Love and Other Scandals (15 page)

“Decline!” Her eyes sparked in irritation. “As if I needed your help, or his help—” She stopped, took a deep breath, and conjured up a coy smile that put him on guard. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Now that you mention it, there is one thing you might do that would greatly increase my enjoyment of these long, lonely days without my family near.”

“Oh?” he drawled. “What would that be?”

“There is a publication that brings me some enjoyment.” She was almost whispering now. “Would you get it for me?”

Ah. He leaned forward. “The same publication I had to put down your bodice?”

Her cheeks flushed but her smile grew wider. “Yes, the very same! Only you mustn’t do that again.”

“Very well, Miss Bennet. Shall we arrange a rendezvous at the Brentwood ball?”

“No,” she said hastily. “Perhaps you could come for tea again.”

“I don’t drink tea,” he murmured.

She looked at the teacup in his hand. “You do drink tea. Everyone drinks tea.”

Tristan grinned. “I hate tea. You must stop thinking I’m like your expectations of me. If you want your pamphlet, you must allow me some license in my mode of delivery.”

She pursed her lips, but nodded once. “Very well. As long as you don’t cause a scene.”

“The risk of a scene is greatly reduced when you cooperate.” How interesting. He was growing curious about this publication. And if it gave him something to put down her bodice again, so much the better. “What is this publication called? I forget.”

“Fifty Ways to Sin
,” she whispered, casting an anxious eye at the door. “It is . . . ah . . . a ladies’ serial.”

“Only for ladies?”

“Well—I think only ladies read it.” She pursed her lips. “You’ll get it for me?”

He stared at the way her lips parted in eagerness. “If you like.”

“Yes!” She beamed at him. “I would like it, very much. Thank you.” She tilted her head. “Just how much attendance did Douglas make you promise?”

“A reasonable amount.”

“Such as dancing with me?”

She was still smiling at him. Even though Tristan knew it was misleading—even ominous—that smile was distracting. There was something very lively and mischievous about it, tempting the wildness inside him that craved adventure and danger. He had to blink a few times to keep from being dazzled by it. “He did encourage it, if dancing pleased you.”

“I hope it shall. Anything else?”

He thought a moment. “Nothing specific. It was more a general urge to see that you enjoyed yourself, and not a specific list of tasks.”

She pressed her lips together in a dangerous smile. “But I could only enjoy a dance with someone of good intentions.”

“Of course.” He absolutely intended to avoid kissing her. That was positively noble, for him.

“Then you seek only our mutual pleasure, as my aunt suggested?” Miss Bennet looked at him through her eyelashes.

Tristan had to remind himself they were talking about dancing. What the devil was wrong with him? He should give her the satisfaction of turning him down flat, he really should—for both their sakes. “What else would I seek?”

“Hm.” She cast her eyes upward and tapped one finger at the side of her mouth. His gaze was drawn to it like a magnet to true north. How had he never noticed before that her mouth was made to be kissed? And made to kiss back. For one sharp moment he felt again her lips against his: hesitant, innocent, but eager and willing. The thought of teaching her how to kiss properly was tantalizing; first, it would mean kissing her again, something he’d spent far too much time thinking about today alone. And second, it would put an end to whatever vengeance she was plotting for his earlier behavior. In fact, it might even be in his own best interest to do so. He was quite certain he could kiss her thoroughly enough to distract her from whatever schemes were whirling behind her bright eyes.

“Retribution?” she suggested.

Sometimes it seemed she could read his mind, an alarming thought. “Have you committed a crime? Other than striking me in the face, that is.”

A hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “That was retribution for you imprisoning me against my will.”

“It was a good blow,” he told her. “Well landed, but only because you surprised me.”

“You mustn’t think all ladies will fall flat on their backs the moment you show them the least bit of attention,” she said tartly.

He made a face even as his blood stirred at the thought. “What man would want that? The thrill is in catching a woman and persuading her that she wants to . . . well.” He grinned at her narrow-eyed glare. “That reminds me of something I’ve longed to teach you. Stand up and learn how to throw a proper punch.”

She gaped at him. “Throw a proper punch! I’ve only ever needed to punch you.”

“If you’ve ordered any more gowns like that one, you might need to know. Stand up,” he said again.

Slowly she put her hand in his outstretched one and let him help her up. “You like my gown?”

The question made him look down. Standing as close as she was, his gaze landed right on her bosom. He had already been struggling to ignore the view of her voluptuous flesh, but now it was impossible. Good Lord, her bosom was spectacular, even in this relatively modest day dress. Without any ribbons and lace blinding him, he was bewitched by the smooth creaminess of her skin. Had she really looked like this before, underneath all those pink ruffles? His fascinated gaze dropped lower; the dress hugged her waist, indicating how long her legs were. He liked tall women. He liked buxom women. And a tall, buxom woman with radiant skin . . . if she’d been wearing this dress at the Malcolm ball, he didn’t know what would have happened behind the potted palms.

“You think this dress is more flattering?” she asked again, interrupting his study. Tristan jerked his gaze back up to her face, unsettled. It was one thing to recognize a splendid bosom, and another thing to be caught staring like an uncouth boy.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s quite the loveliest dress I’ve ever seen you wear.”

She smiled in pleased surprise. “No more umbrella?”

His jaw tightened for a moment in chagrin. What had possessed him to say such a thing, when he’d guessed from the first time he saw her that she might be a siren? “Not a bit. I have already confessed I was wrong to say such a thing. It was unpardonably rude.”

Her merriment faded. “Then why did you?” Her tone was curious, but the question itself carried a note of reproach that pricked his conscience. He knew better than to insult a lady; the fact that there was something about Joan Bennet that tormented and provoked him beyond all reason was no excuse.

“Because I am a rude, unmannered lout,” he said, trying to disguise an honest reply behind a flippant air.

She pursed her lips. “That’s pissing more than you drank.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up in delight. “Such language from a lady!”

“I’m sure you’ve heard far worse,” she retorted. “But . . . please don’t tell my aunt I said it. It slipped out before I could stop myself.”

“What a clanker! You enjoyed saying it. Nevertheless,” he added as she glared at him, “your secret is safe with me. I like a woman with dash.”

“Is that why you act like a rude, unmannered lout—to turn away anyone who hasn’t got dash?”

“No. Women with dash are simply drawn to my rude behavior, and as I like their sort better than any other, I have no motive to change.”

“Fast women,” she scoffed, “and scapegraces like my brother.”

“Your brother is quite the scapegrace,” he agreed.

“My mother blames you for all his wild behavior.”

His mouth flattened. “How gratifying,” he said curtly. “Quite a feather in my cap, corrupting the scion of such an estimable family.”

Miss Bennet regarded him thoughtfully, not put off at all. “Oh, I know Douglas would be dreadful even without your corrupting influence. Still, I think even he has better manners than to call a woman ugly to her face.”

“I never called you ugly,” he said at once. “I insulted your dress, not your face.”

She made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “It was hard to tell the difference.”

“There is a vast difference.” His gaze slid over her complexion, as fresh as new cream. Her lips were as pink and ripe as they’d been at the Malcolm ball, and he tried not to think about how they had tasted. Her eyes weren’t snapping sparks at him now, but he feared the open, honest look in them even more. “I would never insult your face,” he said, only half aloud. “I never could. You’d hidden everything lovely about yourself behind ridiculous hairstyles and unflattering dresses, and that was what I insulted. Not you at all.”

Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That was nearly a compliment.”

It had been one. He didn’t dare say anything else; his thoughts were straying down dangerous paths as it was. The frightening truth was that Joan Bennet grew more and more attractive every time he saw her. She smelled delicious. She made him laugh. She provoked him and teased him and dominated his thoughts until he would swear she was a sorceress, bent on driving him mad. Her mouth still taunted him to kiss her again. And now that she’d got a decent dress that showed off her bosom and her waist and made him imagine her long legs wrapped around his hips . . .

He cleared his throat. “Do you want to learn to throw a punch or not?”

She heaved a great sigh. “I don’t think I need to.”

Sighing made her bosom plump up. He curled his hands into loose fists and raised them to fighting position. “You should know how. Hands like this.” She rolled her eyes but raised her hands to mirror his. “Now, hit me.”

“What?” she exclaimed, lowering her hands. “No!”

“You’ve already done it once. Hit me again, like this.” At slow speed he extended his right hand in a jab.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tristan laughed. “You won’t.”

“I did before,” she reminded him with a whiff of pride.

“Because you caught me off guard. You won’t hurt me. Imagine it’s Douglas here in my place.”

Some of the fire came back into her expression. “Very well.” She punched him in the arm.

“Not there, in my face,” he said in exasperation. “You’ll never dissuade an impertinent man that way.” She scowled and tried again. Tristan turned his head away and received only a glancing blow on the jaw. “Better, but you must strike faster, to surprise him.”

“I can’t surprise you when you’re telling me to punch you,” she said through her teeth.

He grinned. “But you want to punch me, don’t you? You think I deserve it, don’t you? You long to crack my jaw or break my nose—“ She threw another punch and he dodged, taking it on his shoulder. “Almost, almost!” he said, enjoying this. Her eyes positively glittered now, and her cheeks were flushed. He wondered if she found this as arousing as he did. “Try harder. Step into it.”

“I am!” She swung again, this time directly at his nose. Instinctively he caught her fist in his hand, then he caught the rest of her as the momentum of her punch carried her forward. For a moment neither moved. He could see her pulse beating at the base of her throat. Her rapid breath was the only sound in the room. Her eyes were more golden than ever, wide and round as she stared up at him. There was an odd roaring in his ears. All he had to do was lower his head and his mouth would meet her soft, rosy lips, already parted in expectation. All he had to do was let his hand slide around her waist and she would be in his arms, her glorious bosom against his chest. All he had to do . . .

With a jerk she stepped backward. “I think that counts as a hit.”

His hands fell to his sides. It did feel as though she’d landed a direct hit to some part of him. “Yes. This time.”

She wet her lips. “I don’t think there needs to be another time, Lord Burke.”

“If you wish,” he murmured. “Joan.”

She started at the sound of her name. “That’s very familiar!”

“You’ve already accused me of being uncouth and unmannered. You might as well leave off the pretense of decorum and call me by name, too.”

“How very modern. I’m sure I don’t deserve such an honor.” She smiled and batted her lashes, though her blush gave away her true feelings. When Joan grew uncomfortable, he noticed, she acted like a fluttery female, with giggles and simpering smiles.

In spite of himself a wicked smile curved his mouth. “A shilling if you call me Tristan.”

“I don’t need your shilling.”

“You might. I seem to recall we have a wager.”

The color bloomed in her cheeks again, but instead of denying it, she said, “You haven’t won anything yet.”

He nodded. That was right: he hadn’t won
yet
. But he would, and damn the consequences. “Would you care to go driving tomorrow?”

“That is taking your obligation to my brother far too seriously,” she said. Unless he missed his guess, her teeth were clenched behind her smile.

“The question had nothing to do with your brother. Would you go driving with me?” he repeated.

“Where, my lord?” She kept wetting her lips, and it was tormenting him.

His mouth quirked and he tilted his head toward her. “Where would you like to go, Joan?”

“Oh—well—” Her name seemed to disconcert her completely. He ought to use it more often. “Anywhere but the park,” she blurted out.

A half-remembered saying about the road to hell floated through his mind. He’d intended to drive around the park. That was the normal way to pay a woman attention, wasn’t it? Instead she surprised him yet again. “Not the park,” he said thoughtfully. “A challenge. I shall have to think of some unusual, entertaining destination.”

She appeared to reconsider. She gave a trill of nervous laughter, her gaze darting to the door again. “I didn’t mean it to be a challenge. I just think it’s so dreadfully dull and ordinary to drive around the park like horses in the ring at Astley’s.”

He laughed. “How right you are. We shan’t be dull or ordinary, then. Perhaps tomorrow is too soon; I must have time to deliberate. To think of something . . . exciting.”

“I didn’t agree to go with you!”

“Oh?” He raised one brow. “You didn’t refuse, either. Do I need to . . .” His gaze dipped again, first to her lips and then to her bosom. “Must I persuade you?”