’t she be busy getting Joan wed? Lord knows that would be enough to occupy her for another decade.”
“Perhaps she’s given it up as hopeless.”
Bennet downed the remainder of his wine. “Well, it probably is. Joan drives people to distraction.”
“Indeed,” Tristan muttered. He knew that all too well. He was perilously close to it right now, scanning the room for the dratted woman.
“Still, it hardly seems right for Mother to take such an interest in my marriage,” Bennet went on. “I don’t need funds, and I like my life the way it is now. What could I possibly gain by marrying?”
Tristan thought about it. What did marriage offer a man? “Security,” he said at last. “If your fortune, or your father’s, should suffer reverses, you’d have a harder time finding a wealthy bride. If you begin now, you’re more likely to have your pick of the girls.”
“Reverses,” scoffed Bennet. “Even I’m not daft enough to wager away too much blunt. And I’d rather economize than take on a wife who would be nattering in my ear all day and night about something. No, this is all a mania of my mother’s, and I won’t be cozened into it.”
“Right,” said Tristan, hardly paying attention. “Good man.” His eye had caught the arrival, at long last, of the Fury. She was tall enough to stand out in the crowd, especially with that feather in her hair. “Go tell her that.”
Bennet jerked upright. “Mother’s here? Thank God. The sooner I dance with the girl she favors, the sooner I can leave.”
That didn’t quite sound like making a stand against Lady Bennet’s manipulations, but Tristan forbore to mention it.
He watched Bennet charge through the crowd like a bull.
His sister had already detached herself from the slim older woman who must be her mother.
Tristan tracked the bobbing plume in her hair, wondering what made women want to look like half-plucked ostriches.
She soon joined a group of other young ladies, barely visible to him even though he could see over most heads in the room.
His mouth thinned, and he drank half the wine in his glass without tasting it.
Another thing he’d forgotten: females usually roamed in packs. He wanted to confront her in private.
He watched her through several dances, one of which was a long country reel.
Footmen passed him with trays of drink, and he absently exchanged his empty glass for a full one.
The claret was slightly more palatable than the burgundy, though not by much.
Belatedly it struck him that she wasn’t dancing.
Her companions were escorted into the dance a few times, but she stayed where she was, apparently from lack of partner more than lack of interest; he could see the feather swaying in time with the music.
Most likely she would sharpen her tongue on any man brave enough to ask her to dance, but Tristan vaguely remembered that dancing was important to most women.
Before he had much time to wonder if he should pity her, she finally—at long last—turned and headed out of the room with another young lady.
Tristan snapped to attention and set down his now empty wineglass.
As if he needed further proof this woman was trouble, he’d drunk two .
. . or perhaps even three . . . glasses of lackluster wine without realizing it, all because she distracted him.
He wound his way through the other guests, ignoring the hushed whispers and surreptitious glances in his wake.
The room was long but relatively narrow, and by the time he reached the door, Miss Bennet had disappeared.
For a moment he paused, listening, then turned in the direction of female voices.
Brilliant; he could lie in wait for her outside the ladies’ retiring room.
A private parlor at the end of a long corridor had been made available to the ladies, and was occupied by several of them, to judge from the sounds of conversation and laughter.
Not wanting to just stand there waiting for her to emerge, Tristan tried a nearby door and found it unlocked.
He stepped into a small music room, lit by two lamps on the side table behind the harp.
He left the door ajar, so as not to miss her, and strolled over to the table.
The lamps caught his eye; they were made of a design he’d never seen before.
It was similar to an Argand lamp, but more delicate.
Intrigued, Tristan bent down to study it more closely, and then went down on one knee to see the underside.
How did the wick draw from that oil reservoir?
“At last,” trilled a female voice behind him. “I never thought to see you down on bended knee.”
“It’s not for the reason you wished,” he said without looking around. “What sort of lamp is this?”
“How on earth would I know?” With a tipsy hiccup she strolled into the room.
Tristan barely glanced at her. Lady Elliot had been his lover for a few impassioned weeks last fall, before she unwisely told him she wanted marriage.
Since they’d been engaged in vigorous amorous activity at the time, almost at the crucial moment, he considered it a low form of coercion.
You won’t get it from me, he’d told her before pulling away from her clinging limbs and walking out of her bedroom without looking back, even when she screamed at him to give her a climax at the very least.
“You’re right,” he said absently. “I was foolish to ask you, of all people.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” She walked her fingers over his collar and combed them through his hair. “I do know some things, you might remember.”
Carefully Tristan slid the glass chimney off the lamp, wincing as the hot glass seared his fingers. He blew out the flame and picked up the lamp, studying it from all sides. “I remember you thought very highly of your charms.”
“So did you,” she whispered in a playful tone. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten? I could show you again . . . tonight . . .”
“I have other plans.” There was some sort of clockwork device in the base of the lamp, with a key protruding from the back.
He gave it a gentle turn, watching how it affected the mechanism.
How clever; he’d have to ask Lord Malcolm what sort of lamp this was and where he could obtain some for his own house.
“Change them. I’ve missed you, Burke . . . Let me apologize for my ill-considered parting.”
He glanced up. She had leaned over, putting her very impressive bosom, in its very low-cut bodice, right at his eye level. “Jessica, it’s no good. I won’t marry you, so find another man to grace with your favors.”
She pouted, still playing with his hair.
He jerked his head to one side as she plucked at the leather thong that held it back out of his face.
Lord save him from women who couldn’t handle champagne, yet drank it to excess anyway.
“But I want you. I miss you. So vigorous, so untamed, so thrilling! Come, let’s have a go for old time’s sake. ”
“No, thank you.” He went back to studying the lamp, only to curse vividly as her lace-trimmed pantalets fell over his head a few minutes later.
She giggled. “Come, my love. I know how you like it.” Swishing her skirt above her knees, she backed up until she collapsed onto a chaise.
Now laughing out loud, she lay back and pulled up her skirt in one motion, exposing her bared legs all the way to her waist. She spread her legs wide and kicked up her feet. “I am yours to invade!”
For a moment he was transfixed. Gads, she was even bolder than he remembered. But then he shook himself. He wasn’t going to avail himself of her offer, no matter how . . . adventurous it might be.
“The door is open,” he said as he set the lamp back on the table. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Jessica—”
The gasp seemed to echo through the room.
Tristan whipped around to see his nemesis in the doorway, her eyes wide and her mouth open.
For a moment the air seemed as thick as treacle, with only the drunken giggling of Lady Elliot—still wiggling her feet and holding her skirts over her face—to break the deafening silence.
“Oh my,” said Miss Bennet at last, her voice trembling.
Lady Elliot lifted her head, peering over the billows of her skirt. “Alas,” she cried. “We’ve been discovered in flagrante delicto, Burke!”