Love and Other Scandals (21 page)

Oh, help. Was this what it was like to be pursued by a man? To be wanted? Her skin felt too hot and too tight for her bones and blood. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her knees together, for the ache in her breasts had spread all the way down her body. It was one thing to be titillated by reading a story about a man touching a woman, and quite another thing to imagine a particular man touching
her
.

She opened her eyes and caught sight of her reticule, lying where she had thrown it on her bed. With a start she jumped up and went to get it, pulling out the new issue of
50 Ways to Sin
. She stared at the simple cover illustration. Despite what she had told him, there was little of love or romance about these prurient stories. They were as wicked as could be, and she wondered if he really didn’t know what they were. And if he knew, would he dare to get them for her without having some hidden motive? It seemed impossible anyone could be unaware of them, but he was unlike anyone else she knew. He didn’t attend most society events; Joan could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him at balls or soirees before that fateful meeting at Douglas’s house. If he kept company with Douglas, he probably spent his days at boxing matches and horseraces, and his nights at gaming clubs and taverns. Every woman in town might be talking of
50 Ways to Sin
, but as far as she could tell, Tristan avoided most women . . .

Except her.

She put the pamphlet aside, suddenly alarmed by what thoughts it might inspire. Who would have guessed that being courted could be so unsettling?

Chapter 20

W
hen Tristan thought about the balloon voyage, he was left with two distinct impressions.

First, he would enjoy winning back his shilling. He’d spent an unpardonable amount of time watching Joan’s mouth, and had come to realize it was damned near perfect, just the right shape and a very appealing shade of pink. He thought about kissing her when she exclaimed aloud in delight, as they hovered above London, and he thought about kissing her when she pursed up her mouth in affront because he said the word “pantalets.” He even thought about kissing her when she declared a desire to kick him, which probably ought to be taken as a warning sign of insanity, but he never could resist a challenge.

Which all led to his second impression, that he was playing with fire by continuing to see her. Douglas Bennet had asked him to see that she didn’t waste away in unhappiness. Tristan could excuse ballooning as a means of fulfilling that promise. He could not, in any way, excuse his increasingly lustful thoughts about Bennet’s sister, and the more time he spent around her, the more numerous and more lustful his thoughts became. When Joan listed every undergarment a woman could wear, all he thought about was removing each item from her body, possibly while he won back his shilling.

This inspired real alarm in his breast. A few weeks earlier, he’d thought her the most intractable Fury. Now he was thinking about having her naked while he kissed her into happy oblivion. That was not only the way to madness, it could even lead to worse: marriage.

Tristan viewed marriage as something to be avoided at all costs. It was a trap, baited with a pretty face or a plump dowry, but a trap that sprang shut with alarming quickness, and had only one way out: death. Men had stepped into it willingly, of course, but how many of them regretted it later? Once the dowry was spent and the bride lost her bloom, all that was left was imprisonment, one man and one woman chained together in eternal matrimony.

People had told him his parents cared for each other. He wondered if it was true. If so, love hadn’t been enough to keep his father at home with his wife and son, instead of venturing out in a fierce storm and drowning. And according to Tristan’s childhood nurse, love had sent his mother to her grave soon after, her heart broken over her husband’s death. None of it spoke well of love matches, and as for the other kind . . . he could remember all too well the evenings at Wildwood, when he was forced to sit quietly in the corner while his uncle drowsed by the fire and his aunt embroidered in frosty silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. God alone knew what had drawn those two together, but it looked like the worst sort of hell to Tristan. He had sworn he would never find himself in that miserable existence, penned in by a woman’s demands and disapproval.

Although, in fairness, it did seem unlikely that Joan could ever be like Aunt Mary. When he tried to picture her embroidering by the fire, the image rapidly devolved into one where she cursed her thread and threw the thing into the fire, whereupon he laughed and kissed her until they ended up making love on the hearthrug. He could just picture her, head thrown back in desire, skin bathed in golden firelight, her perfect lips sighing in passion, urging him on as he drove himself deep inside her . . .

Bloody hell. The mere thought of making love to her brought a sweat to his brow and an aching hardness to his groin. He tried to tell himself the thought of making love to any woman would do the same, but each woman he tried to picture on that imaginary hearthrug somehow looked like Joan, with coffee-colored eyes glinting with gold, long chestnut hair spread around her, and the finest bosom he’d ever dreamed of, like a feast of berries and cream.

Still, he didn’t need to get married. He didn’t need a wife’s dowry. He could bed any number of willing women if he set his mind to it—not Joan, it was true, but there were other women with lovely bosoms and sparkling eyes. Just because he didn’t feel like searching out any of them meant nothing. Besides, he had done his duty by calling on her and taking her ballooning. In fact, he probably had done more than enough and didn’t need to see her again. After a few days he would forget all about removing the Fury’s unmentionables, let alone kissing her to reclaim his shilling.

The next night he purposely avoided the Martin soiree, where Lady Courtenay had mentioned they would be, and went to a gambling hell instead. He invited a buxom blonde to sit on his knee, and then promptly sent her away when she giggled at everything he said. He lost over two hundred pounds at faro. He drank too much and arrived home in a hack, barely able to walk but consumed with wondering if she had looked for him that night.

The next day he tried the boxing saloon, but not even a pounding in the ring distracted him. The day after that he went to the horse auctions, and ended up bidding on a sweet bay mare he didn’t need; it was a lady’s mount, taller than most mares but with a smooth gait and a gentle disposition. In the nick of time someone outbid him, and then he was furious at himself for being disappointed to have lost the horse. He tried the theater, but his preference for outrageous wit played him false, and he heard every saucy line as if Joan Bennet had murmured it in his ear. He spent hours and hours at his house, overseeing the builders, and found himself wondering far too often what she would think of the glass dome over the stairs or the new conveniences he’d installed.

That was the final straw. When he found himself curious to know her thoughts on plumbing, he gave up the pretense of disinterest. The next day he went to South Audley Street.

He still planned to be as dull as possible, reasoning that his usual behavior seemed to provoke her to respond in kind. Perhaps if he acted in the complete opposite manner, so would she. Then she would seem like any other respectable young lady, ordinary and uninteresting, no longer posing any sort of challenge. It would also help if she wore one of her more unflattering dresses, with enough lace to cover her entrancing decolletage. He was not used to being so consumed by thoughts of one woman, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

Lady Courtenay received him alone, to his disappointment. He bowed and took the seat she indicated, trying not to watch the door. Perhaps Joan was coiling up her shining hair, pinning it into that alluring arrangement that displayed her slender neck so well. Perhaps her garter had come untied, and she was pulling up her skirt, exposing her long legs to tie it . . .

“How kind of you to call again,” said his hostess. “I’ve wanted a chance to have a word with you, sir.”

Tristan guiltily jerked his gaze back to her. “Indeed, ma’am?”

She fixed a stern eye on him. “Ballooning?”

He brightened. “Did she tell you about it? I hope Miss Bennet enjoyed it as much as I did.”

Her brow arched. “How much did you enjoy it?”

“Enormously. I’ve been funding Mr. Green’s experiments with new burners. He strives to make it easier and safer, and he was accommodating enough to take us up for a view of the countryside.”

Lady Courtenay smiled faintly. “How very daring it sounds! I’m not certain I could watch the earth recede so far away from me, with only a thin balloon of silk to hold me up.”

He grinned. “Yes, Jo—Miss Bennet said much the same thing. But I never would have asked her to go up if I weren’t completely satisfied it was safe.”

“And you are persuaded it was safe?”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed.

“In all ways?” Something about the way she said “all” caught his attention. Tristan narrowed his eyes and tried to think what she really meant. At his silence, Lady Courtenay sat forward, her expression serious. “I presume you are aware of your own reputation.” He nodded warily. “Good. I have trusted that you are a gentleman, gossip notwithstanding, and will act accordingly, but I must tell you that inviting Joan to go ballooning will create the appearance of . . .” She paused delicately. “Intentions. Take care not to create any expectations you don’t plan to fulfill.”

“Are you warning me off?” he asked. His muscles had tensed until he felt as stiff as a board.

Lady Courtenay looked surprised. “Not at all! Rather the contrary. Merely letting you know the scope of the challenge ahead of you.”

“What challenge?” he growled, but the door opened before she could reply, and Joan walked in.

The question faded from his mind, along with almost everything else. She wore a dress of brilliant turquoise that seemed deliberately wrapped around her curves, and without a shred of lace to hide anything. Tristan managed to bow, but couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“What a surprise to see you again, my lord,” she said.

He watched, fascinated, as she took the seat opposite him. The dress was trimmed with gold cord that snaked over her shoulders, coiled just below her bosom as if to highlight the lush bounty of her breasts, and then went around her waist. It put him in mind of a sacrificial virgin, bound and ready to be given to the god. “Surprise? How so, Miss Bennet?”

She smiled. “It seems I’ve lost my wager with my aunt.”

“Oh?” He tried to shake off the pagan images streaming through his mind. “I thought you disapproved of wagering.”

She widened her eyes innocently—as if he hadn’t learned by now to be on guard when she looked like that. “By chance, I found a stray shilling, and couldn’t resist risking it.”

He shouldn’t respond, he knew it, and yet . . . ”Are you certain that was wise? One should never wager what one cannot afford to lose.”

She waved one hand in careless dismissal. “I doubt I’ll notice the loss.”

Oh Lord; he was being drawn in again. Tristan ignored the little voice in his head warning him to sit back and nod like a dullard. “Tsk, tsk. It’s never good to purposely embark on a losing streak.”

She leaned forward, just enough to remind him of the absence of lace. “I remain firmly convinced I would have won. But, as our dispute was never put to the test, that hardly matters now.”

“Quite so!” exclaimed Lady Courtenay. Tristan had almost forgotten she was in the room. “Some matters simply must be put to the test; no theoretical argument will decide them, one way or another. Don’t you agree, Lord Burke?”

He let his eyes slide down Joan’s figure, so temptingly bound. “I do, ma’am.”

Joan gave her aunt a baleful look. Lady Courtenay just smiled. Tristan barely noticed. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from Joan. She looked ethereal, like some kind of sensual goddess. Intentions—expectations—challenges—the words beat at the edges of his brain, half temptation, half warning. He wasn’t ready to marry . . . but if he were looking for a bride, she’d bloody well look like Joan did right now.

“My niece tells me you are rebuilding your house,” Lady Courtenay said.

“With as many improvements as one house will hold, ma’am.” Tristan grinned in spite of himself. Possibly the only subject that could distract him from Joan’s new and vastly more flattering wardrobe was his house.

“Was it really uninhabitable?” Joan asked. “Did the roof really fall in?”

“It most certainly did, with a spectacular crash that sent the neighbors running into the street in alarm, and only through pure chance was no one hurt. It ruined all the attics and servants’ quarters, and water came down through the east side of the house, buckling the plaster and ruining the woodwork.”

“Goodness!”

“It must have leaked for years, given the scope of the damage. My uncle was a bit parsimonious with his housekeeping maintenance, and I doubt Aunt Mary ever gave one thought to the roof, so it wasn’t discovered until earlier this year.”

“But you said it collapsed.”

“That was how I discovered the leak,” he said dryly. “Barely a week after I took possession, too. After the collapse, my aunt claimed to have had no warning that it was in danger, but I did wonder at her sudden desire to quit the house after so many years.”

“I shouldn’t doubt it,” murmured Lady Courtenay.

“Although . . . in a way I’m not sorry at all,” Tristan continued slowly. “It provided the perfect opportunity to rebuild it. Once you’ve lost the roof, it’s easy enough to raise the new one and add more space. Once you’ve pulled out an entire wall of plaster, it’s little more work to enlarge the doorway. Now the house will be as I want it to be, and not cramped and dark as I remember it.”

“So perhaps it’s not the worst that could have happened,” Joan said. “If you disliked what was ruined.”

“My thought exactly.” He flashed her a pleased look. “Would you like to see it?”

Tristan didn’t even know why he offered. Joan blinked as though she didn’t, either. But Lady Courtenay jumped into the breach. “Why, I should like it above all else! I’ve often contemplated improvements to my own house, but it’s so difficult to picture them. Have you installed any water closets?”

“On every floor,” he said with a touch of pride.

“I simply must see it.” Lady Courtenay glanced at her niece and laughed. “What a strange woman you must think me, eager to see the water closets!”

“There’s far more than that to see,” he said, watching Joan.

“Well, then.” She lifted her chin, a small smile touching her lips. “Let’s go see it.”