Chapter 26
A great many things became clear to Tristan the morning after the Brentwood ball.
First, he had to get his house finished.
For the first time he was a little sorry he’d drawn up such a long list of improvements.
They were all worth the cost, in his opinion, but they had added tremendously to the time it would take to have the house ready, and that was now a problem.
He went to Hanover Square early in the morning and walked through the house, finding fault everywhere.
There needed to be more plasterers. More painters.
The woodwork in the dining room simply had to be replaced.
The plumbing was done and the roof was once more solid, but the heating system wasn’t operational.
The kitchens were still firmly rooted in the early part of the eighteenth century, and the large modern stove hadn’t even been delivered.
He took the master builder through the house with him and told the man to hire as many extra workmen as he needed and press hard to get the main rooms, at the very least, ready for occupancy within a fortnight.
Second, he needed to recall his servants.
Since moving to Bennet’s house, he’d given his valet a holiday and sent his man of business, Williams, out to Hampshire to see to things at Wildwood.
His family estate should be in fine shape by now, and Tristan finally had need of the man again.
He dashed off notes to each of them, summoning them back to Hanover Square, with an addendum to Williams to hire a full house staff when he reached London.
Third, he needed to see his solicitor. Mr. Tompkins raised his eyebrows when he heard Tristan’s instruction, but he merely bowed his head. “What are the particulars, my lord?” he asked, reaching for his pen.
“I’ve no idea.” Tristan grinned at the man’s expression. “Just leave those parts blank for now, will you?”
“As you wish, sir, but it is customary to agree on the terms before writing the contract. In the event you and the gentleman cannot agree—”
“We’ll reach an agreement,” Tristan assured him. “Even if it costs me a fortune. Just begin drawing it up.”
Because, fourth, he needed to go to Bath.
This was the most important part of his plan, and he wanted to think it through.
He went to the boxing saloon again and took a few turns sparring with other members, working out in his mind how best to approach the issue.
It would be a delicate negotiation; his own behavior was not above reproach, after all, and to make matters worse, he would probably face some stiff opposition.
For the first time in weeks he wished Bennet was in London, and then he promptly discarded that idea.
Bennet might well be outraged, rather than helpful.
Sometimes it was better to act without asking permission—not that Douglas Bennet had any authority in this anyway, but Tristan wouldn’t have liked having to hit his friend.
Not until he returned to Bennet’s house and was soaking in a cool bath did he allow himself to contemplate the pleasurable part of his plan: telling Joan.
Should he make a grand gesture? Should he be quiet and discreet about it?
He spent some time imagining her manner of response to his proposal, and then all the ways he would make love to her once she was his.
God Almighty, every wicked thought he’d ever had about her had been right.
She was sweet and hot, wet and tight, delicious and unpredictable .
. . and she wanted him. Women had wanted him before, but not the way she did.
And even more important, he had never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her.
He wanted to make love to her in his bed.
On his desk. In the comfortable old leather chair he’d carted around with him for over twenty years now, the one that had been his father’s.
He wanted to feel the soft leather at his back while she straddled him and rode him and made him laugh while the blood almost scalded his veins.
He contemplated that last fantasy for several minutes, wondering how she would react when he told her about it.
And the beautiful thing was, he really didn’t know.
He liked that about Joan; unlike other women, she constantly surprised him.
Sometimes it was to his immense satisfaction—when she told him she wanted him to make love to her, for one—and sometimes less so, but Tristan loved few things like he loved a challenge.
Persuading her to try something a bit more erotic would probably drive him out of his mind with anticipation.
The prospect made him impatient to be off.
He dressed quickly and began packing. It would take two days to reach Bath, and two days to return.
He hoped his request would be met with a quick acceptance, but if not, he would have to stay an extra day for persuasion.
Wanting to begin with the very best impression he could salvage, he had Murdoch brush his best coats as he sorted through his shirts, tossing a couple aside for frayed collars or stained cuffs.
By the time Murdoch was done with the coats, Tristan realized he was out of shaving soap and needed new stockings, so he sent the servant out to get them before the shops closed.
And no sooner had Murdoch departed than someone knocked on the door, the clang of the knocker echoing through Bennet’s house.
Tristan cursed under his breath; it had better not be Aunt Mary, come to ask for more money or even worse, his house.
He was in such a fine mood and really had no patience for her pinched, angry demeanor now.
But then the knocker sounded again, very like the time Joan had nearly banged down the door when she came to roust Bennet out of bed, and instead barged her way right into his life and his heart.
Grinning at the memory of her shocked expression when he’d opened the door wearing nothing but a pair of breeches, he went downstairs and swept open the door with a flourish. “What?”
To his astonishment, Sir George Bennet stood on the step, as grim as a thundercloud. “Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”
Tristan straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller. “Yes, sir. Won’t you come in?”
The baronet walked into the narrow hall and peeled off his gloves. “I expect you can guess why I’m here.”
There were three possible explanations. One: Joan had told her parents what happened between them at the Brentwood ball, and Sir George was here to demand satisfaction.
Based on what he’d seen and heard from Joan, this didn’t seem likely.
Two: Lady Courtenay had decided to intervene and summoned the elder Bennets back to London so Sir George could demand satisfaction.
From the way Sir Richard Campion had ordered him to keep his mouth shut and his trousers buttoned after Lady Courtenay dragged her niece out of the Brentwood house, this also didn’t seem likely.
Or three: someone else, some busybody with an overactive tongue, had tattled on him for .
. . something . . . and Sir George was here to demand satisfaction.
Either way, Tristan decided to give him satisfaction. “No, sir, to be perfectly honest, but I am nonetheless pleased to see you.”
The baronet gave him a sharp look. “I trust we won’t have any trouble, then.” He turned and walked into the small parlor, his heels ringing on the bare floor.
Tristan followed. This was both good and bad; good, in that it appeared he wouldn’t have to argue for Joan’s hand, but bad, in that he already seemed to be in his future father-in-law’s bad graces.
That shouldn’t be too great a surprise, but this time he had truly meant to do things properly.
“I was packing just now in anticipation of leaving for Bath tomorrow,” he said, still hoping to redirect the conversation in a more positive way.
“I have a proposition of some delicacy to put to you.”
The older man turned. His every word was clipped with frost. “And was this proposition formed before or after rumors swept London that you ruined my daughter at the Brentwood ball?”
To his disgust Tristan felt his face heat like a naughty boy’s. “I never heard any such rumors . . .”
“That’s because you aren’t a middle-aged matron with a fiendish interest in other people’s whereabouts during each and every ball of the Season.” Sir George glared at him. “Care to tell me if it’s true?”
He hadn’t felt this cornered since he broke part of Aunt Mary’s new tea service with an errant cricket ball. Every persuasive word he’d planned so carefully vanished right out of his brain. “I’d rather not.”
The baronet started to speak, then closed his mouth. He paced in a circuit of the room, his fists on his hips. “My wife would be pleased if I returned home with your severed head on a pike,” he growled. “And it begins to hold some appeal for me as well.”
Bloody hell. “I want to marry your daughter,” he blurted.
“That was Lady Bennet’s second, far less preferred, suggestion.” Sir George folded his arms. “I ought to beat some sense into you before I let you have my girl.”
That last bit sounded promising. “If you wish,” said Tristan cautiously. “Provided that is another way of saying yes to my proposal.”
The older man snorted. “You always did have ballocks of brass.” He sighed and dropped into one of the mismatched chairs, then waved his hand at another. “Tell me what the bloody blazes brought this about.”
Still wary, Tristan sat, remaining bolt upright in the chair. “Where should I begin?”
“What did my son ask you do to?”
That, at least, was innocent enough. Tristan relaxed a little, grateful for an easy answer. “He asked me to look in on Miss Bennet while you and Lady Bennet were away from town.”
“And dance with her?”
“Yes.” Tristan remembered that with clarity.