Chapter 22
The Brentwood ball was excruciatingly dull.
Sir Paul Brentwood fancied himself something of a patron of the sciences, and his wife liked to throw extravagant balls.
These two desires found common expression in what Lady Brentwood called honorarium balls, or balls thrown mainly for the purpose of demonstrating how very many famous people Sir Paul knew.
Tonight the guests of honor included Sir Richard Campion, whose explorations in Africa had been partially funded by Sir Paul.
Tristan had no idea what Sir Paul got in return for his investment other than obliging Campion to attend events like this, but he didn’t really care.
Tristan had accepted the invitation only because Joan had promised him a dance tonight.
It seemed a year had gone by since the day he kissed her in his bath chamber, instead of a mere two days.
Now he couldn’t set foot in his house without being sure he smelled lingering traces of her perfume.
He couldn’t make any decision about the fittings or furnishings without wondering what she would think of his choices.
And he could think of nothing but making love to her in the large new bed that was delivered the day after her visit.
Unfortunately, she had yet to appear tonight, and he was beginning to fear they had reconsidered.
“Fancy seeing you tonight.” William Spence, one of Douglas Bennet’s more reprobate friends, wandered up beside him. “I didn’t think you cared for gatherings such as this.”
“I thought the same about you.” Tristan didn’t bother looking at him.
He didn’t like Spence, and he didn’t know how Bennet put up with him.
He supposed it must be a result of shared habits; Spence favored the same gaming establishments as Bennet, and was quick to lend money to a friend in need, as Bennet often was.
But Spence was a petty, spiteful man, and Tristan had long suspected he was a cheat at cards, too.
He’d never thought Joan’s brother was the noblest personage, but the man was honorable at heart.
Witness his care for his sister. Tristan couldn’t imagine Spence caring one whit for any sister’s amusement, but Bennet had begged him to keep Joan’s spirits up—and to keep her away from Spence, now that he thought about it.
“Dunwood dragged me,” said Spence idly. “A sad waste of time it’s been, too. No table is playing for more than twenty guineas a hand. What brings you here?”
“Boredom.” He stopped a footman passing with a tray of wineglasses.
“Boredom!” Spence chuckled. “Has London grown that tedious? Perhaps you should carouse with us tonight.”
“I’m not that bored.” Tristan sipped the wine.
Across the room, a gleam of chestnut caught his eye.
Joan was here, walking into the room behind a diminutive lady with a full brace of feathers in her hair.
He saw the bright excitement in her face, mixed with a trace of amusement as the feathers waved at her, and unconsciously he straightened his shoulders.
Now he wasn’t bored. The crowd shifted, the plumed lady turned aside, and his mouth went dry as he got a full look at Joan.
Her gown was gold, gleaming brocade that bared her shoulders and made her seem to glow in the candlelight.
She wasn’t just tolerable; with her hair up and her figure expertly displayed, she was stunning.
Unfortunately, Spence noticed his reaction. “Who is she?” He craned his head to look. “What beauty has struck you dumb? No—is that—Bennet’s sister?” he added incredulously. “Good God, Burke!”
There was a very good God indeed, to have put her here in that gown.
Tristan said a small prayer of thanks and took a hearty gulp of his wine.
He had told her to wear gold, that she would look lovely in gold, and he had been right, bloody, bloody right.
In fact, it almost felt like a sign from above, that perhaps he’d been right about her all along, and it was time for him to stop resisting it.
“I almost asked her to dance the other night,” remarked Spence, still watching her with amused disdain.
Tristan swallowed some more wine. “Why?”
“A wager with Ashford, of course,” said Spence carelessly. “Fifty quid just to dance with the .”
“Rather a lot to wager on a single dance.”
“Isn’t it? Especially when one thinks what Bennet would say.
” Spence grimaced. “The gel’s not even pretty.
And her frock! She’s got no sense of fashion—either that or her dowry isn’t what it’s reputed to be.
Have the Bennets fallen on hard times? I can’t help but notice they all left town, except for her. ”
“I wouldn’t know.” Tristan drained his glass. Across the room Joan was smiling and enjoying herself, unaware of the malice aimed at her.
“Perhaps they left her to the scandalous countess for instruction.” Spence laughed. “Can you imagine a less likely chaperone than Lady Courtesan! Yes, perhaps that’s it! If she can’t be someone’s proper wife, she might make a fetching lightskirt.”
Tristan thought about punching Spence in the face. He was sure he could hit him hard enough to knock the other man senseless. It would liven up the evening considerably, for a number of reasons. “You just said she wasn’t even pretty. Now you think she’d thrive as a courtesan?”
“No, she’s not pretty.” Spence’s gaze narrowed on him. “Although it doesn’t seem to have put you off. Everyone noticed you danced with her at the Malcolm ball, and you can’t take your eyes off her tonight. Bennet’s sister? By God, I thought you had requirements.”
Slowly Tristan turned his head, trying to pretend he hadn’t been watching Joan like a man mesmerized. “Which I have never discussed with you. Nor do I intend to begin doing so.”
“Ahh, I see.” The other man’s eyes gleamed with speculation. “You have particular information about the lady. Some . . . talent, perhaps, that she possesses, to make a man forget how tall and mannish she is.”
“Mannish?” Tristan was so surprised he gave a bark of laughter. “You need a quizzing glass, Spence.”
Spence frowned and turned to scrutinize Joan.
Her gown tonight was far too simple for the latest style, it was true, but it did show off her figure, especially her trim waist and spectacular bosom.
If one forgot about current ladies’ fashion, Tristan thought she looked nothing short of alluring.
It was as if she’d brought out one of the thin gowns of a decade ago, but woven of sunshine and cleaved to her curves instead of falling in a straight column.
In this deceptively plain gown, anyone could see just how unlike a man she was.
“She’s still too tall,” muttered Spence.
He shrugged. “You’re too short.”
Spence’s mouth thinned. “So you’re declaring your intentions, are you, Burke? I assume Bennet will be pleased beyond endurance to hear that.”
“Spence, you’re an idiot,” said Tristan bluntly. “Always have been. Bennet might not worship his sister, but he’ll beat you bloody for insulting her. Go on,” he said as the other man stared at him. “Ten guineas, that you wouldn’t dare repeat to him half the insults you’ve made tonight.”
Spence’s gaze turned venomous. Bennet would thrash Spence within an inch of his life, and they both knew it. “I haven’t insulted—”
“Not pretty? Too tall? Mannish?” He snorted. “And we mustn’t forget the implication that she’s aiming to become a whore.”
His companion flushed brick red. “I never said that . . .”
“I daresay there are some who wouldn’t appreciate the imprecation on Lady Courtenay’s name, either.
” Tristan nodded at Sir Richard Campion, who had joined the ladies across the room.
If there was anyone in London with a reputation that preceded him, it was Campion.
While Bennet’s reputation came from his fists, however, the explorer was known for the brace of Swiss pistols he allegedly kept in his carriage or on his person at all times.
“Very well,” said Spence hastily. “Very well, indeed. I see how things lie.”
“Good.” Tristan flashed him an ominous smile. “Don’t forget it.”
“No,” said the other man. “I won’t.” He gave Tristan a long, measured look before he turned on his heel and walked away.
Tristan turned back to watching Joan. God above.
She was beautiful tonight. Not just the gown, although it suited her perfectly, but because she glowed.
She smiled and talked with her friends, and as he watched, she nodded and gave her hand to Campion.
Tristan would have bet his last farthing that Campion’s interest lay solely with Lady Courtenay, but the sight of the man holding Joan’s hand and leading her into the dance set his teeth on edge because he was jealous.
Insanely, desperately jealous of Campion, just for dancing with the woman he loved.
Loved.
Tristan held very still, turning the unexpected word over in his mind.
He loved the impish look in her eyes when she had him in a twist. He loved the breathless joy in her face when they hovered above the city in a balloon.
He loved that she wasn’t shocked by his deliberate provocations, and even answered them in kind.
He loved the way she listened to him and refused to accept his self-effacing answers.
Everyone had believed him a wild, uncaring rogue for so long.
Only she pushed him to explain himself, and confronted him on his more foolish actions.
And most of all he loved that she wanted him to kiss her.
He wanted to see her in his bathing room, naked and wet.
He wanted to see her in his bed, and discover how unpredictable she could be.
He wanted to feel her arms around him and know she cared for him—not for his money, not for his house, not for his title, just for him.
And he thought, with a little persuasion, she just might do all those things . . .