Chapter 8
Tristan got up early the morning after the ball and went to the boxing saloon.
He hadn’t been there in a while, but this time he stripped to the waist and spent almost three hours in the ring, taking on anyone who wanted to hit and get hit.
He would have stayed there, too, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the thrill of each landed blow, but Bennet appeared and just stood beside the ring, glaring at him.
That was precisely what Tristan had hoped to avoid by leaving the house so early.
After he’d walked away from Miss Bennet the previous night, leaving her flushed and flustered behind Lady Malcolm’s potted palms, he’d just kept walking: out of the ballroom, out of the Malcolm house, all the way across town into the narrow lanes behind Covent Garden where a man could lose himself in gin houses and gaming hells.
Because he’d needed to be lost. Good Lord above, he’d gone and kissed the Fury—and his mouth still hungered for the taste of hers.
Not even a river of spirits could quench it.
This was a serious error, and not one he was prepared to repeat.
Nor was he anxious to face the inevitable questions from her brother.
What the hell could he say, anyway? It would have almost been preferable to have let Jessica Elliot find him, no matter how peevish she’d sounded when she almost discovered him behind the potted plants with Miss Bennet.
And he’d thought staying hidden would be the wise choice—which proved his instincts worthless, frankly.
He ignored Bennet while he finished his bout, but Bennet stalked around the ring when he ducked out and headed for the tub of water in the corner.
Tristan leaned over it and poured a few ladles of water over his head and chest. A servant held out a length of towel, and he draped it over his dripping hair.
“What?” he said once his face was safely hidden.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” snapped Bennet. “What the devil were you thinking to dance with my sister?”
Still toweling his hair, Tristan shrugged. “I felt sorry for her. She didn’t dance a single dance.”
“That’s hardly your fault! I daresay she doesn’t like to dance anyway, being taller than most of the men in the room.”
Bennet didn’t know his sister well, if he thought the woman didn’t like to dance.
There had been a kind of excitement in her face, a delight that was both wistful and determined, as if she meant to enjoy every moment of the dance no matter who her partner was.
That expression had kept him awake far too long last night, and in fact was partly behind his quest for punishment today.
She wanted to dance—longed to dance, even—and he hadn’t been a very charming partner.
“It’s not her fault she’s tall. She didn’t have to accept when I asked her. ”
“But why the devil would you ask her at all?” Bennet demanded.
“You were the one who said she was trouble and ought to be avoided; now my mother wants to tear a strip off my hide for exposing her to you! She accused me of wagering you into dancing with Joan—horrid thought, risking money on anything involving my sister!” He grimaced.
“She’d do whatever it took to make me lose, I’ve no doubt. ”
Tristan tossed aside the towel. “Are you here to defend your sister’s honor, or to mock me for dancing with such a harpy? You’re not making sense, Bennet.”
His friend followed him into the other room. “Both, unfortunately. Mother came to my door herself this morning to give full vent to her spleen when she learned you danced with Joan—and a waltz, no less.”
“Everyone waltzes. In fact, I thought I saw you with a fetching blonde in your arms during that same waltz.”
Bennet flushed. “Well—yes—Mother insisted I lead out Miss Drummond again.”
Tristan uncorked a jug of cool water and took a long drink. He was still avoiding facing Bennet, which was cowardly but damned if he felt like changing. “Was I not supposed to dance, while you were swanning about the room yourself? You made me go to the blasted ball.”
“Not to dance with Joan,” growled Bennet. “Blast it, Burke—” He stopped, and ran his hands through his hair. “You know my mother never warmed to you,” he went on more calmly.
“Not because of anything I’ve done,” Tristan said pointedly, finally spearing a hard look at the other man. “You know damned well she blames me for all your vices, without pausing to wonder how you manage to carry on at them even in my absence.”
Bennet flushed darker red. “Fair enough. But there’s no arguing with her now; she’s fixed her mind against you.
So for both our sakes, leave Joan be.” He gave a rueful grin.
“It shouldn’t be that hard. You said yourself she’s trouble.
I’m doing you a favor, really—should you ever encounter her, you have my permission to run the other way. ”
Tristan just grunted and snapped his fingers at the boy to fetch his clothes.
Trouble, yes; but even more dangerous than Bennet suspected.
Because Tristan didn’t want to run the other way when he saw Miss Bennet, as vexing as she was.
He wanted to best her, to leave her speechless; he wanted to hear her confess that she was wrong and he was right, about anything at all.
And most worrisome of all, he wanted to kiss her senseless when she did so.
Maybe even before. He must be cracked in the head.
“So are felicitations in order?” he asked, trying to change the subject so Bennet wouldn’t keep talking about her. “Do I need to remove myself to a hotel so your bride can redecorate?”
His friend scowled. “Damn it, Burke, I’m not betrothed—”
“Two dances with the same woman? It won’t be long.”
“It was to appease my mother,” growled Bennet.
The servant had come back with his clothing. Tristan took his shirt and pulled it over his head. “I vaguely remember your mother. She wasn’t the most dreadful woman. Why, pray tell, does she inspire such terror in her children’s hearts that they cannot twitch without fearing her retribution?”
“It’s not terror,” Bennet exclaimed. “I just—just— It’s just not wise to rouse her temper, that’s all. It’s more peaceful.” Then he frowned. “Did Joan complain of her as well?”
The servant held out the cravat, neatly pressed again.
“Wasn’t your sister sneaking out after she came to your home the other day?
I gathered it was in defiance of your mother’s wishes, yet all she did was stroll up Bond Street.
And you can’t refuse so much as a request that you attend a certain ball.
” He began knotting the cravat, keeping his eyes on the looking glass the servant held up.
“I suppose one might understand an unmarried lady being kept close by her mother,” he added.
“But you’re a grown man. Buck up, old chap. Appeasement leads to subjugation.”
Bennet snorted. “As if you’d know! Free as a bird, your entire life.”
Tristan pulled the loose end of the cravat through the knot and stabbed a pin through it.
“Yes, free from all that parental oversight that chafes you so.” Also free from any sort of loving home, but he forbore to mention it.
His parents had been dead so long, he couldn’t even remember them.
For all he knew, his mother might have been worse than Bennet’s.
“It certainly never appeared that you minded!” Bennet clapped him on the back, apparently restored to good humor. “Just trust me—it’s easier to appease Mother. I danced with the girl, everyone was satisfied, and now I’m free again.”
“Did you like the girl?”
Bennet blinked. “What?”
“Did you like the girl?” Tristan repeated, pulling on his jacket. “If you’re going to waltz with a girl, you might as well enjoy it.”
The other man stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Bloody hell! You don’t have to like a girl to like waltzing with her. Miss Drummond is nothing like the females I prefer—you know that. I might as well ask you if you enjoyed dancing with my sister!”
He should have laughed. He should have agreed wholeheartedly, and let the whole question drop.
Instead Tristan pictured the curve of her lips when the music began, and felt the sway of her body in his arm.
Somehow he couldn’t poke fun at Miss Bennet, not even to her brother.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, and walked away before Bennet could recover from the shock.