“Dear God,” he grumbled, “that girl is as tenacious as a barnacle.”
He released her, stepped back, and while Anne knew she should be grateful—had she not been advocating for just such a move?—she was sorry that he was no longer holding her. As she spun around to greet Lady Hermione, she noticed that Jameson was much nearer and she had no doubt that he’d been charging over to rescue her. That would not have gone well at all.
“Had I known you were going to be here, I’d have not delayed my arrival,” Lady Hermione gushed, her cheeks flushed, her smile so wide that it filled half her face.
Oh, what a nasty thought
. Normally, Anne was not one to think unkindly of others. She wasn’t jealous. Absolutely not. She understood that Tristan was a temporary fixture in her life. One did not become attached to things that had no permanence.
“Lady Anne was just teaching me to play croquet,” Tristan said.
“Oh, is that what she was doing?” Lady Hermione gave her a once-over. “I wasn’t quite sure.”
“You look lovely today, Lady Hermione,” Anne said, wanting to get the attention off of herself.
“Why thank you. It’s a new gown. The color of Lord Tristan’s eyes.” She batted her pale lashes up at him.
“Yes, I have eyes of my own so I can quite see that,” Anne said. Oh, she was in an ungracious mood. She couldn’t very well claim Tristan, could she? That would bring about an entire host of complications.
Lady Hermione apparently was not to be deterred from her quest. “Oh, I say, Lord Tristan, I would so love a turn about the garden. Will you accompany me?”
“Lady Anne and I are engaged in a game of croquet.”
“But surely it will keep. With English weather, you never know about the sun. It could rain at any moment.”
The argument made no sense for if it rained, how would they play croquet? Besides, there wasn’t a dark cloud in the sky. It was a lovely day. If it rained, Anne would eat her hat.
“Please, just a quick turn.”
Anne could tell that he was debating between telling her to take a jump into shark-infested waters and offering kindness. When he turned to her, she wasn’t surprised to see the regret in his eyes because kindness had won out. “Not to worry,” she offered, before he could say anything. “Jameson is lurking nearby. I’m of a mind to entice him into playing me and then beating him soundly.”
With a wink he took her mallet, and holding it with only one hand, let loose a negligent swing that sent the ball rolling through the first two wickets.
“You cad! You know how to play.”
He grinned. “Before you spotted me, I’d watched you long enough to figure it out.” He leaned near. “Later, perhaps,” he said quietly, and she could do no more than nod, certain he wasn’t referring to catching up to her later
here
.
She tried not to feel a spark of envy when he offered Lady Hermione his arm and escorted her toward the roses. She wished she was walking in the girl’s place. No one would fault her for talking and laughing with him as they strolled about the garden. How simple—
“Well, that was an embarrassing display,” Jameson said tartly as he came to stand beside her.
“Yes, I daresay, Lady Hermione seems intent on garnering his attention.”
“I was referring to you and that man.”
Her blood boiled. “That
lord
.” She moved in front of her brother and even though he was a head taller, she still managed to meet his gaze levelly. “He is a lord, Jameson, however much you may wish he wasn’t.”
“A
lord
does not wrap himself around a woman—”
“I was instructing him on how to properly hold the mallet.”
His jaw dropped. “You honestly expect me to believe that you were responsible for that charade?”
“I don’t expect anything of you except to be civil. Why will you not give him a chance to prove himself? It’s not his fault that Lady Hermione traipses after him like she’s transformed into his shadow. Would you rather he rebuffed her, hurt her tender heart?”
“She has nothing—”
“She has everything to do with it and well you know it. As do I. Now do you wish to play a game of croquet or not?”
“I don’t like him.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s a pity. Because I do.”
Resisting the urge to
accidently
swing the mallet into his shin, she held tightly to it and marched away.
“H
e’s absurdly handsome, isn’t he?” Sarah asked.
Anne was sitting at a small round table with her, eating a scone, sipping a cup of tea. She knew she should be out enjoying the company of the other guests, but she seemed only capable of watching Tristan as he played croquet with Lady Hermione. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course, you have, silly girl. I suppose the duke would be so if not for the scars that mar his face.”
“Why didn’t you invite him?”
“Lord Tristan? I should think it’s obvious.”
She gave Sarah a pointed look. “No, Keswick.”
Sarah seemed to become interested in her clotted cream. “Well, I don’t really know him or his wife.”
“How can they become known if everyone ignores them?”
Sarah looked up indignantly. “What would you have me do?”
“Call on the duchess.”
“What if the duke is there?”
Anne smiled. “He’s not going to bite.”
“He’s quite frightening.”
“At the ball I thought his wife looked to be madly in love with him, so how bad can he be?”
“I suppose we could go together.”
Anne’s smile grew. “I think that’s a lovely idea.”
Sarah glanced toward the guests. “I didn’t invite her, you know.”
“Who?”
“Lady Hermione. She prattles on so, drives Fayrehaven to distraction. One of her friends must have sent word that Lord Tristan was here. She is making quite the fool of herself.”
“I feel for her. He won’t settle down. He won’t give up the sea.”
“Not for her, but he might for you.”
Anne jerked her head around. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sarah scoffed. “Anne! I fully expected at any moment that he would toss you over his shoulder and cart you away. The man is clearly intrigued by you.”
“It’s all a game, Sarah. Just a game.”
No matter how much she might have wished otherwise.
B
rooding, Tristan sat alone in Sebastian’s study, slowly sipping good whiskey and staring at the portrait above the fireplace. It was late. The house was quiet. He supposed he should go to Rafe’s for a bit of sport, but he’d had enough of games for the day.
Once Lady Hermione had latched onto him, he’d been unable to shake her. He didn’t want to hurt her but she was becoming quite the nuisance. Not that he’d listened much to what she’d had to say. Instead his mind had drifted off to a lazy afternoon when he’d been fishing with his father. He’d been happy. That’s what he’d been unable to tell Anne. Standing beside his father, he’d known contentment. A month later he’d been running for his life, and he’d not experienced that sort of contentment again until he’d been standing beside Anne on his ship.
What was it about her that made her different from every other woman?
Hearing the door open he glanced over and watched as Sebastian strode toward him with the confidence of a duke. He’d once used Sebastian as a mirror, but now they were far too different, and it had little to do with the scars that puckered their flesh.
His brother was settled with a wife and son. He had his estates. He was again in possession of his titles. He was where he would have been had they never been forced to leave everything behind. Yet it wasn’t the same. It occurred to him only now that Sebastian and Mary should have been at that blasted and utterly boring garden party.
Sebastian stopped by the cherrywood cabinet and generously filled a tumbler with whiskey before taking the chair across from Tristan. “You were awfully quiet during dinner.”
“Did Mary send you down to prod me for answers?”
“She was a bit concerned.”
Tristan ran his finger around the lip of his glass. “I attended an affair at Fayrehaven’s this afternoon. Croquet, little pastry delicacies that would hardly fill a boy much less a man, and nothing stronger than champagne.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “Are you courting Lady Hermione?”
“God no! Can you truly see me with such a flighty chit?”
Sebastian studied him intently for a moment. It was disconcerting to realize that even with his solitary eye he could probably see more clearly than Tristan. “Someone, though. Do you want to talk about her?”
Tristan shook his head. “No.”
What he had with Anne was between them, and while he knew his brother wasn’t one to gossip, Tristan wasn’t ready to give voice to his thoughts where she was concerned. He couldn’t quite sort them out. He should be back at sea by now, and yet here he remained in dismal London.
“Whoever she is, was she the reason for your lapses into silence during the meal?”
“No, I . . . I spoke with Lord Chetwyn for a bit this afternoon. He mentioned his father fishing at Pembrook. I’d forgotten about that—the fishing.” And his father guiding his hands, teaching him how to properly bait the hook, to cast his line . . .
Sebastian’s lips rose on one side, the other too burdened with scars. “The pond is still there, the fish still abundant. You should come for an extended visit, longer than it takes to bury a man anyway. Mary is quite pleased with the new residence.”
Two years ago he’d ridden by Pembrook on his way to the abbey ruins where he was supposed to meet with his brothers to begin their quest to reclaim their birthright. He’d returned to see his uncle buried at the village church. He’d had no desire to linger. Pembrook was not where he called home.
“Did you tear the old one down?” With crenellated walls and towers, it was more castle than manor.
“No. I had planned to but Mary convinced me that it still had a purpose. She is a wise one, my Mary, so I have a tendency to heed her advice.”
“She is also a stubborn one. I suspect she’d make you pay for not doing so.”
Sebastian chuckled softly. “Yes, she would.”
Tristan downed his whiskey. “She should have been at that damned party today.”
Sebastian did little more than nod. “Acceptance will all come about in time. How long do you anticipate being here?”
“Until my business is done.”
“Your business with this lady who shall remain unnamed?”
“I have yet to tire of her.”
“That is indeed a strong endorsement for her qualities.”
Tristan heard the sarcasm in his brother’s voice, but he wasn’t offended by it. He suspected it spoke more to what was lacking in himself. “It truly is, Keswick. I’ve never had much trouble leaving before, which I fear doesn’t say much for my character.”
“Do you love her?”
“One needs a heart to love. I admire her. I certainly desire her. I even have a fondness for her. But love and I are strangers, and I suspect it will always be so.”
“The trouble with love, Brother, is that it isn’t always polite enough to introduce itself. It simply settles in and takes up residence without even bothering to wait on an invitation. I loved Mary for years, but it wasn’t until I thought I would lose her that I finally realized just how much she meant to me. Without her, I am but a shell. I would give up everything for her: my titles, my estates, my very life.”
“I will never give up the sea.”
“Then take care with this lady’s heart.”
“She is quite practical. She has no illusions regarding where our involvement will lead. She is being courted, and I suspect by Season’s end she’ll be some man’s wife.”
“But not yours.”
Tristan shook his head, wished he had more whiskey. “No, never mine.”
A
nne wondered if inviting Tristan to the garden party had been a mistake. The following day he sent her two dozen roses. The unsigned note accompanying them had simply said, “You were right. Thank you.”
Right about what, for pity’s sake? That he would enjoy the garden party? That they couldn’t continue their trysts?
A week had passed and she’d not seen him. She tried to settle into the life that she had expected: morning calls, balls, dinners, courtship. But it seemed so trite. As though now she was a stranger to it all. She forced herself to carry on as though she’d not changed one whit since the stormy night she’d walked into a haze-filled tavern. Her father and brothers noticed nothing amiss.
Even Chetwyn seemed unable to detect the differences in her. He called upon her often, most afternoons in fact. This afternoon being no exception. They had abandoned his curricle and were now promenading through the park, admiring the foliage and flowers. She couldn’t imagine Tristan occasionally stopping to admire a bloom or inhale a fragrance.
Two other gentlemen had expressed an interest in her, but she wasn’t as comfortable with either of them as she was with Chetwyn. He was a solicitous soul and he fit her very much as an old shoe might. She grimaced at the image. He was more than that. He was pleasant, charming, kind. He never spoke harshly of anyone. He never tried to take advantage of their time together. He didn’t sneak her into dark corners for a kiss. He didn’t suggest in a low sultry voice that perhaps she should leave her window unlocked.
He made her smile. He brought her carnations. He read her poetry. But mostly he spoke of the ball that he and his mother would be hosting in honor of Walter.
“It’s been good to see Mother engaged in something other than weeping. She and Walter were so close, you know,” he said quietly as they strolled through Regent’s Park. They’d taken to visiting different parks and she wondered if it was in part because he hoped to avoid running into Tristan.
She considered telling him that Tristan was apparently no longer in her life, but that would be a tacit confession that he had once been, and she wasn’t quite certain how that would go over. She heard no rumors of him and Lady Hermione so she wondered if he was on the sea. She tried so terribly hard not to think of him at all, but he was always there, taunting her with memories.
But if she’d learned anything at all of late, she’d learned that memories did fade, muting the joy or pain associated with them. She had but to be patient and soon all of her remembrances would revolve around Chetwyn.
“I can’t imagine the devastation of losing a child,” she said, equally quietly. They always spoke as though everything they said was not to be shared with others, was a secret. It created a sense of intimacy, but knowing what true intimacy was, she recognized their habit carried a falsehood with it. She supposed one day that it wouldn’t. If he continued to court her. If he ever asked for her hand.
She could only hope that if she did marry, on her wedding night, when her husband discovered she was not . . . untouched, that he’d believe she’d given herself to Walter on the eve of war before he marched off, and hopefully he’d forgive her for such a rash act.
“It was devastating for her,” Chetwyn said. “At one point, she even said that she wished it had been me.”
“No, Chetwyn.” She squeezed his arm. “She didn’t mean it. Grief was speaking, not her.”
“So I told myself. I wish Father were alive. Sometimes I feel as though I’m a fake, wearing the mantle of marquess.”
His father had died nearly ten years ago. He should be accustomed to it by now, but still she realized that it could not be easy for one so young. Walter would have been twenty-five. Chetwyn was three years older. The same age as Tristan. She couldn’t imagine Tristan bemoaning his responsibilities. But then his life had been very different. The two could not be compared.
“You are an exceptional marquess,” she assured him.
“My mother might stop harping once I’ve seen to my duty of acquiring a wife.”
Her breath caught. He grimaced. “Sorry. I am here with you because I wish to be. I enjoy your company.”
“Parents are troublesome, though, aren’t they? Father is desperate for me to find a husband. But it is such a permanent thing that I don’t think the decision should be made in haste.”
“Quite right.” He sighed. “The ball. I was discussing the ball. May I confess something?”
“Without question.”
“Mother and I fought this morning. I’m of a mind to invite the Duke of Keswick. He fought in the Crimea. It seems appropriate.”
“Your mother disagrees.”
“Wholeheartedly. I understand he’s a bit rough around the edges, but he behaved exemplary at the last ball he attended. I thought perhaps he could even speak of the need to not forget those who fought and returned with challenges.”
“I believe he would be a wonderful addition to what you have planned.”
He smiled. “I quite agree. Now if you could help me convince Mother . . .”
“What if I did a bit more than that?”
“What have you in mind?”
“You shouldn’t invite him.”
“But you just said—”
“I’ll invite him. Then your mother can’t be mad with you.”
“No, she’ll be mad with you.”
“But I don’t live with her.”
“But you very well could in the near—” Blushing scarlet, he faced her and took her hands. Her heart was pounding like a regimental drum. “You must know that my interest in you goes beyond poetry and walks in the park.”
Her mouth suddenly dry, she nodded.
“If my interest is not wanted, you have but to say and I shall leave you be.”
So polite, so damned polite. He would never anger her; he would never challenge her; he would quite possibly never fight for her. She wanted more, but even as she thought it, only one man came to mind: Tristan. He brought with him thousands of lonely nights. With Chetwyn, she would have no loneliness. She would quite possibly have no passion, but perhaps she’d had enough to last a lifetime. Her aunt thought love was rare, and Anne had possessed it for a short while. Surely passion such as she’d known was even rarer. But the price to keep it was too high.
“Your attention is welcomed, Chetwyn.”
Smiling, he lifted her gloved hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You’ve made me very happy, Anne, and I shall do all in my power to see that you are happy as well.”
“But first you must please your mother.”
He chuckled lightly. “Yes, quite. At least until I can move her into the dower house.” He turned and they began walking again. “So about this invitation to Keswick . . .”
L
iving a good bit of his youth on the streets of London, Rafe Easton had developed a keen instinct when it came to judging men. Not all hands offered in assistance were harmless. Not all smiles led to laughter. Not all friendship was true.
So it was—as he stood in the shadows of the balcony of his gaming hell and watched his brother tossing dice—that he knew Tristan was in an unusually foul mood. Oh, he was quick to smile and jest but it was a performance, although Rafe was fairly certain his brother always performed when in London. Only tonight it reflected a harder edge. Tristan wasn’t enjoying the role he’d chosen for himself.
Rafe truly didn’t care if his brother wasn’t happy, but he could see his temper roiling to the forefront, and the last thing with which he wanted to deal was a brawl in his establishment. He’d worked hard to get where he was, made sacrifices, done things he’d have rather not done.
So he’d be damned if he’d allow one of the brothers who’d left him at a workhouse to tarnish what he’d accomplished.
“Mick, tell my brother that I wish to have a word.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man standing behind him said before skittering off to do Rafe’s bidding. Those who worked for him were loyal, but still he didn’t trust them much farther than he could see them. He certainly didn’t banter it about that he was a lord. Shortly after he and his brothers had made their return to Society, a few of his members recognized him, but because he kept to the shadows, many ceased to associate him with Pembrook. In time, for him, it was as though nothing in his life had changed.
He watched as Mick approached Tristan, leaned over, and whispered in his ear. Tristan paused mid-course in a throw and jerked up his gaze toward the balcony. Their eyes met, and Rafe knew that his held a challenge equal to the one that Tristan was sending. Rafe had no doubt that he could hold his own. He’d stopped being the baby brother the moment they’d cruelly abandoned him. He’d certainly never sniveled or wept since that night. No, since then he felt nothing at all.
The same couldn’t be said of Tristan. It seemed he felt a great deal too much.
Tristan sent the dice flying and turned away from the table without waiting to see how they might have landed. Mick stepped in to retrieve the winnings about which Tristan obviously didn’t care.
Rafe headed for his office, regretting that he knew what Tristan needed was a brother to stand beside him, but Rafe had long ago stopped being a brother to anyone.
T
he nerve of the pup! Summoning Tristan as though he were a mere member of the club to be brought to task because he was playing a bit too hard, drinking a bit too much, and swearing a bit too loudly. Granted, he didn’t pay the yearly fee so he supposed technically he wasn’t a member, but Rafe had never denied him the pleasures of his gaming hell. Tristan flexed his hands, contemplating how nicely his fist would fit into his brother’s face.
Tristan strode into the office in time to see Rafe fill two glasses with whiskey and shove one across the desk until it came to rest on the far side near a chair that faced him. Rafe took his seat, snatched up his glass, and lifted it in a silent salute before downing its contents.
Tristan supposed all that counted as an invitation.
“Why do you collect the damned globes?” he asked.
Rafe’s jaw clenched before he poured himself more whiskey. “Why are you acting as though someone took your favorite toy?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Tristan asked as he stepped farther into the room. “When we were boys. You were the one who stole my wooden horse.” His father had bought it for him at a fair. It was beautifully made, painted black, with a small decorated leather saddle. Tristan had carried it in his pocket everywhere he went. He’d even slept with the silly thing until he was eight.
“Of course it was,” Rafe replied laconically with no indication of remorse.
“Bastard. Do you still have it?” Since leaving Pembrook, he’d never longed for anything from there. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted the blasted horse, but he did dammit.
“No. Sorry, old boy, but it got left behind with my childhood dreams.” Rafe grimaced and downed his whiskey.
Tristan realized he’d revealed more than he’d intended. The brothers had shared little of their paths since that awful night, as though they didn’t wish to burden the others. He still loved his brothers, wished them well, but he hardly knew them. But then they barely knew him. He wanted it that way. It made him feel . . . safer. Not that they would wish him harm, but he didn’t like feeling vulnerable. Talk of the past always made him feel as though he were fourteen again and facing demons. He could hardly countenance that he’d revealed as much as he had to Anne.
Damn but he missed her. She’d been right, of course. He couldn’t continue climbing in through her window when she wanted the sort of life that she did so badly. Being at Fayrehaven’s garden party had shown him that.
He took the offered seat, lifted the glass, studied the amber liquid, and turned his attention back to his brother. “It was hard on you when we left.”
“I see no point in discussing what is too late to change.”
“Sebastian’s face is half gone. My back was torn asunder more than once. What scars do you bear?”
“None that concern you, but I won’t tolerate you causing trouble in my establishment.”
Not tolerate? Tristan wondered how Rafe thought he was going to bloody well stop him from doing any damned thing he wanted. “I was rolling dice.”
“You were looking for a fight.”
“Going to give me one?”
“If you like. I have a boxing room.”
Tristan tossed back the whiskey, relished the burning, and studied his brother. He’d never noticed how broad-shouldered Rafe was or how large and capable his hands seemed. He usually saw him going through ledgers like a bookworm. Although he recalled that Rafe—gravely injured—had fought off some ruffians when the brothers had first made themselves known in London.
Tristan grinned. “I’d just beat you, easily no doubt, and then you’d have another reason to despise me.”
Rafe shrugged, poured more whiskey into both their glasses. “So who is the woman who’s causing you trouble tonight?”
Tristan couldn’t help the look of surprise he directed his brother’s way. “What makes you think it’s a woman?”
“Because if it was a man, you’d take your fists to him and be done with it. But a woman must be handled a bit more delicately.”
Tristan couldn’t argue with that. “The lady is none of your business.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t cause trouble in my place.” Rafe opened a ledger and began to study the entries.
Tristan sipped his whiskey. He didn’t need to discuss his personal life. He didn’t need anyone to help him sort it out.
“Lady Anne Hayworth,” he heard himself blurt out, then wished he could take a cat-o-nine to his tongue.
Rafe looked up. “The Earl of Blackwood’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Did she not pay for the passage on your ship?”
“She paid.” A thousand times over. That was part of the problem. Having tasted the payment, he wasn’t of a mind to do without. But the time had come. He was rather sure of it. She tried to entice him to move about in her world, but he fit as easily as a fox in the midst of hounds.
“Then you want more from her.”
He wanted everything. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Chetwyn, of any man, running his hands over her flesh, burying himself deeply inside her—