Chapter 18 #4
There was only one thing to do. She must think of her mother. She must try to think like her mother. And above all, she must not wonder what he might do if a woman . . . such as Joan herself . . . were to tempt him to win that cursed wager right here and now . . .
He gave her his slow, heavy-lidded smile, the one that almost burned with wicked suggestion. “No? I seem able to convey my intentions well enough.”
Think of Mother. What would Mother say? Joan inhaled a desperate breath.
“That’s exactly what I mean. You talk approvingly of loose women who pull up their skirts for you.
You talk with notorious gossips because you delight in sending them off with some wild rumor you know isn’t true.
But the rest of womankind you avoid, because you haven’t the slightest idea how to be genuinely polite or charming or considerate.
You’re like a child, Lord Burke, taking delight in shocking and outraging people. ”
He did not look reproved, or even moderately abashed. In fact, her stern rebuke appeared to amuse him, as his smile grew. “Oh?” he drawled. “You prefer dull, dry men who can’t say one interesting thing all evening?”
Not in the slightest. Even Mother wouldn’t agree with that statement. Joan glared at him in impotent frustration. “At least they don’t drive me mad!”
“Do I really drive you mad?” His voice dropped as he asked the question, managing to make it sound seductive and—and—and interested.
Oh, help. Surely not even Mother would know what to say to a man when he looked at her this way.
“You make me want to kick you sometimes,” she told him in a fury.
He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and shouted with laughter.
She pressed her lips closed and stomped past him toward the carriage.
She was going to ask Sir Richard if he could have Hercule chase Lord Boor out of town.
If Hercule tore a large hole in the seat of his trousers, she would applaud the dog.
Tristan ran after her. “Joan, wait!” She whirled around, seething, when he touched her elbow, and he put up both hands in a gesture of surrender.
“I was wrong.” She raised one eyebrow and waited.
He adopted a penitent expression and placed one hand over his heart.
“My dear Miss Bennet, I’d no idea my presence and demeanor were so disturbing to you. My humblest apologies.”
“Very well.” She glared at him. “Just don’t talk to me of women removing their pantalets for you.”
“Never again,” he said at once. “The word shall never cross my lips.”
“Nor any other unmentionables,” she added.
“Not stockings, or petticoats, or stays, or shifts or bodices or garters or anything a woman might wear.” Douglas was a master at finding ways to circumvent promises, and Joan had learned to pin him down very closely.
The last thing she wanted to hear was how another woman had let Tristan Burke unlace her stays.
His lips twitched, but he nodded somberly. “As you wish. I shan’t speak of anything more indelicate than a handkerchief, ever again. May I escort you home before you are irrevocably corrupted by my polluting influence?”
She eyed him warily, but finally put her hand on his offered arm. “You may.”
For the trip back into London, Tristan behaved with as much decorum as Joan could have wished; as much, even, as Mother could have wished.
He apologized for driving too quickly over the cobbles.
He commented upon the weather, but nothing more controversial.
He called her Miss Bennet without fail. He ignored the furtive, skeptical glances she gave him from time to time.
And Joan found, to her complete dismay, that she was thoroughly bored.
He was behaving just as a gentleman ought to, and she didn’t enjoy it at all.
She tried to tell herself it was because she knew it was all a facade, but deep down she feared it was because she liked him better as a rogue.
Rogues were interesting and exciting, even if sometimes infuriating, and perhaps she’d been too hasty.
What if he kept up this gentlemanly act, just to torment her?
In South Audley Street he maneuvered the curricle right up to her steps and jumped down.
He helped her down from the carriage and waited while she adjusted her bonnet.
Then he took her hand and bowed very properly over it.
“Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Miss Bennet.” He clasped her hand in both of his and gave her a smile.
“I enjoyed it immensely.” But as he released her hand, he pushed something under the edge of her glove.
Her eyes widened at the feel of cold metal against her skin. “What—?”
“Your winnings,” he murmured, giving her the sly look that never failed to make her heart skip a beat. “After all, you’re going to need that shilling . . . later.”
And he jumped back into his curricle and left her standing there, speechless and blushing, his shilling held tight in her fist.