Chapter 20 #2
She widened her eyes innocently—as if he hadn’t learned by now to be on guard when she looked like that. “By chance, I found a stray shilling, and couldn’t resist risking it.”
He shouldn’t respond, he knew it, and yet . . . ”Are you certain that was wise? One should never wager what one cannot afford to lose.”
She waved one hand in careless dismissal. “I doubt I’ll notice the loss.”
Oh Lord; he was being drawn in again. Tristan ignored the little voice in his head warning him to sit back and nod like a dullard. “Tsk, tsk. It’s never good to purposely embark on a losing streak.”
She leaned forward, just enough to remind him of the absence of lace. “I remain firmly convinced I would have won. But, as our dispute was never put to the test, that hardly matters now.”
“Quite so!” exclaimed Lady Courtenay. Tristan had almost forgotten she was in the room. “Some matters simply must be put to the test; no theoretical argument will decide them, one way or another. Don’t you agree, Lord Burke?”
He let his eyes slide down Joan’s figure, so temptingly bound. “I do, ma’am.”
Joan gave her aunt a baleful look. Lady Courtenay just smiled.
Tristan barely noticed. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from Joan.
She looked ethereal, like some kind of sensual goddess.
Intentions—expectations—challenges—the words beat at the edges of his brain, half temptation, half warning.
He wasn’t ready to marry . . . but if he were looking for a bride, she’d bloody well look like Joan did right now.
“My niece tells me you are rebuilding your house,” Lady Courtenay said.
“With as many improvements as one house will hold, ma’am.” Tristan grinned in spite of himself. Possibly the only subject that could distract him from Joan’s new and vastly more flattering wardrobe was his house.
“Was it really uninhabitable?” Joan asked. “Did the roof really fall in?”
“It most certainly did, with a spectacular crash that sent the neighbors running into the street in alarm, and only through pure chance was no one hurt. It ruined all the attics and servants’ quarters, and water came down through the east side of the house, buckling the plaster and ruining the woodwork. ”
“Goodness!”
“It must have leaked for years, given the scope of the damage. My uncle was a bit parsimonious with his housekeeping maintenance, and I doubt Aunt Mary ever gave one thought to the roof, so it wasn’t discovered until earlier this year.”
“But you said it collapsed.”
“That was how I discovered the leak,” he said dryly. “Barely a week after I took possession, too. After the collapse, my aunt claimed to have had no warning that it was in danger, but I did wonder at her sudden desire to quit the house after so many years.”
“I shouldn’t doubt it,” murmured Lady Courtenay.
“Although . . . in a way I’m not sorry at all,” Tristan continued slowly.
“It provided the perfect opportunity to rebuild it. Once you’ve lost the roof, it’s easy enough to raise the new one and add more space.
Once you’ve pulled out an entire wall of plaster, it’s little more work to enlarge the doorway.
Now the house will be as I want it to be, and not cramped and dark as I remember it. ”
“So perhaps it’s not the worst that could have happened,” Joan said. “If you disliked what was ruined.”
“My thought exactly.” He flashed her a pleased look. “Would you like to see it?”
Tristan didn’t even know why he offered. Joan blinked as though she didn’t, either. But Lady Courtenay jumped into the breach. “Why, I should like it above all else! I’ve often contemplated improvements to my own house, but it’s so difficult to picture them. Have you installed any water closets?”
“On every floor,” he said with a touch of pride.
“I simply must see it.” Lady Courtenay glanced at her niece and laughed. “What a strange woman you must think me, eager to see the water closets!”
“There’s far more than that to see,” he said, watching Joan.
“Well, then.” She lifted her chin, a small smile touching her lips. “Let’s go see it.”
The carriage was ordered, and soon they were on their way.
Tristan guided his horse alongside the carriage, partly pleased and partly anxious.
The pleased part was easy to explain; he had lavished attention on his house, and felt his pride in the result was entirely justified.
But as for his anxiety . . . he wondered if Joan would approve of the place, and then he wondered why he cared. It wasn’t her house.
He tried to see it with fresh eyes as they went into Hanover Square.
The house stood on the northeast side, built of dark brick.
It had been one of the first houses built, a full century ago, and until recently it had looked every bit that old.
He was having it updated inside and out, with new railings and a small portico to protect guests from the rain, but for now it was clearly a work in progress.
He helped the ladies down and led the way inside. Barely inside the door, he had to stop to move a box of tools out of the way. “Mind your step. It’s a bit of a shambles,” he said in understatement.
The hall was modest, with the stairs set well back from the door.
That had been the biggest change, pushing the stairs back to allow for a door into a small parlor, partitioned off the long, narrow library behind it.
He fancied it for a morning room, since it faced east. To the right was the dining room, where Tristan directed his visitors.
It was clean, but the plaster was still fresh.
Two walls were unpainted, and the chandelier was swathed in cloth.
The floor was badly scuffed and some of the oak paneling still remained on one wall, looking very dark and out of place with the fresh walls.
But the windows had been repaired, and the fireplace surround had been cleaned of a century’s accumulation of soot.
“This must be a handsome room,” remarked Lady Courtenay.
He took in the high ceiling and gracious proportions of the room. “I hope it will be, eventually.”
“Did the water penetrate the house so thoroughly?” Joan motioned to the gaps in the woodwork.
He grinned. “No. That was simply ugly.”
She laughed. “How opportunistic!”
“Yes, a great many ugly things have been removed.” Tristan rubbed his toe over a burn mark on the floorboards.
He could still smell tobacco in this room from the many cigars Uncle Burke used to smoke after dinner.
He’d come to hate that smell because it meant he would be interrogated about his schoolwork and personal habits, when his aunt had left the room.
Not until the carpet was removed did he discover that the ashes had burned down to the floor. Those scars would also be sanded away.
“I remember coming here when your uncle died, to make our condolences,” Joan said quietly. “It was such a dark house. I never imagined it could be so bright. What will you put on the walls?”
“Ah . . . I’ve no idea.” He turned on his heel, trying to picture the room without the blood-red wall papers and dark oak paneling. “What do you suggest?”
She blinked at him. Lady Courtenay had strolled to the far end of the room and vanished into the adjoining parlor, leaving them somewhat alone. “It is your house.”
“It’s becoming mine, at any rate.” He surveyed the room again. “I always hated being here.”
“Why?”
He lifted one shoulder. “It was dark, as you said. Cold. Miserable. I only came here when I had no other choice.”
“Was that why you came to Helston Hall with Douglas?”
He chuckled. “I remember that house! Does the window on the servants’ stair still make a terrible creak?”
“It does not,” she said with a laugh. “My father nailed it shut after you and Douglas caused such mayhem. My mother insisted.”
“Right.” He grimaced. “I completely destroyed her good opinion of me, didn’t I?”
She looked self-conscious. “Oh—well, I’m sure you and Douglas were equally responsible . . .”
“No, I know she laid the blame at my feet. And I can hardly claim innocence, can I?” He gave her a wry grin. “Still, I was sorry not to be invited back. That was one of my favorite holidays from school.”
Her face blanked in surprise. “Why?” She clapped one hand over her mouth. “I meant to say, I’m glad you enjoyed your time there . . .”
“No, no.” He waved aside her polite correction.
“I know your mother took an instant dislike to me, but Helston was still a warm, comforting place. Even when your father reprimanded us, he was patient and reasonable about it. You’d be surprised how many schoolmates had homes as gloomy and grim as mine. ”
“Did you go home with someone every holiday?”
“Whenever possible,” he replied.
Her brow knit. “I thought so. Douglas described your life with no small amount of envy; merry and carefree, he called it. I think he was quite envious.”
Tristan snorted. “From the comfort of his own home and family! I would have happily traded places with him.”
“But you had a home,” she said slowly. “With your aunt and uncle. Even if it was dark and cold, it was still . . . well, it was still home, wasn’t it?”
Tristan’s mouth twisted. “If by home, you mean a place where I was tolerated during any school holiday when I couldn’t wrest an invitation elsewhere, then yes, I did.”
“Tolerated!”
“Reluctantly,” he added. “If I hadn’t been the heir—which was a circumstance of immense regret to my aunt and uncle—I’m sure it would have been a great relief to everyone not to have me about at all.”
“That’s horrible!” She sounded appalled. “Surely that’s not true!”
“No, it’s quite true. Still is, I daresay, if anyone asks Aunt Mary.” Tristan wondered why he was even telling her this. He folded his arms and leaned against the mantel. “Perhaps you can sympathize . . .”
She shook her head, not rising to his teasing tone. “You can be very provoking at times, but even then . . . Why did you have to wrest invitations to visit? Douglas said you were the most popular boy in school.”