Chapter Two
Why the hell couldn’t he bear to look at her?
It was simple. She was beautiful—too beautiful.
Damned bonny, and when he looked at her, he wanted to touch.
He wanted to tease, cajole, make her smile and blush.
But he could not, would not, do that. She was above his station.
Continuing as they were, which was nothing to begin with, was not feasible.
Friends? Sure, they may have been friends in her mind.
But he felt nothing friendly for Miss Smith, and Miss Felicity Brandon only made that more obvious. He wanted her.
But he could never have her. She was above him in every way that mattered. He had nothing to offer a woman, other than copious orgasms. He definitely had nothing to offer a virginal woman intent on marriage. He couldn’t marry. Not in his position.
Tristan opened his coat and unfolded his sister’s letter.
He reread the lines over and over, pleased with her penmanship.
But in his chest, the ache that lived there, the ever-growing chasm of despair, widened.
He was no closer to his goals than he was when he started a year ago.
He needed to get to Edinburgh and see his siblings for himself, make sure they were happy, and promise once again that they would soon be together.
Maybe that would brighten his outlook on the future, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon kept him busy.
He couldn’t let his mind wander long over his siblings, his home, and the craggy hills of Inverness.
He swore one day he’d see Lark Hall again, but that day was further than he’d realized when he made his bargain with The Lyon.
Miss Brandon had disappeared inside the shop, but she was stuck in his mind like a thorn.
She claimed they were friends while she had kept her identity from him.
He should have seen through it, but all he had seen was her bonny face.
The fear in her eyes that melted away when she looked at him.
The tentative smiles, the soft laughs. Every one of those moments had been a triumph for him, but then . . .
All that time he’d teased and cajoled her, she was meant to marry Alston.
She’d gone to Alston House day after day knowing that, while he and Alston were left in the dark.
She’d hoodwinked him, and he didn’t know what to make of that.
He couldn’t get past that moment when he’d realized.
He’d been angry, embarrassed, and then pushed out of the room.
All those weeks they’d spent together, to then be shoved out the door when the truth came to light.
She was keeping secrets. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was always playing matchmaker with her clients and desperate women who needed to marry, but Miss Brandon was different from them. Or so he’d thought.
Friends? No. They weren’t friends. They were strangers, and this time, Tristan wouldn’t let a pretty face muddle his thoughts.
She was a job. A woman who needed to be guarded from some unknown threat that he was still not privy to.
She didn’t even trust him enough to tell him what she was hiding from. How could they possibly be friends?
Tristan took out his timepiece. He didn’t know how long this appointment would take, and he had too many things to do. He ought to write his sister back and reassure her that soon—though he had no idea when—they’d all be home again. But that felt like a lie, and he couldn’t lie to them.
Something about Miss Brandon—Felicity, as she wished him to call her—had shaken him, tilted the axis of his world. He needed to find his footing again, but being in her presence would make that difficult. He had to push her away.
The door opened again, and Felicity darted out. She frantically looked around the alley.
“Where’s the carriage?”
“I sent him away. Are you finished already?”
“Ma’am?” A woman in a bright yellow dress appeared, her cheeks and lips heavily rouged.
“No. I can’t.”
“Madam?” The woman stood there frowning.
“You can’t what?” Tristan asked.
She shook her head. Her face was pale, and her breathing came in short clips. She was in full panic. Tristan approached her and cupped her elbows. He turned them away from the scowling woman.
“What’s wrong, Flick?”
She blinked at him. “Who is Flick?”
“You—forgive me. It’s a common shortening of Felicity. It slipped out.”
“They want me to undress, and I cannot do that in front of strangers.”
Tristan swallowed. “But they’re women?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “She started pulling at my clothes—” She drew in a shuddering breath, and Tristan wanted to pull her close as a cold hollowness spread through his chest at her words.
“Then don’t.”
“She says I must.”
“No. She can take measurements with your garments on.” Tristan turned a glare toward the woman. “Isn’t that correct?”
The woman folded her arms and nodded tightly. “It won’t be precise.”
Felicity gripped his sleeve. “Come in with me, please.”
Tristan turned her back toward the door. “Whatever you need.”
He sat by while the seamstress, Mrs. Montague, took Felicity’s measurements.
She chewed her lip, and he could see her hands shaking from time to time, but she made it through the appointment, picking colors for day dresses and evening gowns.
Everything she chose was either drab grays and browns or virginal white.
“Green, blue, and burgundy would please Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Tristan said.
Mrs. Montague nodded. “Indeed. She gave me instructions.”
“Then we’re done here.”
Felicity looked between them.
Tristan nodded toward the door. He wouldn’t take her elbow again. Every time he touched her, it only shook him more. He needed all his wits about him regarding her. He had too much to lose to muck this up.
“Those colors are rather bold,” she muttered as they climbed into the carriage. The horses stamped impatiently.
“Trust that Mrs. Dove-Lyon knows what she’s doing.
” He sat back against the seat and tried not to stare at her, but her color was high, better than the ghostly paleness of her cheeks from before.
He wanted to ask. His stomach churned with the need to know why she was so upset by undressing.
He could probably guess, though knowing for certain would itch at him. Not knowing would eat him alive.
“Miss—” he started.
“Flick,” she corrected.
“What?”
“I like that. Use that instead of Miss Brandon if it is more comfortable.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Damn it.
It suited her. He wanted to picture her as a refined lady, someone cold he could easily distance himself from.
But every time he stared into her eyes, their earth-and-toffee depths held him in a trance.
There was so much truth in her eyes—fear, sadness, a longing he knew not to be desire but a wish for comfort, safety.
He knew that look. He’d seen it in himself, his siblings.
She was lost, just like him. Someone had hurt this woman.
She was in hiding, navigating a world she’d never known.
For all her trepidation, she still stood straight.
She held his stare. She survived. All on her own.
She made it impossible to ignore her. Beauty, strength, and a heart filled with vast kindness. His respect for her only grew the more he knew her, which made being near her torture.
But he knew she had to marry a gentleman—a powerful, wealthy nobleman, preferably, as was the case for all the widow’s matches. He was none of those things.
“I’m certain a gentleman would say it’s not appropriate.”
“But what would a friend say?” she countered.
If he declared them not friends, he’d hurt her feelings. Again. “Flick it is.”
She smiled, small and shy, but a smile nonetheless. He took off his top hat and spun the rim between his fingers. He didn’t know how to be her friend, not when what he felt for her was clearly not friendly.
They made small talk as they returned to the club.
There were other outings planned for today, but for the morning he could retreat like a coward and pretend he had pressing duties.
Once they returned to the club, Tristan went straight to Mrs. Dove-Lyon and asked to go home.
Now he sat before her desk, resisting the urge to shift in his seat as she silently observed him from behind her black lace veil.
“I’m afraid now is not the time to visit Edinburgh,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “It pains me to say it, but Miss Brandon’s next suit is more urgent. You said yourself that your brother and sister are in safe hands.”
“They are, but they are young and still confused about why they can’t go home.”
“Why not bring them here?”
“To the club? Or London? Neither is suitable. I can’t keep them in my single room flat. I mean no offense.”
She set her teacup down and leaned back. “Your bother left you with quite the quandary. If you agree to sell Lark Hall, you could buy something for yourself with the remainder.”
“Lark Hall is my home. Four generations are buried there. I won’t sell it.” His great grandfather had risked everything to keep it, and Tristan would not let it go.
“Lord Meed is getting impatient,” she countered.
“Lord Meed can eat his own arse before I see him take ownership of my home. We agreed you’d temporarily claim ownership of the house to absolve my brother’s debt to the den in exchange for my services and for that I am grateful. I will pay it back.
“I can only hold the deed for so long. He won it legitimately. It is only because of his own substantial debt to the den that I was able to claim the house as payment against his wishes, but he still wants it. I’m a woman of business, and Meed is gathering the capital necessary to buy Lark Hall at a price it would be difficult to refuse. ”
“What of our agreement? I just need time.”
“Time is costly. An empty house is another expense I don’t need. I told you when you came here that I could not hold the house forever.”
“I gave you all the savings I had.”
“Indeed, but that was two years ago. If you would only use your wits and play, you could win your home back legitimately and swiftly.”
“There is nothing legitimate about gambling. It’s chance,” Tristan retorted.
“And skill.”
“What sort of bounder risks his family home on the turn of the card?” Tristan asked in agitation.
“My brother, apparently, may his soul rot in a bog. But he isn’t alone in that, now is he?
Every night some entitled lord gambles the fate of others for his own amusement.
I won’t do it.” Tristan let out a sigh. He was ranting to his employer, the owner of a gaming club.
Not a bright idea, but he’d been out of sorts since learning Miss Smith was Felicity.
“You’ve made your distaste clear, Mr. Chase. Let me sell Lark Hall and we can both profit handsomely.”
“It’s out of the question.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon scoffed. “All things worth doing come with great risk. Such is life. Your principles might be the very thing that costs you your home. Now, what I really need to discuss with you is Miss Brandon.”
Tristan bit back a response. He raised a brow. Would he finally know why she was here hiding? It should come from her if they truly were friends, as she claimed.
“It’s hard to protect a woman if I don’t know what I’m protecting her from,” Tristan said.
“I won’t reveal her secrets. She’s had enough taken from her as it is. If she wishes to tell you, she will.”
“She ran from the dressmaker.”
“I’ve been told.”
“How am I to take her out in public if she is too afraid of people?”
Her veil ruffled as she sighed. “I will admit I was a bit ambitious with plans to escort her around the city. We must be careful with her sensibilities. But she’s not afraid of people.
She thrives here, helping those who live and work here with small ailments and the like, mending clothing. She needs purpose.”
“What is it you think I can offer?”
“She’s comfortable with you.”
“We barely know each other.”
“That’s not how it seems when she speaks of you.”
She talks about me? He tugged at his neckcloth.
“When she takes to the gaming floor tonight—”
“Tonight! You’re letting a lady on the floor?”
She stiffened at his interruption.
“I beg your pardon. I thought the plan was to slowly introduce her.”
“I’ve made a list of prospective suitors. She has asked to choose for herself, but there are specific gentlemen I want her to engage with. We can’t afford to begin from scratch.”
Heat climbed the back of his neck. How was he to escort her around the club and watch her fall in love with some useless, witless lord?
“Lord Loxley.”
Dandified, dried out crumb-cake. Tristan caught himself before he rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Hartford.”
Tristan folded his hands. Hartford wasn’t a bad fellow, but still. Too quiet. Flick needed someone who would shield her.
“Mr. Whimsby.”
“He has gout,” Tristan argued.
She tilted her head ever so slightly to the side. “And four thousand pounds a year.”
Tristan’s stomach curdled. Four thousand bloody pounds? He could never compete with an income like that. The thought chilled him. He wasn’t competing with any of these men, he reminded himself.
“Sir Daniel.”
“No,” Tristan growled. “He’s a reprobate. Ask Trina.”
He couldn’t see it, but if he were a gambling man, he’d bet she’d raised her brows.
“Trina would tell me if he was trouble upstairs. He’s a young nobleman of means.”
“If you don’t believe him unsuitable, discuss it with Lord Alston,” Tristan said. “He knows him well.”
She huffed and picked up a sheet of paper. “Since you seem quarrelsome this morning, take this list and review it yourself.”
Tristan ground his teeth as he leaned forward and took the list, perusing it with a blank face.
Lord Wickham, Mr. Craiggorm—a fellow Scot—and Sir Elliot. Not terrible prospects altogether, but none of them deserving of her hand.
“All of these men have agreed to accept a bride?”
“You leave that to me. You’ve enough to worry about. Once she’s off your hands, you can resume your efforts to pay back what you owe on your family’s house faster than Lord Meed can convince me to sell it, but time is not your friend, Mr. Chase. I can only hold him off for so long.”
“He’ll give up whether he wants to or not,” Tristan grumbled.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon chuckled. “I adore your fighting spirit, Mr. Chase. But don’t let your prejudice against gambling get in the way of Miss Brandon’s salvation.”
Tristan stood and turned away, but he couldn’t resist. “What is it? What is she so afraid of? I think I should know.”
“Then ask her yourself.”