Love and Other Scandals (16 page)

For a moment she paused, as if she’d understood exactly what he meant and was considering provoking him to do it. For a moment, Tristan allowed himself to think of pulling her into his arms and kissing her until she said yes. Hell, he ought to have done it earlier, when she almost fell into his arms. As much as he told himself this was just a passing urge that would go away if he could only keep away from her, he couldn’t seem to follow his own good sense for even a few minutes around her. Perhaps he just ought to kiss her and be done with it.

“How could I refuse such a courteous threat—I mean, request? I would be delighted.” She curtsied. “Until tomorrow—or rather, whenever something interesting occurs to you, Lord Burke.”

“Call me Tristan,” he said. “Until then, Joan.” He bowed and walked out of the room. It was time to make his escape before he lost his mind and whisked her into his arms to see if her skin tasted as sweet as her mouth.

Chapter 16

J
oan was still standing stock-still, staring at the door when Evangeline returned.

“Oh, my, has Lord Burke gone already?” her aunt asked, her eyes alert and her tone far from disappointed.

Already? Surely he’d stayed far too long. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry to have missed a chance to bid him farewell. Did you have a pleasant conversation?”

“I suppose.” Joan frowned. At first it had seemed much like every time she’d spoken to him: confusing and infuriating. But then there had been that moment when he looked at her as though he found her more than simply challenging—as though he wanted to kiss her in truth, not to make her stop talking or to win a wager. He said he could never insult her, only her taste in clothing, and the expression on his face indicated he meant it. And for that moment, she had found herself thinking that she might owe Douglas a very great favor for having sent Lord Burke to look after her.

Then he turned back into himself, and provoked her into hitting him, not once but several times. Mother would be appalled at her for that—although not as much as for the fact that Joan had somehow promised to dance with him and go driving with him. Oh, help; she would be in so much trouble when her mother discovered that. Parading around Hyde Park in a carriage with Lord Burke would ensure a dozen letters to Cornwall from the gossiping hens.

Still . . . driving in the park was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. Her stomach had fluttered when he asked so persistently, even threatening to
persuade
her. If he’d tried to kiss her to persuade her . . . curse him, it would have worked. No matter how aggravating the man was, she couldn’t shake the memory of that kiss at the Malcolm ball, or the way he looked when he said he could never insult her face. Abigail’s advice, and Penelope’s suggestions, rang in her ears; sometimes wicked rakes did fall in love and settle down. Her own father had, after all. Was it wrong of her to wonder if Lord Burke might be the same? And would it be wrong of her to encourage him to do so, if he showed any signs of reforming his wicked ways and falling in love with her? He was so attractive, so tall and strong, and he danced so well; he even smelled good, as she’d learned with some dismay when she almost fell into him and caught a whiff of his shaving soap.

Joan sighed. She wasn’t likely ever to know if he reformed his wicked ways. It must have been a moment of lightheadedness that caused him to pay her so much attention. He stared at her bosom because he was a rake; to him, all bosoms were delectable. It made her angry all over again. If she had finally managed to attract the lascivious attentions of a rake, why couldn’t it have been a charming rake? It was a great testament to her poise and restraint that she hadn’t accepted his invitation to punch his handsome face with alacrity.

“Are we trying to bring Lord Burke up to scratch?” Evangeline asked all of a sudden. She had settled back into her chair, and must have deduced what occupied Joan’s thoughts.

She blushed furiously. “No!” Her aunt’s eyebrows went up at the vehemence of her outburst. She tried to calm her voice. “Pooh! What a thought. I don’t believe he’s the marrying sort. He’ll be one of those men who grows into an old roué, leering at the maids and avoided by decent women.”

“Well, that will likely make some indecent woman very happy.”

Joan gaped at her. “Evangeline!”

“What?” The older woman was unrepentant. “He’s a handsome devil. Such shoulders! And when he smiles, that dimple . . . yes, I daresay he’s a bit wild, but wild men can settle down, my dear; the dull men remain dull their entire lives. Do you want to marry a dull man?”

“Well—no—”

“You could do much worse than Viscount Burke,” Evangeline pointed out. “And you’d never worry that he married you for your dowry.”

She scoffed. “He doesn’t need a farthing!”

“Of course not. And he’s a strong-willed fellow, I think. If he offers marriage, it will be because he wants you desperately.”

All this thinking and talking of Tristan Burke was making Joan’s head hurt. Worse, it was making her heart ache, and she didn’t like that at all. She had suffered infatuations before; they always came to naught, and after a few days of tears and moping, she’d forgotten what had caught her eyes in the first place. She had waited hopefully for calls from the proper, respectable gentlemen her mother presented to her, only to find she couldn’t wait for them to leave once they arrived. As soon as she decided a man was intriguing, he promptly fixed his affections on another girl; and as soon as a man showed any interest in her, however trifling or transient, she quickly realized how insipid he was. She didn’t see how Tristan Burke could possibly turn insipid now, but she still didn’t want to see him turn his wicked smile and lethal charm on any other girl.

“Aunt Evangeline,” she said firmly, trying to force her thoughts into safer paths. “He doesn’t want to marry me. I don’t think he’ll ever marry anyone. He’s paying me attention because Douglas tricked him into a promise—”

Her aunt snorted. “Do you honestly believe he would fulfill it if he found you offensive?”

“Well—perhaps—he did say once that he found challenges irresistible,” she said, feeling the color in her face rise again. “But that means he sees me as a challenge, not as a potential bride. There is a wide gulf between ‘not offensive’ and ‘desperate to marry.’ And I promise you, he is not going to marry me.”

“Not if you keep cutting him off every time he pays you a compliment.”

Joan was shocked. “He didn’t pay me any compliment!” Saying she had finally worn a dress that wasn’t ugly didn’t count as a real compliment, even if he’d managed to make it sound like one. “If he had, I would have . . .” Fallen over in shock, she thought. Shock, and a wicked daze of delight. “I would have thanked him very politely.”

Evangeline laughed softly. “My dear child. The way he
looked
at you was a compliment.”

Mouth open to retort, Joan froze. She closed her mouth with a snap and sat back on the sofa. There was no argument there. But a lady could hardly thank a man for
looking
at her. Even if it made her skin tingle. In fact, she probably ought to slap him if his regard made her skin tingle.

Although . . . he might like that. His eyes had lit up when she punched him.

“And what’s more, I think you like him. I never saw your face more animated than when you were talking to him.”

“I can’t think why we’re even discussing this,” Joan said, stirring her cold tea energetically. “My parents would never approve of him, so even if he crawled on bended knee to our door and begged Papa for my hand, he would leave disappointed.”

Evangeline scoffed lightly. “You know that’s not true. If you truly care for him—or for any other suitor—you should tell your parents. Neither of them wants you to be unhappy or alone. I cannot believe they would refuse to let you marry a man you really loved, Joan.”

She swallowed. It was hard to imagine Papa refusing her in that situation, but she wasn’t so sure about her mother. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “Not now, anyway.”

“Just remember what I said, dear,” came Evangeline’s gentle reply. “Don’t let fear of your mother guide your heart.”

“I don’t fear my mother.” She paused. She didn’t, truly she didn’t . . . she was just a little nervous about telling her mother certain things. “And if I had any affection for Lord Burke, let alone true love, and if he showed any such feeling in return, even to the point of wanting to marry me, you may rest assured I would ask Papa to agree if he asked for my hand. As it stands now, though, I see no reason to mention Lord Burke to either of my parents—and I hope you don’t, either,” she added, suddenly having a horrible vision of Evangeline writing to her father in favor of Lord Burke’s as-yet-nonexistent suit, and the attendant furor such a letter would provoke.

Her aunt flinched, and Joan instantly regretted her outburst. “I am the very last person on earth who would press you to marry against your inclination,” Evangeline said softly. “I’m sorry, Joan. I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort. I won’t trouble you about it again.” She got up and left the room before Joan could think of anything to say.

With a groan, she put down her cup and dropped her face into her hands. What a disaster. What had she been thinking? More people than just Evangeline would think she was trying to bring Lord Burke up to scratch, once she was seen driving and dancing with him. She must have been mad not to say a loud and definite no when he asked. Instead—she took an unsteady breath as her pulse skipped a beat. Instead she was looking forward to both sins.

That meant there was only one thing to do, for the good of her nerves and her spirits; there was only one sure way to distract her from her worries and settle her mood, and Joan felt a bit better just at the thought of it.

Go shopping.

F
ortunately Abigail Weston could be counted upon. Penelope was great fun, but her attention was always drawn to the most shocking and titillating bit of anything. Abigail, on the other hand, was more thoughtful and mindful of proper behavior, which was probably why she was free to stroll down Bond Street and her sister was not. Penelope, as it turned out, had been careless, and her mother had discovered her reading
50 Ways to Sin
.

“It was her own fault she got caught,” Abigail said as they walked arm in arm a few steps behind Mrs. Townsend. “I warned her that Mama was expected home at any moment.”

“She was reading it in the drawing room?” Joan couldn’t believe it.

Abigail nodded. “Bold as brass, settled in the window seat with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Mama saw her from the street, of course, and when she came in and asked what Pen was reading, the silly girl tried to lie.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Joan.

“So now Mama knows Pen has been stealing her copies—and you know what the last issue was about.”

She remembered Lady Constance’s adventure with the rutting Lord Everard all too vividly. The thought of what her own mother would say if she knew Joan had read that sent a shiver down her spine. “How long will she be punished?”

“A week. Mama has forbidden her from every sort of ball and party. She’s not permitted to leave the house except to go to church, and Mama has been opening her letters.”

“But how did you escape trouble?” Joan asked, perplexed. Mrs. Weston must know that anything Penelope did, Abigail was likely to know about.

A faint blush crept into her friend’s cheeks. “Pen swore up and down that I wasn’t part of it, that she’d hidden it from me. I didn’t think that would sway Mama, but somehow she believed it, and I was only warned not to follow my sister’s bad example. So Pen made me vow to repay her by smuggling any new issues into the house, since Mama will be watching her like a hawk.”

“I was amazed at her selflessness, but now I begin to understand it,” said Joan with a grin.

“Yes, very selfless,” agreed Abigail wryly. “It was her own fault, but I’m very grateful not to be confined to my room, too. The only trouble is, she’s badgering me to find a new issue when I don’t know how to get them without drawing Mama’s eye onto me as well. And if Mama discovers that both Pen and I lied to her . . .” She shuddered. “I should hate to die young, Joan.”

She choked on a laugh. “Oh, never! Even my mother would only lock me in a convent until I was too old to care about naughty stories.”

Abigail smiled. “True. But I fear Pen really will murder me just out of boredom if I don’t bring her something interesting soon.” She cast a wistful glance down Madox Street, which they were just passing. “But there’s no way I can slip off to inquire about new issues without making Olivia suspicious.”

Joan steadfastly resisted turning her head to look at the unprepossessing bookshop where Tristan Burke had followed her for the sole purpose of insulting and irritating her. “No, don’t risk it. I may have a way to procure issues without any danger to either of us.”

“What?” Abigail’s face lit up. “How?”

She eyed Mrs. Townsend’s back apprehensively. The young widow appeared to pay them no mind, and Abigail had sworn that Olivia Townsend would keep their confidences in any event, but Joan wasn’t so sure. She lowered her voice. “Never mind how. It may not work, but if it does, I promise to share my copies with you and poor Pen.”

“Oh!” Abigail’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me your aunt allows you—?”

“Hush!” Joan pinched her arm frantically. “As if I would even ask! My father made her vow to behave, just as he did me, and somehow I doubt even Evangeline would think
50 Ways to Sin
is polite reading material for a young lady.”

“How can you be certain? For all you know, she’s the author.”

“Abigail!” she gasped in horror.

Her friend ducked her head. “Sorry. Of course that was appallingly insensitive. But don’t you think Lady Constance is begging to be exposed?”

“You mean to London at large, rather than just to one gentleman at a time?”

Abigail snorted with amusement. “Yes! How can she not know she’s tempting fate to engage in such acts at the theater? I overheard Lady Willets talking with Lady Moulter the other night, and they both were at that performance, when the violinist broke his bow, and they both agreed they did hear moans such as a person in—in—in extremis might utter. She must have been very near them!”