Before he could correct her assumption, she turned, skipped up the steps, and entered the house through the servant’s quarters. She knew it unlikely that he would be there. Still she could hope.
“Y
ou did what? Have you lost your mind?” Sarah asked.
Anne wondered if perhaps she had. “I doubt he’ll come.”
They were standing just off the terrace so Sarah could greet her guests as they arrived.
“But if he does, Fayrehaven will have an absolute cow.”
“Are there un-absolute cows, I wonder?” Anne asked. “Might he have one of those instead?”
“Anne, honestly. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”
“Relax, Sarah. He might not even be here any longer. He keeps saying that he’s going to sail away. Perhaps he has by now.” She wouldn’t put it past him in order to make a point that he wouldn’t be bullied into doing something that he didn’t want to do.
“I heard he approached you and Chetwyn at the park.”
“Are we all the gossip then?”
“Apparently so, yes.”
Anne sighed. “I’d arranged to meet Tristan at the park but then Father arranged for me to go with Chetwyn. One could hardly blame Tristan for approaching and voicing some disappointment.”
“Tristan? Such informality. You’d best take care that others don’t hear you referring to him in that manner.”
“Oh, Sarah, we seem to care about such trivial things.”
“Yes, well, those trivial things lead to a good marriage, and speaking of, I see that Lord Chetwyn has just arrived. And look at how he smiles now that he’s spotted you. I daresay, I think he
has
set his cap for you. Come with me to welcome him. I’m fairly certain he can take your mind off this Lord Tristan.”
Unfortunately, Anne very much doubted it.
T
he very last thing that Lord Tristan Easton thought he would ever be doing was attending a garden party. Yet there he was, standing by the rhododendrons, feeling very much out of his element. Give him a ferocious storm on the high seas any day compared with this maze of etiquette and proper behavior.
He’d been forced to ask Mary what to wear to such an event, which had resulted in her arching a brow in speculation. He’d been halfway tempted to tell her about Anne, to hear her advice on dealing with a troublesome woman, but what was Anne’s crime? Denying him her bed. If he was planning to marry her, he’d admire her for it. As it was, he was merely frustrated—or he would be by night’s end. So he’d held his tongue, left Mary none the wiser, and prodded her again for assistance on his attire. Having spent a good part of her youth in a convent, she’d been of little help and suggested only that he not be too formal. “What you might wear to the park.”
At least he’d gotten that part right.
He’d arrived late because he wasn’t certain he wanted to come. What he was certain of was that he wanted to see Anne again, and she’d issued her blasted challenge, one similar to the one he’d delivered when he wanted to entice her into climbing the mast. She’d implied he was a coward. Blast her to hell. The woman stood toe-to-toe with him, never backing down—something no other female of his acquaintance had ever done. His other partners had been content to romp about in bed. Anne wanted to romp elsewhere.
He’d spied her as soon as the butler had shown him into the garden. She was holding a mallet, attempting to strike a ball so it went through a metal archway. She wore a lilac dress with a high neck that was buttoned all the way to her chin. He understood why that shade was her favorite. It went well with her fair complexion. The dress had long sleeves that ballooned out from shoulder to elbow, then narrowed down into a snug fit against her skin. Gloves covered her hands. She wore a small hat, brim down on one side, up on the other.
He wanted to march over and tell the three gents standing around her that he knew what she looked like with all those buttons undone. He knew the silkiness of her skin that all that clothing hid. He had peeled off her gloves, peeled off her dress, peeled off everything.
Without even bothering to glance around, he knew she was the most beautiful lady here. It didn’t matter what anyone else looked like. To him, she was exquisite. The way the sun lightly danced over her face, trying to chase off the shadows provided by her hat. The way she moved with such lithesome grace. He’d experienced her elegance when they’d clambered to the crow’s nest and when he had her in his bed. But here with an audience, she was poised. She belonged here, and he wished to hell that she didn’t.
She gave one of the gents—Chetwyn, he recalled—a playful slap before directing her attention to the blue ball at her feet. She lightly tapped it. It rolled along the green grass, hit the side of the arch, and came to a stop without going through. She craned back her head and laughed, the sweet trilling traveling across the garden to touch him as though she were right beside him. She was more comfortable today, here in the garden, than she’d been at the ball. Perhaps because that night had been her first public event since going into mourning. She was settling in now, and he could see that this was her world. She moved about it with the same ease that he swaggered over his ship.
She said something to Chetwyn. With a slight bow he moved in behind her—
Tristan clenched his back teeth, tightened his hands into fists, and growled low. He didn’t think he’d been loud, but she suddenly jerked up her head and looked in his direction. With a soft smile to Chetwyn, a word to the other gents, mallet in hand, she began striding across the green and he wondered briefly if she was coming to deliver a blow to his head for disturbing her game.
Then she smiled brightly at him as though she was truly happy to see him, and he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He would do anything to keep that smile on her face, and that made him want to leave because he’d never cared so much in his life about the ridiculous parting of the lips, revealing of the teeth.
“You came,” she said softly.
“You are quite astute, Princess.”
Her smile diminished and he wanted to kick himself for the harshness in his tone. Could he sound any less charming? Maybe she should hit him with the mallet. Good and hard.
“You’re not comfortable,” she said.
“You seem to have quite the round of admirers.”
“Jealous, then.”
Why should he be jealous? He’d tasted what they hadn’t and would again if he so desired. He so desired, dammit. Two minutes after leaving her company, he wanted to be back with her. He didn’t know what to make of this strange obsession. “I think coming here was a mistake. I should probably go.”
“Turning cowardly, already?”
He gave her a look that normally quelled rambunctious men—men much heftier than she—into behaving. She merely angled her chin defiantly.
“It’s only because you don’t know everyone,” she said patiently. “Let me introduce you around.” Gliding over, she slipped her arm around his.
“Keeping the mallet?” he asked.
“Never know when I might have to use it on a hard head. In particular, yours.”
He couldn’t help the grin that tugged up the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were sparkling with teasing. She nudged her shoulder against his arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He realized with a sudden unequivocal certainty that he would walk through hell for her. No doubt he was about to do just that.
A
nne began with Chetwyn because she knew that, like Walter, he possessed a kindness and wasn’t likely to give a cut direct. That she couldn’t rely on her brothers to be charming was a sad state of affairs. She was quite aware of the two who had come—Jameson and Stephan—shooting daggers at Tristan. Based on his cocky grin and swagger, she was rather certain he was mindful of it as well.
She supposed she couldn’t blame them for keeping their distance. Confidence radiated off him, and his command of himself and those around him was evident in his mien. In his presence, everything—everyone—dwarfed. Just as they had on his ship, as they did in her bedchamber. It wasn’t because he was a lumbering giant. Because he wasn’t. It was quite simply that he was so self-possessed. He’d been on his own since he was fourteen. In years, he was no older than Jameson, but in life’s experiences, her brother had no hope of ever catching up.
Until this moment she wasn’t quite certain she’d realized all that. What could he possibly talk to these men about that he wouldn’t find trivial? The weather? When they complained of the light drizzle while he had survived nature’s fury? A trip to the seaside when he had walked along shores that possibly weren’t even marked on a map?
She wanted to tell her brothers to stand at his side, that he possessed a goodness. But her brothers would only accuse her of becoming starry-eyed. Perhaps she had. She knew only that her heart had soared when she spotted him lurking beside the rhododendrons. He’d come when she knew he didn’t want to, so perhaps she meant a tad more than a bit of bed sport to him.
“I remember my father speaking of a visit he made to Pembrook,” Chetwyn said, sipping on the champagne that the footmen were serving. “I seem to recall he had a jolly good time fishing while there.”
If she hadn’t spent so much time in Tristan’s company, she wasn’t certain she would have noticed the subtle start of surprise that appeared in his eyes and was gone in a blink. She wondered if it was because he hadn’t expected Chetwyn to be so cordial or if he was remembering a happier time.
“Yes,” he finally said. “We have a pond. It was once well stocked with fish. I spent many an hour sitting with father, waiting for them to bite.”
“Is that why you love being out on the water?” she asked, striving to keep the conversation on an even keel.
“I love the sea because it provided me with a safe haven when mine was taken from me.” Although she had been the one to ask the question, he directed a challenging glare to Chetwyn as though he expected him to argue against the claim.
“I never much cared for Lord David,” Chetwyn said. “He seemed to be rather too full of himself.”
For the second time Tristan seemed taken aback. But before he could respond, Chetwyn added, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with Fayrehaven. Lady Anne, don’t think I’ve forgotten that we’ve yet to finish our game.”
She smiled. “You were giving me such a sound thrashing that I was hoping you would forget.”
He winked at her, brushing her elbow lightly and quickly with his fingers. “Later, m’dear.”
He strolled away as though he had no cares, and she wondered if Tristan would ever be as at ease. Even that first night when he’d been slouched in his chair at the tavern, he’d possessed an alertness, as though he could enter into the thick of a brawl with a second’s notice.
“I didn’t think to ask earlier, but how is your head?” she asked.
A wicked gleam came into his pale eyes and she suspected he was going to say something bawdy. Perhaps he thought better of it, because his words were innocent enough. “Much improved.”
He shifted his attention back to where Chetwyn had departed. “Was your fiancé like him?”
Now she was the one startled. “Like Chetwyn? Very much so, yes. They were brothers after all.”
“I’m nothing at all like my brothers.”
“At your core, I suspect you are. Did you all fish with your father?”
“We did. God, I haven’t thought of that in years. Father was a large man—or at least he seemed so when I was small. His presence diminished everything around him. He was bold, strong, invincible. As grand as Pembrook. But at the pond, I would stand beside him and . . .”
She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “And what?” she prodded.
“Suppose you teach me to play croquet.”
She’d rather pursue what had brought the melancholy to his eyes. She hoped it was tender memories, knew that even the fondest of reminiscences could bring a hint of sadness for the moments remembered, and those lost. He had lost so much. She was rather certain he’d share no more with her. Besides, it was best to move back into the fray of the party before her brothers decided they needed to interfere.
“It’s quite easy. I suspect you’ll be rather good at it. Come along.”
She retrieved two balls, told him to select a mallet.
“I’ll share yours.”
She gave him a pointed look. “You need one with a longer handle.”
“I’ll make do.”
“But you’ll have to hunch—”
“I’ll be fine, Princess.”
“You are quite the stubborn man.” Grateful others were farther along in the game, she trooped over to the first stake, well aware of his long strides keeping pace. “The object, of course, is to run the course, passing the ball through the wickets until we reach the other stake. Like so.” She positioned herself, concentrated on placing her mallet in alignment with the ball so that a smart tap—
She felt his arms come around her, his hands close over hers.
“What are you doing?” She hated that she squeaked, sounded breathless, was frozen.
“Learning to play croquet.”
“You could by
watching
my movements.”
“And such lovely moments they are, but where’s the fun in merely watching? Much better to learn by experiencing. You see, this way, I know precisely how to hold the mallet, how much my body should tremble—”
“Tristan!” Her voice was low and sharp.
“You
are
trembling, Princess.”
“In anger. You’re making a spectacle of us.”
“You didn’t seem to mind my being behind you last night.”
Oh, dear Lord, she hadn’t. She’d been on her knees, he on his, when he entered her. “We didn’t have an audience.”
“I want you, Anne. Where can we go for a few moments alone?”
“You’re going to ruin my reputation. Then who shall have me?”
“I’m not doing anything improper.”
“You’re doing everything improper.”
“I thought the whole point with these games was to offer an opportunity for flirtation.”
“But not an opportunity to hold, to—”
To be acutely aware of your warmth, to inhale your earthy orangy scent, to imagine those hands that are now tightened around mine luxuriously caressing my body.
“You go too far.”
“I could go farther and well you know it. Why did you invite me here if not to flirt?”
“I thought—”
“My Lord Tristan!” Lady Hermione called out.