Love and Other Scandals (27 page)

“It would be easier to answer if I knew what
his
heart felt.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Evangeline put her hands on Joan’s shoulders. “I did my best to explain everything to your parents. I sincerely believe Lord Burke meant—means—to treat you honorably. I have known many rakes and rogues in my day, and he doesn’t fit their mold. Only if one believed him devoid of human feeling and sensibility could his actions be explained in a dishonorable way. It would be extremely foolish of him to think he could abuse your reputation and walk away unscathed. For one thing, you have a father and a brother who show no signs of sitting idly by and letting you be ruined.”

“But wouldn’t it be awful for Papa to force him to marry me if he doesn’t wish to?” Joan frowned at the thought.

“Why? You love him. He obviously finds you attractive and intriguing. I assure you, there are worse beginnings for a marriage.”

“But I want to be loved,” she whispered in longing.

“Don’t abandon hope of it yet!” Her aunt gave her a wry smile. “Perhaps he already loves you; I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he did. Men don’t always blurt it out, you know. And some of them take a fearfully long time to acknowledge it is love they feel.”

That made some sense. Papa admitted he loved Mother, but there was no reason to hide it, after thirty years of marriage. Douglas, though, would deny the truth until it slapped him in the face. Joan expected her brother would fight the emotion every inch of the way, but she also expected he would love his wife simply because he was very like their father in most other ways. Tristan was every bit as stubborn as Douglas, but he hadn’t been raised with the example of loving parents. Of course it might take him longer to admit his feelings—presuming he did, in fact, love her as Evangeline said.

“Thank you, Evangeline,” she said fervently. “For coming to chaperone me, for taking me to Mr. Salvatore, for lending me your white shoes, and—and for everything else.”

Her aunt smiled, some of the usual light reappearing in her eyes. “It has been very much my pleasure, Joan.”

A sharp exclamation from the other side of the room made them both look up. Lady Bennet had one hand clapped to her bosom, and her face was white. The letter in her hand trembled. Slowly she raised stricken eyes to them.

“You lied to me.”

Joan froze. She didn’t dare look at her aunt, since it wasn’t clear which of them her mother meant. “What?”

Lady Bennet held up her letter. Joan said a silent curse on her mother’s many prolific correspondents. “You disappeared from the Brentwood ball with Lord Burke last night and weren’t seen again.”

“I made her come home,” Evangeline said quickly, but with a faint note of alarm in her voice. “I felt a headache—”

“And you were remarked searching the house for Joan!” Mother’s eyes flashed. “Where did you go, young lady?”

She thought wildly. “Just out for a breath of fresh air . . .”

Her mother slashed one hand through the air in patent disbelief. “And you couldn’t go with one of the Weston girls? Or with your aunt? Or with a maid?”

“They . . . ah . . . they weren’t nearby . . .”

Lady Bennet shook her head, looking amazed and furious at the same time. “Lord Burke’s absence at the same time was also noticed—in fact, the last anyone saw of either of you was when you were waltzing with him, indecently close!” She threw off the shawl covering her legs and rose to her feet. “Can you tell me that nothing improper happened last night? Nothing I would find objectionable? Can you swear it, Joan?”

A quick glance at her aunt told her Evangeline couldn’t help her anymore. She was doomed. She hadn’t expected to escape unscathed, but another few days, perhaps, would have allowed her some time to discover what Tristan intended. Evangeline had said everything would be cured by a marriage proposal . . . but now it was too late.

Mother’s jaw tightened at her prolonged, guilty, silence. “He means to be honorable and reform his ways,” she said acidly, throwing Joan’s own words back at her. “When is this transformation to begin? It certainly won’t come in time to save you from a storm of gossip! Did you not think this worthy of mention when you were defending his motives and upbringing, and casting all your actions in a virtuous light?”

She shifted miserably. “Not really, no.”

“Well, I hope you do now. Your father will have to see to him—and I pray it doesn’t lead to bloodshed.” Her mother’s voice broke as she stared at Joan in bitter disappointment. “Oh, Joan, what have you done?”

Chapter 26

A
great many things became clear to Tristan the morning after the Brentwood ball.

First, he had to get his house finished. For the first time he was a little sorry he’d drawn up such a long list of improvements. They were all worth the cost, in his opinion, but they had added tremendously to the time it would take to have the house ready, and that was now a problem. He went to Hanover Square early in the morning and walked through the house, finding fault everywhere. There needed to be more plasterers. More painters. The woodwork in the dining room simply had to be replaced. The plumbing was done and the roof was once more solid, but the heating system wasn’t operational. The kitchens were still firmly rooted in the early part of the eighteenth century, and the large modern stove hadn’t even been delivered. He took the master builder through the house with him and told the man to hire as many extra workmen as he needed and press hard to get the main rooms, at the very least, ready for occupancy within a fortnight.

Second, he needed to recall his servants. Since moving to Bennet’s house, he’d given his valet a holiday and sent his man of business, Williams, out to Hampshire to see to things at Wildwood. His family estate should be in fine shape by now, and Tristan finally had need of the man again. He dashed off notes to each of them, summoning them back to Hanover Square, with an addendum to Williams to hire a full house staff when he reached London.

Third, he needed to see his solicitor. Mr. Tompkins raised his eyebrows when he heard Tristan’s instruction, but he merely bowed his head. “What are the particulars, my lord?” he asked, reaching for his pen.

“I’ve no idea.” Tristan grinned at the man’s expression. “Just leave those parts blank for now, will you?”

“As you wish, sir, but it is customary to agree on the terms before writing the contract. In the event you and the gentleman cannot agree—”

“We’ll reach an agreement,” Tristan assured him. “Even if it costs me a fortune. Just begin drawing it up.”

Because, fourth, he needed to go to Bath. This was the most important part of his plan, and he wanted to think it through. He went to the boxing saloon again and took a few turns sparring with other members, working out in his mind how best to approach the issue. It would be a delicate negotiation; his own behavior was not above reproach, after all, and to make matters worse, he would probably face some stiff opposition. For the first time in weeks he wished Bennet was in London, and then he promptly discarded that idea. Bennet might well be outraged, rather than helpful. Sometimes it was better to act without asking permission—not that Douglas Bennet had any authority in this anyway, but Tristan wouldn’t have liked having to hit his friend.

Not until he returned to Bennet’s house and was soaking in a cool bath did he allow himself to contemplate the pleasurable part of his plan: telling Joan. Should he make a grand gesture? Should he be quiet and discreet about it? He spent some time imagining her manner of response to his proposal, and then all the ways he would make love to her once she was his. God Almighty, every wicked thought he’d ever had about her had been right. She was sweet and hot, wet and tight, delicious and unpredictable . . . and she wanted him. Women had wanted him before, but not the way she did. And even more important, he had never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her. He wanted to make love to her in his bed. On his desk. In the comfortable old leather chair he’d carted around with him for over twenty years now, the one that had been his father’s. He wanted to feel the soft leather at his back while she straddled him and rode him and made him laugh while the blood almost scalded his veins. He contemplated that last fantasy for several minutes, wondering how she would react when he told her about it. And the beautiful thing was, he really didn’t know. He liked that about Joan; unlike other women, she constantly surprised him. Sometimes it was to his immense satisfaction—when she told him she wanted him to make love to her, for one—and sometimes less so, but Tristan loved few things like he loved a challenge. Persuading her to try something a bit more erotic would probably drive him out of his mind with anticipation.

The prospect made him impatient to be off. He dressed quickly and began packing. It would take two days to reach Bath, and two days to return. He hoped his request would be met with a quick acceptance, but if not, he would have to stay an extra day for persuasion. Wanting to begin with the very best impression he could salvage, he had Murdoch brush his best coats as he sorted through his shirts, tossing a couple aside for frayed collars or stained cuffs. By the time Murdoch was done with the coats, Tristan realized he was out of shaving soap and needed new stockings, so he sent the servant out to get them before the shops closed.

And no sooner had Murdoch departed than someone knocked on the door, the clang of the knocker echoing through Bennet’s house. Tristan cursed under his breath; it had better not be Aunt Mary, come to ask for more money or even worse, his house. He was in such a fine mood and really had no patience for her pinched, angry demeanor now. But then the knocker sounded again, very like the time Joan had nearly banged down the door when she came to roust Bennet out of bed, and instead barged her way right into his life and his heart. Grinning at the memory of her shocked expression when he’d opened the door wearing nothing but a pair of breeches, he went downstairs and swept open the door with a flourish. “What?”

To his astonishment, Sir George Bennet stood on the step, as grim as a thundercloud. “Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”

Tristan straightened his shoulders and stood a little taller. “Yes, sir. Won’t you come in?”

The baronet walked into the narrow hall and peeled off his gloves. “I expect you can guess why I’m here.”

There were three possible explanations. One: Joan had told her parents what happened between them at the Brentwood ball, and Sir George was here to demand satisfaction. Based on what he’d seen and heard from Joan, this didn’t seem likely. Two: Lady Courtenay had decided to intervene and summoned the elder Bennets back to London so Sir George could demand satisfaction. From the way Sir Richard Campion had ordered him to keep his mouth shut and his trousers buttoned after Lady Courtenay dragged her niece out of the Brentwood house, this also didn’t seem likely. Or three: someone else, some busybody with an overactive tongue, had tattled on him for . . . something . . . and Sir George was here to demand satisfaction.

Either way, Tristan decided to give him satisfaction. “No, sir, to be perfectly honest, but I am nonetheless pleased to see you.”

The baronet gave him a sharp look. “I trust we won’t have any trouble, then.” He turned and walked into the small parlor, his heels ringing on the bare floor.

Tristan followed. This was both good and bad; good, in that it appeared he wouldn’t have to argue for Joan’s hand, but bad, in that he already seemed to be in his future father-in-law’s bad graces. That shouldn’t be too great a surprise, but this time he had truly meant to do things properly. “I was packing just now in anticipation of leaving for Bath tomorrow,” he said, still hoping to redirect the conversation in a more positive way. “I have a proposition of some delicacy to put to you.”

The older man turned. His every word was clipped with frost. “And was this proposition formed before or after rumors swept London that you ruined my daughter at the Brentwood ball?”

To his disgust Tristan felt his face heat like a naughty boy’s. “I never heard any such rumors . . .”

“That’s because you aren’t a middle-aged matron with a fiendish interest in other people’s whereabouts during each and every ball of the Season.” Sir George glared at him. “Care to tell me if it’s true?”

He hadn’t felt this cornered since he broke part of Aunt Mary’s new tea service with an errant cricket ball. Every persuasive word he’d planned so carefully vanished right out of his brain. “I’d rather not.”

The baronet started to speak, then closed his mouth. He paced in a circuit of the room, his fists on his hips. “My wife would be pleased if I returned home with your severed head on a pike,” he growled. “And it begins to hold some appeal for me as well.”

Bloody hell. “I want to marry your daughter,” he blurted.

“That was Lady Bennet’s second, far less preferred, suggestion.” Sir George folded his arms. “I ought to beat some sense into you before I let you have my girl.”

That last bit sounded promising. “If you wish,” said Tristan cautiously. “Provided that is another way of saying yes to my proposal.”

The older man snorted. “You always did have ballocks of brass.” He sighed and dropped into one of the mismatched chairs, then waved his hand at another. “Tell me what the bloody blazes brought this about.”

Still wary, Tristan sat, remaining bolt upright in the chair. “Where should I begin?”

“What did my son ask you do to?”

That, at least, was innocent enough. Tristan relaxed a little, grateful for an easy answer. “He asked me to look in on Miss Bennet while you and Lady Bennet were away from town.”

“And dance with her?”

“Yes.” Tristan remembered that with clarity.

“Anything else?” The baronet fixed a piercing gaze on him. Unfortunately, he had the same keen look on his face that Joan sometimes got, which threw Tristan off his stride a bit.

“Er . . . take tea with her, and see that she had a bit of amusement from time to time,” he said, trying not to think of the last thing he’d done with Joan, which Douglas Bennet had most certainly not had in mind.

“That all sounds perfectly innocent. How, pray, did things progress from taking tea and the occasional dance to the vivid stories of scandalous behavior that burned my ears today?”

Oh Lord. Tristan racked his brain; when had things changed? He wasn’t even sure he knew. In the beginning she had been a spitting Fury, and he’d been mainly intent on besting her. But then he noticed her mouth, and her bosom, and the way her eyes glinted with gold sparkles when she delivered a stinging set-down, and before long all he’d thought about had been her: laughing, teasing, somber, breathless with desire. When had he stopped telling himself she was trouble? “I believe the tipping point was when I persuaded her to go ballooning with me.” The baronet’s eyebrows lowered, but Tristan forged on. “I help fund the man responsible for the balloon at His Majesty’s coronation festivities, Mr. Charles Green. Miss Bennet made a passing mention of how dull and commonplace it is to drive around a park like everyone else, so I conceived the idea of a balloon trip. I hoped it would amuse her, or at least divert her mind from worries over her mother’s health. Ten men held the ropes at all times,” he added quickly. “We never left London and were able to descend at a moment’s notice.”

“Hmmph. Joan enjoyed this?”

He pictured her face as they rose into the crisp morning air. “She did,” he said softly. “Her eyes grew bright and she exclaimed with such delight when we were high enough to see from St. Paul’s to Greenwich. I had to persuade her to chance it, and worried that she would never let me forget it, but she felt the thrill and excitement as keenly as I did, once we were aloft. It was the first time we spoke without arguing, and I—” He stopped abruptly. “I think she and I would deal well together as husband and wife. Will you bless my suit?”

The baronet leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and resting his chin in one hand. “You have no sisters, do you, Burke?”

“No, sir.”

“And your mother died years ago, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

His visitor’s face grew a shade more compassionate. “I always thought you were dealt a poor hand in life. Your uncle was a good man, if utterly without humor, but your aunt . . . I felt sorry for any boy growing up under her hand.”

“I avoided it as much as possible,” Tristan agreed.

“Yes, I gathered,” said the baronet dryly. “Your visit to Helston was the stuff of legend.”

His ears burned. “Er . . . yes. I offer my most sincere apologies for that.”

“No, no.” Sir George waved this away. “I knew exactly what was going on. My son thought you were the most capital fellow in Britain, and within two days I understood why. A boy with no parents and no fixed home would have no boundaries, no qualms about braving any adventure, no fear whatsoever of a parent’s reprimand.” He hesitated, his gaze growing stern for a moment. “I trust you’ve outgrown most of that.”

“I will never endanger your daughter,” said Tristan quickly. “Never.”

“It would be much worse if you bored her.” The baronet nodded at his surprised look. “I’ve had thirty years of marriage and over twenty years of raising a daughter, and I tell you without equivocation that a bored woman is the greatest danger in the world to a man’s peace. Women need occupation. They also need affection and respect and attention and at least two new bonnets a year, but above all they need something important to occupy their days.”

“So I should find something for her to do?” Tristan frowned.

Sir George snorted. “God forbid you tell her what to do! No, you need to allow her some freedom to find her own pursuit. My mother was devoted to her gardens, my wife to her children and her fashions. I hope my daughter will have children someday to devote herself to, but either way, I advise you, as one man to another, to use the words ‘forbid’ and ‘prohibit’ very lightly. The Bennet women are known for their wills of iron, and woe to the man who thinks to bend that will to his liking. It’s much more likely to snap back in his face and leave a deep dent in his skull.”