Chapter 10
Tristan fought back a grin. He had spotted Madeline stamping across the ballroom toward him, of course, and had done his best to keep the amused smile off his face. It seemed to infuriate her when he smirked.
Of course it does, echoed a voice in his head, which sounded suspiciously like Anthony’s. You are infuriating when you smirk. It’s like you know a secret you aren’t going to share with anyone else.
The voice sent a pang of pain through Tristan’s chest. When was the last time he’d seen his brother? When was the last time he’d heard Anthony’s voice? Their separation had perhaps gone deeper than he had thought.
It’s my fault. I always thought that we would have more time. And as it turns out, we had hardly any time at all.
There was just time to smooth out his expression before Madeline arrived. She shot a baleful glare at the woman who was talking to Tristan—what was her name again? Mrs. F-Something. Mrs. Fillcott? No, that wasn’t it. Well, it hardly mattered.
“Husband, may I speak with you for a moment?” Madeline said, eyes fixed darkly on him. She was clearly displeased about something, but being as small and adorable as she was, it was like being menaced by a kitten.
Tristan made a polite bow to the widow who’d been speaking to him and excused himself. The widow looked thoroughly disappointed and a little angry, which confused him.
She had been at the church, for heaven’s sake. She had watched Tristan exchange vows with his new wife. A little flirting was all very well, but surely she couldn’t expect anything to come of it. Flirting was harmless, but anything beyond that could be troublesome.
Although judging by the clipped, angry tone in Madeline’s voice and the way she bustled along the hallways without looking back, Tristan began to think that perhaps she did not consider flirting to be harmless.
But what objections could she possibly have? They were not to be a proper husband and wife. Tristan would not be joining his wife in bed tonight. She was to keep the rooms she had had during her stay here—a pleasant suite in the East Wing, as far away as possible from Tristan’s room.
The duchess’s rooms, a suite that connected to Tristan’s own room by a connecting door, would remain unoccupied.
He wasn’t sure he could blame her. Perhaps she was wise to avoid those rooms. He might find himself unable to sleep one night, and might well creep through the adjoining door and slip into her bed, simply to see what she would do.
Scream, most likely, Tristan thought wryly. The girl seems determined to keep me at arm’s length. And perhaps she is right to do so.
Madeline led the way out of the ballroom, following a dark hallway lit by candles, with doors all firmly closed.
The hint was clear—guests were to stay out of these rooms. They were mostly reading rooms, storage rooms, and a couple of small spare rooms, which were occasionally used as studies, but it was never wise to put ladies and gentlemen together at a party, and then give them quiet, secluded places to meet.
Madeline opened the door to the first room and went inside. Tristan followed, quietly closing the door behind him.
They were in a little reading room, complete with bookshelves and a large, comfortable-looking armchair in the corner. A candelabra was set on a low table, throwing a buttery, flickering light over the space.
“It’s hardly bright enough to read in here,” Tristan commented. “Really, more candles are needed, or perhaps…”
Madeline spun around, eyes blazing.
“How dare you ask another woman to dance for our first dance? It is our wedding day! Do you mean to humiliate me?”
Tristan paused, tilting his head. “Why, you must be hearing things, my dear. Did you truly hear me ask that woman to dance?”
“Well, no,” Madeline faltered, “but you were going to.”
“Was I?”
She blinked, frowning. “I… she wanted to dance with you.”
Tristan moved over to the armchair, sitting down and crossing one leg elegantly over the other.
“Indeed, she did,” he agreed. “She asked me to dance, I think. And what did I say?”
Madeline shifted, some of the righteous anger fading from her face. “Well, I… nothing, I think.”
“Yes. You interrupted me. I would not have danced with Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is. I was being charming and delightful, because I am charming and delightful, and grooms are meant to be in excellent spirits on their wedding day. I might be a flirtatious devil, but I am not so far gone as to dance with another woman on my wedding day. Not for the first dance, to be sure. And if I were to dance with another woman, it would be Isaac’s lovely wife, Charlotte, and perhaps his cousin, Sybella.
Women who do not flirt with me, or who are already married.
You ought to have a little more faith in me, my dear. ”
Madeline stared back at him, a faint crease between her brows. Tristan waited patiently for her to say something, drumming his fingers on his knee. He guessed that she was torn between her outrage and her reasonableness. He had, after all, done nothing wrong.
He had not openly rebuffed Mrs. F-Something’s attentions, nor had he walked away. Still, when it came to avoiding uncomfortable conversations, society did not offer many options for escape.
“Perhaps I was hasty,” Madeline said at last, her voice low. “I simply assumed you’d accept her offer, and then I’d be a laughingstock.”
He gave a short laugh. “A laughingstock? My dear, you have just married a duke. One of the richest men in England, in fact! Who on earth would be laughing at you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Only, Charlotte said…” She trailed off, meeting his eye briefly and then averting her gaze. “Never mind.”
“Never mind, what? What did Charlotte say?” Tristan pressed, leaning forward. He tried to catch her eye, but she neatly averted her gaze again.
Something bubbled up inside him when she did that. She had done it at the altar, refusing to look at him or to accept his compliments. It was as if she were determined to dislike him, reining herself in, avoiding any other sensations or emotions beyond mild annoyance toward him.
He wanted her to look at him. For God’s sake, he could make other women look at him! A nod and a smile sometimes was all it took to bring a lady clattering across the floor toward him, all bright-eyed and hopeful. Juliana had sought him out. She had chased him.
He rose to his feet, taking a step toward her.
Madeline abruptly turned her back, and Tristan was overcome with a desire to put his hands on her waist and spin her around to face him.
She would have to look at him, and would have to fix those large green eyes on his face.
Would she feel the same ripple of arousal when their eyes met that he did? Perhaps…
Enough.
The warning voice in Tristan’s head seemed to echo. He cleared his throat, leaning backward. He was not about to press his attentions on a tentative woman in a secluded place. Other women might come flocking to him, but it seemed that Madeline was determined to stay well away.
Unfortunately for them both, she was now his wife.
“If you want to dance,” Tristan said at last, hearing a faint hoarseness in his voice, “we had better go back out to the ballroom. If we aren’t there, Isaac and Charlotte will open the ball, but our absence will be remarked on.”
Madeline hunched her shoulders. “I don’t care to dance.”
“I thought all young ladies loved to dance.”
She twisted around to face him, rolling her eyes.
“Ah, yes, I forgot about your flawless knowledge of what young ladies like.”
Tristan smiled despite himself. “Very funny.”
“If you must know, I get nervous when it’s time to dance.
I am not a natural, and I find that with everybody’s eyes upon me, in proximity to a gentleman, I make mistakes.
I miss steps, I try to promenade the wrong way, things like that.
I made a colossal fool of myself at the last ball I danced at.
It was a cotillion, and I caused a collision when it was time to change partners.
And I stood on my partner’s feet. Twice,” she added miserably.
Tristan bit the corners of his mouth to keep from chuckling.
“It sounds to me,” he said thoughtfully, “as if you need practice. Private practice.”
Her eyes shot up to his face, fixing on his and narrowing. “Practice?”
He nodded, extending a hand. “There’s just enough room in here for a modest waltz, I think. Shall we, Duchess?”
Madeline stared down at his extended palm. She could still recall how warm and firm his hand had felt around hers, how strong his fingers had been. She glanced up at him, trying to work out whether he was making a joke or not.
Perhaps he’s teasing me again.
But there was no smile on Tristan’s face. He regarded her steadily, patiently. Waiting for her to accept his hand or… or what else? What would she do? Slap his hand aside and go running past him out of the room?
In that moment, Madeline knew quite well that if she did that, he would not stop her. He would let her go.
The question, of course, was whether she wanted to go.
“You must not embarrass me,” Madeline found herself saying, eyeing him uncertainly. “Out in public, I mean.”
Tristan smiled. “You are my wife, Madeline. What embarrasses you embarrasses me now.”
Swallowing, Madeline took a tentative step forward and placed her hand in his.
His smile widened to a grin, and he pulled her close, close enough that she could smell his sharp cologne, underlaid with a fresh, masculine scent that seemed to be just him.
“My favorite dance is the waltz,” Tristan murmured, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
“It’s surprisingly simple, and so very intimate.
Those vigorous country dances are all well and good if you want exercise, or if you’re dancing with a person you’d rather not see very much, but a waltz is all about touch. ”