Chapter 15 #2
“Perhaps she should have done so before he required my own oath.” That wiped the smug look off her face.
“However, since neither of them is here, I propose we turn to a neutral party to render a decision. Lady Courtenay,” he said, without taking his eyes off Miss Bennet, “which promise must be considered the stronger: mine to Mr. Bennet, to see to his sister’s well-being and contentment, or hers to her mother, to refuse an honest entreaty to dance? ”
Lady Courtenay laughed. “Well! As a woman who was once a girl, hoping not to sit out a single set, I’m sure I’d grant the dance, provided .
. .” She glanced at her niece. “Provided it was solicited with the best intentions, seeking only the enjoyment of both partners, and not just out of grim obligation.”
“The look on his face is quite grim, Aunt,” said Miss Bennet, gleeful once more. “I cannot think he anticipates any pleasure in dancing with me.”
“Should I, since the mere request for a dance has caused an argument?” Tristan sipped his tea. “I shall have the satisfaction of keeping my word, of course.”
“My,” said Lady Courtenay admiringly. “I never could turn down a chance to prove a man wrong.”
“I accept,” said her niece at almost the same moment.
A fierce burst of triumph surged through Tristan.
He knew he was treading on dangerous ground; she probably intended to hand him his head on a silver platter.
But he didn’t care. He didn’t want to think about what gossip it might stir up.
He didn’t want to think about the dangers of spending even more time with her.
Just the prospect of touching her again seemed to override all his good sense.
A footman came into the room and handed Lady Courtenay a letter. She read the direction on the front, and almost leapt out of her chair. “Oh! You must excuse me. I’ve been expecting this letter and may need to reply at once. Joan dear, will you pour our guest more tea?”
“Is it bad news expected?” asked Miss Bennet in alarm.
“No, no—that is, I hope not.” Her aunt was already moving toward the door. “Carry on without me. I’ll be back in a moment!” She vanished out the door, pulling it gently closed behind her.
Tristan, who’d jumped to his feet when she stood, turned to Miss Bennet. She looked as nonplussed as he felt, but she gathered herself quickly, reaching for the teapot and filling her cup to the brim again. “I wonder how long she’d been wanting to sneak out.”
Slowly he returned to his seat. All his words of warning to Bennet echoed in his mind, about women maneuvering men into marriage. He’d already identified Lady Courtenay as a Fury to be reckoned with . . . “You think it was planned?”
“The letter? Perhaps, but not likely. I daresay that was merely a convenient excuse.”
“And why would she want to sneak out?”
Her cheeks grew pink. “It certainly wouldn’t be to escape your witty chatter. If you leave now, I shan’t try to stop you.”
“You’ve said even less than I,” he observed, suddenly less eager to make his own escape. “And I haven’t even finished my tea.” He took a long sip, heedless of the taste but exquisitely alert to the way her eyes darkened as she watched him.
“I know why you’re here,” she said. “As honored as I am by your attention, please don’t think I expect you to inconvenience yourself merely for my amusement. My brother had no right to impose on you that way.”
“No, none at all.” He leaned forward and held out his cup. “May I have some sugar? I like my tea sweet.”
For a moment he thought she might throw the sugar at him, but she took a deep breath and dumped a heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea. Now it would taste vile. He sipped it anyway.
“Why did Douglas choose you, of all people, to thrust into my path?”
He shrugged. “His other friends were unsuitable.”
“More unsuitable than you?” she asked dryly.
“Far, far more,” he agreed, picturing the reprobates Bennet usually kept company with. “You should be flattered. He feared you would go into a decline, but knew that would be impossible if you had my escort.”
“Decline!” Her eyes sparked in irritation.
“As if I needed your help, or his help—” She stopped, took a deep breath, and conjured up a coy smile that put him on guard.
She leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“Now that you mention it, there is one thing you might do that would greatly increase my enjoyment of these long, lonely days without my family near.”
“Oh?” he drawled. “What would that be?”
“There is a publication that brings me some enjoyment.” She was almost whispering now. “Would you get it for me?”
Ah. He leaned forward. “The same publication I had to put down your bodice?”
Her cheeks flushed but her smile grew wider. “Yes, the very same! Only you mustn’t do that again.”
“Very well, Miss Bennet. Shall we arrange a rendezvous at the Brentwood ball?”
“No,” she said hastily. “Perhaps you could come for tea again.”
“I don’t drink tea,” he murmured.
She looked at the teacup in his hand. “You do drink tea. Everyone drinks tea.”
Tristan grinned. “I hate tea. You must stop thinking I’m like your expectations of me. If you want your pamphlet, you must allow me some license in my mode of delivery.”
She pursed her lips, but nodded once. “Very well. As long as you don’t cause a scene.”
“The risk of a scene is greatly reduced when you cooperate.” How interesting. He was growing curious about this publication. And if it gave him something to put down her bodice again, so much the better. “What is this publication called? I forget.”
“Fifty Ways to Sin,” she whispered, casting an anxious eye at the door. “It is . . . ah . . . a ladies’ serial.”
“Only for ladies?”
“Well—I think only ladies read it.” She pursed her lips. “You’ll get it for me?”
He stared at the way her lips parted in eagerness. “If you like.”
“Yes!” She beamed at him. “I would like it, very much. Thank you.” She tilted her head. “Just how much attendance did Douglas make you promise?”
“A reasonable amount.”
“Such as dancing with me?”
She was still smiling at him. Even though Tristan knew it was misleading—even ominous—that smile was distracting.
There was something very lively and mischievous about it, tempting the wildness inside him that craved adventure and danger.
He had to blink a few times to keep from being dazzled by it.
“He did encourage it, if dancing pleased you.”
“I hope it shall. Anything else?”
He thought a moment. “Nothing specific. It was more a general urge to see that you enjoyed yourself, and not a specific list of tasks.”
She pressed her lips together in a dangerous smile. “But I could only enjoy a dance with someone of good intentions.”
“Of course.” He absolutely intended to avoid kissing her. That was positively noble, for him.
“Then you seek only our mutual pleasure, as my aunt suggested?” Miss Bennet looked at him through her eyelashes.
Tristan had to remind himself they were talking about dancing. What the devil was wrong with him? He should give her the satisfaction of turning him down flat, he really should—for both their sakes. “What else would I seek?”
“Hm.” She cast her eyes upward and tapped one finger at the side of her mouth.
His gaze was drawn to it like a magnet to true north.
How had he never noticed before that her mouth was made to be kissed?
And made to kiss back. For one sharp moment he felt again her lips against his: hesitant, innocent, but eager and willing.
The thought of teaching her how to kiss properly was tantalizing; first, it would mean kissing her again, something he’d spent far too much time thinking about today alone.
And second, it would put an end to whatever vengeance she was plotting for his earlier behavior.
In fact, it might even be in his own best interest to do so.
He was quite certain he could kiss her thoroughly enough to distract her from whatever schemes were whirling behind her bright eyes.
“Retribution?” she suggested.
Sometimes it seemed she could read his mind, an alarming thought. “Have you committed a crime? Other than striking me in the face, that is.”
A hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “That was retribution for you imprisoning me against my will.”
“It was a good blow,” he told her. “Well landed, but only because you surprised me.”
“You mustn’t think all ladies will fall flat on their backs the moment you show them the least bit of attention,” she said tartly.
He made a face even as his blood stirred at the thought.
“What man would want that? The thrill is in catching a woman and persuading her that she wants to . . . well.” He grinned at her narrow-eyed glare.
“That reminds me of something I’ve longed to teach you.
Stand up and learn how to throw a proper punch. ”
She gaped at him. “Throw a proper punch! I’ve only ever needed to punch you.”
“If you’ve ordered any more gowns like that one, you might need to know. Stand up,” he said again.
Slowly she put her hand in his outstretched one and let him help her up. “You like my gown?”
The question made him look down. Standing as close as she was, his gaze landed right on her bosom.
He had already been struggling to ignore the view of her voluptuous flesh, but now it was impossible.
Good Lord, her bosom was spectacular, even in this relatively modest day dress.
Without any ribbons and lace blinding him, he was bewitched by the smooth creaminess of her skin.
Had she really looked like this before, underneath all those pink ruffles?
His fascinated gaze dropped lower; the dress hugged her waist, indicating how long her legs were.
He liked tall women. He liked buxom women.
And a tall, buxom woman with radiant skin .
. . if she’d been wearing this dress at the Malcolm ball, he didn’t know what would have happened behind the potted palms.