Love and Other Scandals (18 page)

“Arum lilies,” said Evangeline. “How exotic!”

“They’re beautiful.” Joan lifted one out to see it better.

“Lord Burke knows his flowers, I see.” Evangeline fished the card out of her box, which held a bouquet of brilliant tulips.

She dropped the lily back into the box and ripped open her own card.

I hope you will grant me the pleasure of your company on a drive two mornings hence,
it read. Be ready early. It will be worth the wait.

—Burke

For a moment she had to fight back a pleased smile. He might be an enigma, but sending flowers meant something, didn’t it? He certainly hadn’t needed to; it wasn’t as though he was courting her . . . was he? From anyone else, flowers and invitations to drive might be construed as such, but from him, it was impossible to tell.

“He asks permission to take you driving the day after next.” Evangeline held her card out. “I will grant it, if you want to go. But if I’ve misread you, dear, and you don’t want to go with him, I am perfectly willing to take the blame and refuse him.”

She bit her lip. His note to Evangeline was only a little longer, but far more polite. He thanked her for tea the other day and asked very properly for permission to take Joan driving. It seemed he could be a gentleman when he wished to be one. And what did he mean, the wait would be worth it? What did he plan to do? She handed the note back. “He did mention something about driving, but I expected him to forget all about it.”

Her aunt just gave her a wry look.

She pressed her lips together. “Even now he hasn’t fixed a time—early! What does that mean? Is he going to turn up before dawn with some mad plan to drive to Greenwich?”

“Absolutely not,” said Evangeline. “Your father would murder me.”

“Well, it would be very like one of Douglas’s friends to ask and then not arrive. Two days is a long time to delay.”

“I expect he’ll come. No one made him ask to take you driving. Don’t say Douglas did,” her aunt added as Joan opened her mouth. “Douglas is hundreds of miles away. Besides, Lord Burke doesn’t look the type to take orders well.”

That was true. “That doesn’t mean he won’t regret asking.”

Evangeline just smiled. “Perhaps you should trim that new bonnet, just in case.”

For some reason this made her shoulders tense. Two days might be enough time for Mr. Salvatore to deliver another new dress, but she didn’t have a decent bonnet. And for some reason Joan was loath to wear her old, unflattering bonnet on the drive. “I don’t know how to do it without it making me look tall.”

“But you are tall,” her aunt pointed out. “How do you plan to hide it?”

“Obviously I cannot hide it,” said Joan wistfully. “But I don’t have to wear a bonnet that makes me look even more enormous.”

Evangeline laughed. “Enormous! Oh, really. You’ve been standing next to the wrong people. You are not too tall.”

“Not next to you, but next to everyone else I am.”

“Nor next to Lord Burke.” Joan glared at her. Evangeline tried to look innocent. “It’s true! He must be at least five or six inches taller. You could wear my beaded silk shoes with the lovely heel and still be shorter than he.”

“Everything need not involve Lord Burke!” she growled. Although she wouldn’t mind wearing shoes like those ivory silk ones, and if the only person she could conceivably dance with while wearing them was Lord Burke . . . perhaps it would be worth the sacrifice.

She got to her feet and picked up her bouquet. “I’ll just go have Polly put these in some water before I consider the bonnet.”

“Make sure she fetches the proper vase,” said her aunt as she headed for the door. “Arum lilies are very tall.” Joan glanced over her shoulder suspiciously to see Evangeline hold a pink tulip to her nose. “Lord Burke seems fond of tall things,” she added almost idly.

“You’re incorrigible,” she declared.

Her aunt grinned. “I know. Don’t tell your mother.”

Joan shook her head and turned to go, but the butler came into the room again with the post. She lingered as Evangeline sorted through it.

“Several invitations,” she remarked. “And—oh my—“ She dropped the stack of letters and tore one open.

Joan tried not to spy, but abandoned all pretense when she recognized the writing on the front. “It’s from Papa!”

“Yes, it is. Here is one for you.” Her aunt handed over a smaller letter, which had been sealed inside the other. Joan seized it and unfolded it, and the room was quiet as they both read.

Papa wrote that they had remained in Bath. Mother had been very tired from the journey that far, and once she recovered enough to go on, she had asked him to reconsider going all the way to Cornwall. The weather in Bath was very fine, enabling them to venture out almost every day, and Mother’s lungs seemed to be improving in the country air. They had taken a house in the Crescent and were spending the days very quietly, although Mother hoped to have some society as her health returned. Papa was insisting that she visit the hot baths every day, and the waters had done her a world of good. The tone of his letter was wry and amused, and Joan unconsciously relaxed as she read. It had been a fortnight since her parents had left, and she could tell Papa was far less worried about Mother now than he had been. Mother must be improving if she had the strength to argue with Papa over going to the baths.

“Mother is doing much better,” she said, folding her letter. “I’m so relieved!”

“Yes, it is very good news!” Evangeline beamed at her. “Your father says they might return within the month.”

“So soon?” Joan tried not to think what that would mean for drives in the park with Lord Burke. “The doctors must be very confident. I thought Papa would insist she remain in the country for the rest of this year.”

Evangeline ducked her head and began folding her own letter. “Yes, he’s always been very protective of her. And wisely so, in this case.”

And when Mother and Papa returned, Evangeline would leave. Joan gazed at her aunt, whom she had barely known a fortnight ago and now felt a deep kinship with. She would miss her aunt, with her unconventional demeanor and agreeable nature. She got up again to leave, then hesitated at the door. “I do hope Louis comes again. And Sir Richard, if you would like to see him. I’m sure my mother wouldn’t object.” After all, Mother had allowed Evangeline to come in the first place. Joan told herself a short visit from a small dog surely wouldn’t count for much, and Sir Richard had behaved as properly as anyone might wish.

Evangeline’s face softened. “Thank you, dear. Thank you so much.”

Chapter 18

A
side from the note with the lilies, there was no further word from Lord Burke about their drive. Joan told herself not to count on him, but when she found herself awake early on the morning he’d indicated, she got up and dressed instead of lying in. She reasoned it was just so she wouldn’t be caught off guard, or that perhaps Sir Richard would bring Louis to visit again, and in any event it was healthy to get up early. She could walk in the park with Abigail, or persuade Evangeline to take a trip down Piccadilly in search of new bonnet trimmings. She certainly wasn’t going to spend her day waiting on Tristan Burke, but neither was she going to allow him to find her unprepared.

And it was all a good thing, she found, when the sound of carriage wheels rattled to a stop on the street outside just as she finished her breakfast. Joan almost broke her teacup, setting it down with a crash of china. She hurried into the hall to catch Smythe before he could send Lord Burke—if indeed it was he—on his way.

The butler had just opened the door, revealing the infuriating man himself on the doorstep. “I’ve come to call for Miss Bennet,” he said, looking far too alert for this time of day—and unspeakably attractive. It hit her anew how terribly handsome he was, especially when he wasn’t bent on tormenting her. The slanting morning light seemed to magnify the span of his shoulders and render the angles and planes of his face in stark, glowing relief.

Smythe turned around, his expression stiff with disapproval. He had seen her come running and now waited for a word from her. Joan checked the urge to rush forward, and managed to glide into the hall as gracefully as Mother might have done. “Good morning, sir,” she said with a proper curtsy. “You were right to specify ‘early.’ ”

A grin lit his face. The dimple was especially noticeable today. “Grand adventures take a bit of time.”

“Grand adventure?”

He just dipped his head. “Are you ready to go?”

Goodness. Grand adventure! What on earth could he mean by that? As usual, he was not behaving as she expected . . . and as usual, it made her unbearably intrigued. “Just a moment.”

Joan hurried to get ready. She buttoned up her gray spencer with unsteady fingers, and had to take a deep calming breath before allowing herself to go back downstairs, this time at a stately, dignified pace that hopefully hid her quickened pulse.

Outside a very smart curricle waited, gleaming in the early light. A fresh-faced boy in livery held the horses’ heads. Tristan helped her into the carriage and took the reins from his tiger. He snapped the reins and the horses started off. When she asked what grand adventure he was taking her on, he refused to say. He headed north, out of town, and for a while Joan just watched the scenery go by, enjoying a ride through the streets at an hour when she was normally still abed. It was like a different town, with maids out busily sweeping the steps and the main streets filled with carts on their way to market instead of carriages carrying ladies on calls. They rolled past the park, where a bank of mist hovered over the open grass, and crossed Oxford Road, leaving the familiar part of town behind. The fog was thicker here in the larger fields and more scattered houses, and it was like driving into a fairyland.

She had just begun to wonder where he was taking her when he pulled something from his coat pocket. “I mustn’t forget to deliver the object of your desires,” he said, holding out a crisp issue of
50 Ways to Sin
.

Joan gaped at it before snatching it from his hand. “Thank you.”

He watched her try to conceal it under her gloves. “The shopkeeper gave me quite a look when I asked for it.”

“I’m sure he did.” She prayed the breeze would keep her blush at bay. Affecting disinterest, she stuffed the pamphlet into her reticule. “I told you it’s a lady’s serial. You’re likely the first gentleman in all of London to purchase it.”

“It’s got a lurid title.” He lowered his voice suggestively. “Are you certain you’re not reading something you should not?”

“It’s a comedy of love, ironically titled,” she lied. “Very romantic, with scandalous rakes pursuing fair ladies, who hold them at bay until they declare their love in poetry and song and repent of their sins to become devoted husbands. You may read it if you like.” It was a bold move; if he called her bluff . . .

“No, thank you. Just knowing it’s a ladies’ serial is enough deterrent.” He reached into his pocket again, and slapped something down on his knee. A bright shilling winked up at her. “And there’s my stake,” he said, “for our wager.”

In the blink of an eye Joan went from being weak with relief to being keenly aware of how close he was to her. The seat seemed to have shrunk as she stared at the coin balanced on his well-muscled thigh, so near her own. “We haven’t got a wager; both parties must agree before it is binding.”

“Ah, you’re a coward.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Then you know you would lose.”

She tore her fascinated eyes off his knee. “Perhaps I just don’t want to take your coin.”

“I see.” He pinched the shilling between two fingers and held it up, studying it. He handled the horses quite easily with one hand, the reins playing between his gloved fingers. “You drive a hard bargain, miss. The stakes are far too low for a gamester of your style, it appears. I’ll make it a guinea.”

“You could make it a monkey and I wouldn’t play,” she retorted airily.

“A monkey!” His eyes lit up. “Great God, what a contest that would be! It must be some feat of great daring and skill that will decide the matter; five hundred pounds is no trifle . . . What was it we were wagering on?”

Joan had to laugh. “Do you wager on everything?”

“It makes most things more interesting.”

“A mere shilling can transform a question of no importance into something that must be accomplished at all costs?” She shook her head. “Gentlemen are the oddest creatures.”

“I never said this question was of no importance.” He dropped the shilling back into his pocket and turned the curricle off the road, slowing the horses as he drove over the grass. “Rather, a wager was one means of gaining the desired result.”

“You never thought of asking courteously?” Joan clutched the edge of the curricle with one hand and her bonnet with the other as the vehicle lurched over the uneven ground, heading uphill.

He gave her an odd look, half amused, half alarmed. “And ruin my hard-won reputation? What on earth for?”

“Well, it’s often easier,” she observed. “And it costs you nothing.”

“Hmm.” He stopped the horses and set the brake, then turned to face her. “But if you don’t win a shilling from me, how can I win a shilling from you?”

“Who says you’ll ever win a shilling from me?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her heart leapt. That damned wager about kissing; now he was looking at her mouth with far more interest than a single shilling could inspire . . .

Slowly he leaned toward her. Joan held her breath. “I like contests,” he murmured. “And I intend to win this one. Shall we get down and walk?” he added in his normal voice. “Kit, hold the horses.” He jumped down from the carriage as his tiger went running to the horses’ heads, and held out a hand to help her. “Joan?”

She realized her mouth was hanging open, and snapped it closed. She had just noticed a balloon, rising above the mist like a multicolored cloud. “Someone’s going ballooning!” she exclaimed. “How exciting! I’ve only seen one once before, last year for the King’s coronation. Do you think they’re going up soon?”

“Yes.” He waggled his fingers. “Will you step down now?”

She let him help her down, gazing breathlessly at the balloon all the while. It was beautiful, towering over the field in vivid stripes, like a sectioned orange in red and white. Long lines of ropes crisscrossed around it, forming a net that tapered down to a basket that looked ludicrously small beneath the balloon. Joan needed no urging to keep up with Tristan as he led the way up the rise across the damp grass. She’d never seen a balloon up close. It was enormous, but beautiful.

A man in country clothing strode out to meet them. “Lord Burke,” he said genially. “Good morning, sir. Madam.” He made a quick bow but hardly spared her a glance.

Tristan tipped his head back, squinting at the sky. “How are the prospects this morning?”

“Very good, very good. The mist is burning away, but the cool air is a benefit. The burner is working well today; we’re nearly ready to be away.”

“Excellent.” Tristan glanced at Joan. “Shall we go up?”

Her mouth fell open again. “Up? In the balloon?”

“No, in the car beneath it,” he said. “The balloon is filled with gas. There’s no place for you in the balloon.”

“I—we—you can’t mean it,” she protested, looking up at the balloon with trepidation. Now that she looked closely, she could see the fabric ripple, exactly like a piece of fine silk when caught by a breeze. It looked more fragile than beautiful from this near. The thought of taking flight in it was deeply alarming. She was sure Mother would faint dead away at the thought. Proper ladies surely would. And yet . . .

“I mean to go up,” said Tristan, his eyes glinting with the same wild excitement she felt, although apparently undiluted by any fear. “I thought you would find it thrilling. No more circuits of the park.”

She turned her dazed eyes to the balloonist, who nodded vigorously. “It’s quite all right, ma’am. I’ve gone up dozens of times.”

“This is Mr. Charles Green, who lofted the balloon from Green Park last year for the coronation,” Tristan put in. The balloonist swept off his broad-brimmed hat and smiled politely, although not managing to hide his eagerness to be off. “We should be able to view all of London from five hundred feet.”

“Five hundred feet!” She began shaking her head. “Oh, no, that’s much too high.”

“It’s only a little higher than the dome of St. Paul’s. Come—you may hold my hand.”

“Fifty feet,” she said, trying to tug free of his grip.

“Three hundred,” he countered.

Joan anxiously surveyed the balloon. It swayed gently from side to side. A dozen men stood around the car beneath it, obviously waiting for it to ascend. “My father will kill you if I fall to my death.”

Tristan turned his back to Mr. Green and clasped her hands between his. “If you don’t want to go up, you don’t have to. But it’s beyond thrilling—to slip free of the earth and rise like a bird . . . I can’t even describe it. We can go up a short way and you may decide if we go higher.”

“What if Mr. Green wishes to go higher than I do?” she whispered.

“He’ll do what I ask him to do,” he said. “Where do you think he got the funds for his new burner?”

Her eyes widened. “You invested in this?”

“It’s ingenious, the way he’s got it arranged. It burns ordinary gas, rather than hydrogen. The burner is more efficient, and it costs far, far less—” He stopped and grinned. “But you aren’t interested in all that. Will you come up with me?”

Her heart began to pound. His enthusiasm was contagious, and now that she’d got over the surprise of it, the idea grew more appealing by the minute. She pressed his hand and smiled, a little nervously. “Yes.”

Tristan felt a wild exultation when she agreed. She put back her head to study the balloon again, her eyes bright and a small smile curving her lips, and he very nearly leaned down to kiss her, right in front of Green and all his men. That was the look he’d been hoping to put on her face, pleased and excited even if a bit uncertain. Instead he squeezed her hand and followed Green, feeling like a boy on the brink of a great adventure.

The car was woven of stout wicker, with a wooden floor. It wasn’t very large, and equipment took up some space. As Green and his men worked to get the balloon ready, Tristan drew Joan back against him. “We’ve got to stay out of their way,” he explained when her coffee-colored gaze flashed at him. “Wouldn’t want to upset the aeronautical preparations.” His hand lingered on the curve of her hip. Thank God she’d bought some decent gowns and left off wearing a dozen petticoats. He could feel the shape of her through the crisp cotton, and it fueled a hundred wicked images he’d sworn he wouldn’t let himself picture.

He took a deep breath, which only served to remind him how delicious she smelled. He was proving himself a very great idiot. A few desultory dances, a call or two, and he could have satisfied his obligation to Bennet. He was sure that’s all Bennet had had in mind when he extracted Tristan’s vow. There was certainly no need to wager on how well he could kiss her, because he wasn’t supposed to kiss her again—even if he thought about it every time he saw her, and definitely not because she sometimes looked at him in direct challenge that all but demanded he kiss her into soft, happy silence. He ought to spend less time with her, not more.

But after tea the other day, when she looked so shockingly lovely and he couldn’t think of anything but touching her, Tristan had been determined to do something to please her, as a way of making up for his past failings. Taking her ballooning seemed an excellent choice: something she’d probably never do on her own, but thrilling and exotic. He wanted her to remember this morning for the rest of her life. He knew he would.