Chapter 16
Tristan privately thought that inviting his mother on their trip the following day was a good idea.
Dorothea was not the sort of woman who complained, even when she really ought to. There had never been any word of reproach from her to her son about anything, even when his reputation was at its lowest.
She’d never reproached any of them.
Not complaining about things, however, seemed to do one little good. Dorothea lived a quiet sort of life, and it occurred to him now that she might not enjoy her peaceful life. Tristan was glad that she had come with them on their trip, and it was good to see his mother enjoying herself.
“I know this dressmaker well,” Dorothea confided on the journey there. “You are in for a treat, Madeline.”
The dressmaker in question was Madame Tishell, a tall, thin woman with a hooked nose and a tremendous eye for detail. One was not considered fully ready for society unless one had at least one gown or accessory from Madame Tishell.
She was currently fitting Madeline for another gown.
Charlotte was roaming the shop floor, the sound of her footsteps swallowed up by the thick, plush carpet.
Tristan had found a padded brocade armchair and thrown himself onto it.
His mother sat on the seat beside him. She would try on her choice of gown next, once Madame’s assistant returned with the gown itself.
“She’s a lovely girl, you know,” Dorothea remarked, out of nowhere.
“Hm?” Tristan queried.
“Madeline, I mean. She’s a delight. I think she is perfect for you.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“And more to the point, you are perfect for her. That sort of balance does not come naturally, you know.”
Tristan paused, glancing over at his mother. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean.”
Dorothea only shook her head.
“I remember thinking to myself, one day before you and your brother were ever born, that I was exactly what your father needed. I was calm, dependable, and I never reproached him for anything, ever. Of course, he was wild for an heir. You never knew that, did you? An official one, that is, from me, whereas he could father as many bastards as he liked outside of our marriage bed.”
Tristan swallowed hard. He knew, of course, about his father’s famous infidelities.
Everybody in society knew it, although the gossip had been forgotten along with the man in question.
He wasn’t a fool. He and Anthony had known that their father was a poor parent and an infinitely worse husband.
He had just never heard his mother say such a thing.
“So my point is,” Dorothea murmured, leaning back in her own seat, “that while I was a good wife to your father—and I stand by that, regardless of my initial failures regarding heirs—he was the worst man I could have possibly married. Marriages are not equal, my dear. Not everybody is suited to the person who is suited to them. But with you and Madeline, well. I feel as though there is hope.”
Tristan wasn’t entirely sure what to say about this. He cleared his throat, shifted, and adjusted his cuffs.
“I’m sorry that you had such a miserable married life, Mother,” he murmured. “Anthony and I often wished that we could do more.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, the Duke of Tolford cannot be denied. Thank heavens you’re a finer duke than he is.”
At that moment, before Tristan could respond, the assistant came hurrying back with a heavy gold-and-brown dress hanging over her arm. Dorothea brightened and sprang to her feet.
“Ah, my gown! I shall try it on. Excuse me, my dear.”
She patted Tristan on the shoulder and hurried away, humming to herself under her breath.
Tristan sat still for a moment, unable to pick his way through that odd speech. It seemed almost as if his mother was trying to tell him something. She clearly believed that he and Madeline had a chance at a love match, which was, of course, nonsense.
Not that Tristan would object to a more traditional marriage, naturally. There was something very alluring about Madeline, something that made him want to touch her, kiss her, watch her. She was extremely interesting to watch.
Anybody who deemed her dull or a wallflower had no clue at all in matters of taste. Madeline was genuinely thrilling. She was clever, beautiful, and, frankly, had more of an understanding of society than society probably had of itself.
In short, he enjoyed her company, and there were not many people about whom Tristan could genuinely say that.
The fitting rooms were modestly curtained, concealing the person inside.
There had been rustling and low voices from behind Madeline’s curtain, where Madame Tishell herself was helping her into the gown.
Tristan had not looked much at the gown, which Madeline had chosen with her friend’s advice.
Charlotte had excellent taste, so it was likely to be a lovely dress.
Without warning, the curtain came whisking back suddenly enough to make Tristan jump.
“Go on out, Your Grace,” he heard Madame Tishell say. “Look at yourself in the large mirror. Tell me what you think.”
Madeline appeared, and Tristan felt as if he had suddenly become stuck to his seat.
Her dress was forest-green at first inspection, but when she moved, or the material shifted, a thin golden sheen rippled across the fabric.
The neckline was shockingly low, curving below her collarbones and skimming her shoulders, with a thick fold of material forming a narrow collar. The bodice was designed to pull in tightly around the waist, decorated with gold sequins so that it shimmered like fish scales in the light.
The skirt was full and rich, ruched at the hem but with no other decoration.
Its simplicity was its beauty. At the back of the gown—which he saw when she turned her back to him to look in the mirror—were golden laces, braided like rope.
They would be laced up properly and tucked away, of course, but for now, for the purposes of trying on the dress, Madame Tishell had only loosely laced up the gown.
The knotted ends of the laces trailed down the back of the skirt, begging to be undone. A tug on one lace would undo that flimsy knot, and the back of the dress would open up. Tristan could see the white skin at the small of her back, the laces pressing against the flesh.
He swallowed thickly and found that his throat was dry. He wondered whether Madame Tishell would consider bringing him a brandy. Probably not.
Madeline turned back to face him, almost warily. He could appreciate now how the color flattered her complexion. Her green eyes seemed to glow against the green, and her hair took on an almost whitish-blonde tinge.
“Well?” Madeline asked after a moment, holding out her arms to the sides. “How do I look?”
“Like a forest nymph in spectacles,” Tristan managed.
She blinked at him. Madame Tishell, standing behind her, gave a moue of displeasure.
“You like it, then?” Madeline prompted. “It is an expensive gown.”
“Fortunately, I am a man of great means.”
And great appetites, he thought numbly, swallowing hard. Desire flooded through him, pooling hotly in his gut.
He could imagine himself stepping forward now, when Madeline was observing herself in the mirror. He would put his arms around her waist and kiss the warm skin at the curve of her neck. She would close her eyes, tilting her head to let him press his lips against her neck.
He imagined his hands curving around her ribcage, feeling it expand and contract with her breaths.
One hand would edge higher, higher and higher, half-inch by half-inch, until his hand brushed the underside of her breast. He could almost imagine how her breath would hitch in her throat, and her eyes would fly open.
She would look at herself in the mirror, eyes wide, and he would look at her.
He would smile, of course, like a wolf waiting to pounce.
In his imagination, of course, they were alone. They were in the same place, with its dark wallpaper, plush carpets, and velvet curtains. There was something sumptuous and luxurious about the place, something that he liked. Madeline suited a place like that, in her lovely green gown.
This time, she would not avoid his stare. She would not squirm away. She would not ignore her own feelings. She would lean back against him, her body warm and firm against his.
I could take her right there, in front of the mirror.
“Oh, how lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, effectively jerking Tristan mercilessly out of his daydream.
He flinched, abruptly crossing his legs, and tried his best to will down the rush of desire.
Suddenly, the world came flooding back in, and he was aware of Charlotte, of Madame, of Madame’s assistant, of his mother on the other side of the curtain.
Oh, dear, Tristan, you fool, he thought wildly.
“Do you like it?” Madeline asked almost uncertainly and glanced at her reflection.
Their eyes met through the mirror, and for one heady moment, he wondered whether she could tell what he was thinking.
Perhaps she could. Women often had a sort of sixth sense when it came to reading minds. Or something like that indeed.
“It’s beautiful,” Tristan answered, surprised at how cool his voice sounded. “If you like it, you must buy it.”
“I think I do like it,” she said, smoothing down the bodice with one uncertain hand.
“Then it’s yours,” Tristan responded brusquely, jumping to his feet and wandering over to inspect a basket of buttons. “Tell me, Madame, is there anything else, eh, in this color? Or in that pattern?”
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Madame Tishell answered, her eyes sharp and almost amused.
He waved a hand. “Well, she seems to suit them. Perhaps we should buy more.”
Now Madame Tishell was trying to hide a smile.
“Shall I have the Duchess try them all on?” she asked innocently.
Damn the woman, Tristan thought wearily, and was not entirely sure whether he meant Madame Tishell or Madeline.