Chapter 11
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, full of affronted virtue and plain surprise.
Tristan forced himself to stand still, arms at his side, and waited for her to act.
His instincts, of course, told him to snatch her up and pull her close to him.
He could kiss her again and run his tongue along the seam of her lips.
He could wind his fingers in that glorious hair of hers and place his hand on the curve of her ribcage.
She should be mine, he thought almost dizzily. She lifted a hand, fingering her full lower lip in a way that maddened him.
Then, Madeline coughed sharply and dropped her hand.
“That was a mistake,” she managed faintly. “I should not have… We… You can’t… ahem. Excuse me, Your Grace. I mean, Tristan.”
With that, she plunged headfirst toward the exit.
He stood still, letting her rush away as if the hounds of hell were after her.
For a moment, he stayed where he was, listening to her footsteps retreat.
By the sound of it, she was not returning to the ballroom.
He would guess that she was going to her room to calm down.
She isn’t angry, he thought. She felt some desire, I’m sure of it. But what could a naive, pampered girl like that understand about desire? For all she’s a wallflower, she’s been raised by a wealthy, doting father. I imagine she could have anything she wanted.
One thing seemed very clear to Tristan, and it was this—if Madeline had only a little more confidence in herself, she could have taken Society by storm.
He allowed himself a faint smile at that, imagining Madeline as the Diamond of the Season, admired by all, envied by women, and pursued by men. She would have had hearts laid at her feet, piled up all around her.
Swallowing hard, Tristan sank into the armchair again, trying to steady his nerves. It was almost amusing.
That is the most a kiss has ever moved me in my life, he thought faintly.
He had lost count of the kisses he had exchanged, most of them deeper and more passionate than that one.
Juliana Bolt, for example, was an excellent kisser—or it had seemed so at the time.
But now, those kisses that had seemed so very excellent only seemed serviceable.
And poor sweet Madeline had not even done anything! She’d only placed her hand on his chest, more out of reflex than anything, no doubt. And yet it had lit a fire in him that was not easily going to be quenched. Tristan groaned aloud.
What in heaven’s name have I done to deserve this? It is just my luck that the woman who moves me most is the one who wants nothing to do with me.
And she had made that clear, at least. She had run out of the room in horror, never once looking back.
Well, Isaac had said more than once that it did Tristan no good to get what he wanted all the time. Perhaps he was right about that.
When Tristan’s desire had cooled to something more manageable, he got up with a sigh, straightened his waistcoat, and prepared to return to the party. His bride had disappeared, but at least one of them had better show their faces at the party.
Moments later, Tristan found himself wandering through the crowded ballroom, a smile pasted on his face. He exchanged pleasantries where he could not avoid it, but generally kept himself walking forward, and people sensed that it was a bad idea to get in his way.
“You look rather busy, old chap.”
He flinched at the familiar voice, glancing over to spot a tall gentleman making his way out of the crowd, a glass of whiskey in each hand.
“I thought you’d fancy a drink and a conversation that isn’t uncomfortable,” the man commented, pushing one glass into Tristan’s hand.
“Ah, James,” Tristan responded, taking the glass. “I thought you weren’t coming. It would be highly irregular for my own cousin not to be present at my wedding.”
“Of course I am coming,” James responded with a laugh. “Here, let’s talk in this corner. It’s quieter, and if people see you deep in conversation, they might leave you alone.”
“No hope of that,” Tristan responded with a snort. He followed his cousin anyway, finding a quiet corner with a pair of seats. They settled down with a sigh, and Tristan allowed himself to relax, just a little.
“I haven’t seen your beautiful bride yet, actually,” James commented. “I caught a glimpse of her at the wedding, of course. Marvelously pretty girl. Although she is a duchess now, I suppose I should not call her a marvelously pretty girl. I should call her Your Grace.”
Tristan pursed his lips. “She doesn’t stand on ceremony much.”
In his mind, he had a sudden vision of Madeline staring up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, a sheen of moisture over her full lower lip. He wanted to touch her lips so badly it made him ache, but she was out of his reach. She was taking care to always keep out of his reach.
James drained his glass of whiskey and began looking around for another. “Where is your bride, by the way? I didn’t expect her to be stuck to your side all night, but I thought I would see her a little bit.”
“She’s gone to her room, I think.”
James blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Truly? Heavens, Tristan, have you driven her away already? It’s far too soon for your bride to be running away from you.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “You are lucky that I am your cousin, or else I might strike you.”
“I am lucky,” James agreed, chuckling.
They relapsed into comfortable silence. James was a Lovell, of course, but he did not resemble Tristan and Anthony at all.
James was tall, but very thin, with nut-brown hair and large, sad, puppy-dog brown eyes.
He was charming and handsome enough, and had attracted several ladies who would have liked to marry him, but James had always been very firm about what he wanted in a wife.
Money, in short.
James was Lord Lovell, certainly, but his estate was mortgaged to the hilt, and his debts kept accumulating. Perhaps he would have managed better if his habits were not so expensive.
At that moment, he was wearing a pea-green suit of the best velvet, with a glinting emerald cravat pin gleaming at his throat.
His Hessians were new, and he played with a gold watch chain while he looked around for another whiskey.
The suit was certainly new, as was the cravat pin.
The gold watch-chain was a gift from his father, which he periodically pawned, and which Tristan periodically bought back.
Narrowing his eyes and putting thoughts of Madeline’s clear green eyes out of his mind, Tristan leaned forward. “James, do you have something to tell me? I received a note that you called on me yesterday, but I missed you.”
James flushed. “I should not have called the day before your wedding, nor should we discuss it today.”
Tristan sighed. “Is it a money matter?”
James fidgeted for a moment, looking around. “Just a few debts of honor. You know the sort of thing.”
“Yes, I do. Gambling tables and whatnot. Can you give me the names of the debt-holders?”
James shifted. “What for? You had better not be thinking of talking to them and convincing them to cancel the debt. That is not honorable, Tristan.”
“Honor is subjective.”
“It is not.”
Tristan sighed, leaning forward. “You are my cousin, and just about the only family I have left. I don’t want to see you drown yourself in debt.”
“Especially since I won’t have you to help me from now on, will I?” James remarked, staring into the depths of his glass.
This gave Tristan something of a start. “What? Why would you say that?”
James shrugged. “You’re a married man now. That changes a fellow’s focus. And there’ll be babies soon enough.”
“No, I think not,” Tristan answered, more determined than he’d intended. “You need not fear, James. I have supported you in the past, and I shall continue to do so.”
James flashed him a wry smile. “You’re ever so good to me, cousin.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Tristan could not have said what was on his cousin’s mind, but he found himself suddenly weighed down by concerns.
He had supported James for many years. Anthony had always complained about James’ spendthrift ways, and perhaps he was right.
Perhaps Tristan was entirely too soft on him.
But he was family, wasn’t he? It wasn’t his fault that his branch of the family were paupers, whereas Tristan was a duke with an estate to match. Money wasn’t everything, as evidenced by the fact that Anthony had thrown it all aside for a seamstress.
Did his seamstress make him feel the way Madeline makes me feel?
Now, where had that thought come from? It gave Tristan something of a start, and he sat upright, frowning as if somebody else’s thoughts had drifted into his mind.
He did not feel anything for Madeline, except perhaps a faint fondness.
She was very pretty, and if she had allowed him to share her bed, he would have obliged with alacrity.
But this marriage was, above all else, one of convenience.
It would be a foolish thing to start thinking of it as anything else.
This thought had left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Tristan’s stomach, as if a stone was sitting there. He shifted and shifted, but the sensation simply would not budge. He growled under his breath.
Come now, man. Can’t you exercise a little self-control? A pretty girl rejects you once, and you spiral into madness. It is not as though she wants you, after all.
Although why she doesn’t want me is a mystery. I’m a delight.
“Do you think your new duchess will be returning at all?” James asked, cutting into his thoughts.
Tristan grunted, shrugging. “How should I know? She does as she pleases.”
James snorted, shaking his head. “Heavens, man, it’s quite something to see a woman fleeing from you for once. It’ll do you good. Take you down a peg or two.”
“Not every woman flees from me, James,” Tristan retorted. He wasn’t sure that he was in the mood for jokes and banter at the moment. “Just this one.”
“Unfortunately for you, this one is your wife.”
Tristan turned around, fully ready to give James a proper tongue-lashing, but he was interrupted by his cousin speaking again.
“Oh, hello, what’s this?” James commented, frowning. He nodded, and Tristan turned around to see a footman hurrying toward them, with a silver platter in one hand, bearing a single letter.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a message has arrived for you,” the footman explained, lowering the tray. Tristan took the letter and dismissed the man with a nod.
“It’ll be a letter of congratulations, I imagine,” James said, seeming to lose interest.
Tristan said nothing, staring down at the envelope. It was a good-quality letter, written on excellent paper, sealed with fine red wax, and bearing his name in exquisite handwriting on the front.
The letter was also scented, leaving a trail of rosewater and a sharp rose perfume.
Tristan knew at once who’d written the letter. Swallowing hard, he broke the seal and opened the letter.
Your Grace,
Please accept my heartfelt congratulations on your wedding.
I will not deny that the speed of your engagement was rather shocking to society in general, myself included.
However, you, of course, must be the best judge of your own happiness.
I wish you luck with your new little bride.
Do accept my apologies for not being present at your wedding.
I did not receive an invitation to the wedding breakfast, which I assume was an oversight.
Think nothing of it, however, as I do not wish to upset you on your special day.
I am quite sure we will see each other again. You see, Tristan, I have not forgotten you, even though you are a dull married man now! There is very little I forget.
My fondest regards,
Your Friend,
Miss Juliana Bolt
Tristan stared at the letter for a long moment, clenching his jaw until his teeth squeaked.
I should have known she would not let me go so easily.
The plain fact was that he had not thought of Juliana since the engagement.
He presumed that once she knew about his plans to marry Madeline, she would lose interest. She did not love him; he knew that, and he was sure that she knew, in the bottom of her heart, that he could not marry an opera singer.
The letter made him rethink everything. Perhaps Juliana had more affection for him than he had realized, or maybe it was all a matter of possession.
Either way, he suspected that he’d just made an enemy. Juliana Bolt was clever, beautiful, and most of all, ruthless. She knew how the world worked. She knew how to make things happen. She knew.
And if she decided to make life difficult for him, what would come next? What might she do?
Our relationship was not exactly a secret, Tristan thought. We were seen together at the Devil’s Clubhouse at least once.
He thought uneasily of Madeline. Would Juliana turn her ire onto her? Surely not. That would be unfair.
All’s fair in love and war, he thought grimly.
“Bad news?” James asked lightly, nodding toward the letter.
Tristan gave a grim smile, slowly crumpling the paper in his hand.
“Nothing to worry about. Only some of my past mistakes catching up with me.”
James gave a huff of laughter. “And you think that is nothing to worry about?”
“I think it is my concern. Don’t worry about me, James. I’ll manage.”
James eyed him thoughtfully, then gave a slow nod. “I’m sure of it, Tristan. You always do.”
Tristan gave a tight smile at that. He was aware of James’ eyes resting curiously on him, clearly wanting more information. James, however, apparently knew his cousin well enough not to bother with additional questions.
“I shall send over the money you need tomorrow,” Tristan said brusquely, changing the subject. “Will that suit you?”
James gave a sigh of relief. “Certainly. I know I can always rely on you, cousin.”
“Hmm.”
“Assuming, of course, that you don’t get too wrapped up in that lovely new wife of yours,” James added idly, and drained his whiskey.
“That is not likely to happen.”
James gave a tight smile. “I don’t know; I think you might be surprised. Love has a way of sneaking into one’s heart and ruining everything.”
“Charmingly put,” Tristan responded with a chuckle, his gaze raking the room for his bride. She had to be around here somewhere, he was sure. Even a wallflower couldn’t hide on her wedding day. “But I suspect I’m safe enough for now, James.”
Definitely safe.