Love and Other Scandals (28 page)

“Thank you for the warning,” Tristan said, adding under his breath, “although you might have told me sooner.”

The baronet’s eyes gleamed. “She’s already demonstrated that, has she? Well, my Joan is a clever girl, quick-witted and determined. But she’s got a kind, loving heart, and if she’s bestowed it on you, there’s very little for me to say.” He lifted one shoulder. “I did mention that one doesn’t easily deny a Bennet lady, didn’t I?”

“So we are in agreement?”

“We are.” The baronet put out his hand, and Tristan clasped it. “I’ll have my attorney call upon yours to draw up a marriage contract.”

“Good!” He grinned, his heart thumping hard in delight. “I’m sure we’ll reach a fair settlement.”

“I intend to take full advantage of you, my boy. This is not the way I wanted to see my daughter married.”

Tristan grinned. “You can try.” The baronet cocked one brow, and Tristan wiped the grin away. “No, sir. I am very sorry for any upset my actions may have caused your family.”

“Soon to be your family,” his visitor pointed out.

He’d thought of that, but even Lady Bennet at her most severe couldn’t be worse than Aunt Mary, and he had high hopes that both Joan’s parents would soften toward him once he proved himself a good husband. “Yes, sir.”

Sir George chuckled. “I’d hate to regret this,” he said, giving Tristan an appraising glance. “I’ve no doubt you could beat me to a cinder, but I’m still a crack shot.”

“Ah—right. I understand perfectly.”

“Good. Make my daughter happy.” He clapped Tristan’s shoulder, at last breaking into a genial smile. “It would be very upsetting to all if I had to inflict a flesh wound or two by way of reminder.”

“Er . . . yes, sir.”

The baronet surveyed the room. “Joan tells me you’ve filled your Hanover Square house with innovation. Will you show me?”

For the second time, Tristan blinked in surprise. “You want to see the house?”

“Of course.” Sir George got to his feet. “I knew we would end up here, you know. As soon as my daughter grew eloquent about water closets and coal dumbwaiters, I knew she’d given you her approval, and it was only a matter of time before we had this talk.” He cocked his head. “And, I understand, you even consulted her about the paint and the carpets.”

“She has excellent taste,” he muttered.

“Like her mother before her.” The baronet pulled out his watch and checked it, then tucked it back into his waistcoat. “Let’s go, young man. I expect this is the last peaceful morning either of us will have until after the wedding.”

Chapter 27

T
he wedding day began promisingly—but perhaps it only seemed that way to Joan because it meant an end to the week of horror.

A shocking number of people, it turned out, had noticed Joan’s disappearance with Tristan at the Brentwood ball. There was little doubt that only Lady Bennet’s personal friendships with the more avid gossipmongers had prevented a storm of scandal. The wedding announcement that appeared in the newspapers the day after Papa called on Tristan also probably helped. And although Mother had decided the wedding would be held soon, she refused to let it appear hasty or ramshackle. To that end, Joan was kept busy from morning until night, writing invitations, planning the menu, ordering items for her trousseau, and receiving all the well-wishers who appeared in the drawing room, ostensibly to offer congratulations but really, in Joan’s opinion, prying for scandalous details.

Douglas arrived back in London the day before the wedding. Joan braced herself, but her brother must have got over any astonishment on the journey back to town. He murmured his congratulations and kissed her cheek, and didn’t say a word about how she came to marry his friend. She wondered who had warned him away from the subject, her father or Tristan himself.

Tristan was permitted to call once. Lady Bennet sat beside Joan on the sofa, a stern gaze fixed on him, and only withdrew for a few minutes to allow him the pretense of proposing. Tristan eyed the door, left partially open behind her, and cleared his throat.

“I didn’t want things to happen this way.”

She had longed to talk to him, and now didn’t know quite what to say. She imagined her mother overhearing every word. “How did you want them to happen?”

His green eyes were no longer bright and mischievous, but somber. “I had hoped to speak to you before everything was settled.”

“Well, now you have your chance,” she said with a faltering smile.

“Right.” He glanced at the door again. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

As a declaration, it was a bit wanting. She had hoped for more, or at least for the usual easiness between them. Was he pleased about this? Did he want to marry her, scandal notwithstanding? They both already knew the answer to his question. “Yes,” she murmured, trying not to be let down.

For a moment his usual grin flashed at her. “Good,” he whispered. “Then I can do this.” He caught her wrist and pulled her forward to kiss her. It was heart-stopping and urgent and over in a moment. Joan fell back on the sofa, gasping for air when he released her. “The rest will have to wait for later,” he added in the same sensual murmur.

“I trust you’ve made your proposal,” said Lady Bennet, almost at the same moment. She stood in the open door, and Joan desperately hoped her mother hadn’t seen any part of the kiss.

Tristan bowed. “Yes, ma’am, and happily Miss Bennet has accepted. Shall we fix a date?”

“Friday next,” she replied.

“Very good. Until then.” With one more bow, he was gone, and Joan was left to wonder whether the scorching kiss or the dispassionate proposal had reflected his true feelings.

But finally the day arrived. Abigail Weston arrived before Joan had even risen from her bed. Abigail would be standing up with her, and was permitted to help her get dressed.

“Are you happy?” was the first question that burst from Abigail’s lips. They hadn’t had a moment since the Brentwood ball to speak without witnesses.

“Of course. I’m getting married, aren’t I?” She got out of bed and put on her wrapper. Her dress—the beautiful gold silk dress that had started all the trouble—lay over a chair, pressed and ready for the wedding. She hoped today ended on a happier note than the last time she’d worn it.

“I know.” Abigail closed the door. “And so I brought you something. Pen and I ransacked the house, and even got Olivia to help us. We felt you needed something to inspire you, now that you’ll be able to do more than just read about lovemaking.” She opened her prayer book and pulled out six issues of
50 Ways to Sin
. “None of them are new, but we thought you should have them,” she whispered.

Joan barely had time to shove them into her own prayer book before Polly came in with the warm water for her to wash. “Thank you,” she mouthed at her friend, who nodded gravely, as though Joan was embarking on some dark and dangerous mission, fraught with peril, from which she might not return alive.

To be honest, at moments that seemed an apt description. Did Tristan love her? He wanted to kiss her and make love to her, and he was willing to marry her, but did he feel anything more tender? If only Mother had allowed them more time together. Joan had great hopes for her marriage, but she also had some fear.

In remarkably short order, she was bathed and dressed, her hair arranged and a veil of fine lace arranged over it. She stared at herself in the mirror as Abigail fastened a string of pearls around her neck and Polly fluffed the folds of her skirt. Papa knocked on the door just as they finished.

“Are you ready?” His eyes softened as she nodded. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, kissing her cheek as Abigail and Polly slipped from the room. “Burke had better appreciate his good fortune.”

“Do you think he does, Papa?”

He smiled at her anxious question. “If I didn’t think he would, I’d have just shot him and been done with it.”

She hoped that was enough. “Then I am ready to go.”

T
he day passed in a blur. Joan concentrated so hard on not missing her cue during the ceremony, she barely registered anything else. The feel of a ring on her finger felt so foreign, she could hardly stop staring at it. The congratulations of the guests melded into one long stream of chatter. She didn’t have a moment alone, not with her friends, not with Tristan, not even with her parents.

By evening, her nerves had resurfaced. After a long day receiving guests and smiling until her face hurt, she finally had a moment of peace. Polly, her newly promoted lady’s maid, helped her into her nightdress and left her alone in the large bedroom of Tristan’s house in Hanover Square, with nothing to distract her from her unanswered questions.

The bedchamber walls were painted blue, as she had suggested, and the bed hangings had a pattern of vines and leaves. It made her heart swell to think that he had remembered everything she said that day, when she had first allowed herself to acknowledge that she was falling in love with him. She peeked into the bathing room, remembering how he had kissed her in there. And how he would be at liberty to do it again, all the time. No more frantic stolen kisses; he was her husband, not only permitted but practically required to kiss her—among many other things.

The thought of other things made her heart skip a beat. Her mother had given her some rather basic advice on consummating her marriage, but Joan suddenly remembered Abigail’s gift. It might not be the most virtuous source of guidance, but it promised far more pleasure than her mother’s brief instructions.

She found her prayer book and took out the copies of
50 Ways to Sin
, blushing to think they’d been there while she stood in the church. Tristan would probably roar with laughter if he knew—presuming he had any idea what the stories were. With a start she realized she’d never read the issue he gave her the day they went ballooning. She’d already scoured the older issues, but she might have missed something. Lady Constance always ended up limp with satisfaction, so sated she could hardly rise from bed. And even more, she pleasured her lovers just as thoroughly. That was the part Joan wanted to study.

She got into bed and read it once, then again, ending with her eyes wide and her mouth open. Oh heavens. Was it really possible for a man to pleasure a woman by putting his mouth
there
? And Constance did the same to him! Joan read that page again in disbelief, but Constance seemed to relish her role, on her knees ministering to him until she felt lightheaded. Her lover, Lord Masterly, certainly enjoyed her efforts.

The door opened. “Good evening,” said Tristan, coming into the room wearing a familiar dark green dressing gown.

She started and hastily stuffed the pamphlet under her pillow. “Good evening!”

He sat on the bed and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her across the bed until her back was against his chest. “Were you bored waiting for me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the nape of her neck.

“No,” she said quickly.

“No? That’s not what a new husband wants to hear.” He eased her down into the mattress, stretching out behind her. “What were you reading that distracted you?”

“Mmm?” It was hard to think when he was unfastening her nightdress, undoing the little ribbon ties down the front with shocking speed. Just the touch of his fingers on her bare skin was enough to scatter all rational thought. He cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple. She arched her back, pressing into his hand. That felt wonderful; it sent shivers down her limbs. Perhaps she didn’t need any special technique. Now that she thought about it, in
50 Ways to Sin
the man always guided Constance, and Tristan, of all men, seemed to know what he was doing.

Her husband rolled her over onto her back and pressed his lips to her neck, nibbling his way down. His hand remained on her breast, teasing her flesh until she writhed under him, helping him remove her nightdress. He made a low growling sound deep in his throat and rolled fully on top of her, just as naked as she was. “Now, what was it?” he murmured, still brushing little kisses over her jaw.

“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about. Her main concern was freeing her foot from the twisted bedsheets so she could wrap her legs around him. She could feel him, thick and hard, against her thigh. Oh goodness, this was very promising. All her worries and anxiety melted away as he kissed her.

“What were you looking at so secretively?” Joan blinked at him, and he returned a rather devilish grin. “This is the first day of our marriage. What caught your attention so thoroughly on your wedding night, and why did you try to hide it from me?”

“Oh!” Her face burned as she realized what he meant. “
That
. It was nothing, truly.”

“Nothing?” He pushed his hand beneath her pillow, ignoring her frantic struggles to get out from under him. “But there’s something here . . .”

“I was just trying to pass the time,” she cried, mortified. “It’s nothing important!”

“No, no, this is an important husband’s duty,” he replied, managing to get the pamphlet out even though she had pressed her head down hard against the pillow. “I should know what distracts my wife so completely that she forgets I’m coming to make love to her.”

“Oh, ah, I’m ready for that,” she exclaimed, giving her hips a little wiggle. She’d much rather make love with him than . . . well, than do much else, but especially more than have him read her contraband pamphlet. He flexed his spine in response to her shimmy, but otherwise remained focused on that wretched story.

“Fifty Ways to Sin
?” He frowned at the title. “This is that ladies’ story you wanted me to get for you.”

“Yes, that’s it.” Joan nodded, grasping at the excuse. “It’s, ah, for ladies. I was just checking it for any bits of advice, you know, about married life . . .” Her voice faded away as he opened to the first page.

“Married life!” His eyes gleamed. “Then I should read it, too, being newly married.”

“Oh—well—no, I think it’s just for ladies . . .”

“All the more reason for me to read it. Don’t you want me to know what’s expected of me?” He caught her hand when she reached for the pamphlet, kissed her knuckles, and began reading.

For several minutes he just read, propped on his elbows above her. She began to feel horribly self-conscious, and devoted herself to studying the plasterwork on the ceiling, over Tristan’s shoulder. Just her luck, to find herself married to, and in bed with, a devilishly handsome man, and now he would think her a complete widgeon because she failed to hide that silly pamphlet well enough.

“Who wrote this?” He turned another page and read on, his expression a curious mixture of fascination and disbelief.

“No one knows. It’s the most closely held secret in London.”

“No wonder.” He gave her an appraising look. “You think this is a comic guide to married life?”

Joan bit her lip, staring fiercely at the plaster rose right above her. “I could hardly tell you what it really was, could I? Besides, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s just a lot of piffle.”

“Piffle?” He glanced down at her with that lazy grin that always made her wonder what wicked thoughts were going through his mind. “It’s not piffle if you read it, my dear. I merely want to be . . . educated in your tastes.” He went back to the pamphlet and turned the page. “Good God. No wonder your mother didn’t want you to have this.” Her husband looked at her with . . . was it approval? “You’re a wicked wench at heart, aren’t you?” he growled, swooping down to kiss her hard on the mouth.

Joan cleared her throat. “Well, it’s not really proper for unmarried ladies to read things like that . . .”