Love and Other Scandals (8 page)

It was exceptionally shocking. Lord Everard, described as a large beast of a man, let Constance know he had overheard her passions at the opera. It seemed to have made her attractive to him; their assignation was fixed for that very night. Joan’s eyes grew wide as she read the method of their pleasure: Lord Everard spanked Constance! And then he begged her to whip him with a crop as he made love to her. By the time she reached the end of the story, Joan’s mouth was hanging open. She immediately flipped back to the beginning and read it again before falling back into her bed, self-consciously wriggling deeper into her pillows.

Thanks to some books of poetry she had managed to filch from her brother, Joan knew far more than most young ladies about the ways men and women coupled. It had all been wasted knowledge, of course, for a spinster, but she hadn’t given up hope yet. Perhaps someday there would be a man who found her attractive enough that he would want to marry her, and then she would be free to explore all these sensual delights—and if the acts were this stirring when she read about them, how much more so would they be when experienced in the flesh?

She ran her finger down her throat as she imagined what it would be like to be the object of such desire. To know that somewhere, a man existed who admired her, who wanted her so desperately he would risk scandal to be intimate with her, to hold her in his arms and make passionate love to her until she expired from the joy of it. She spent several minutes savoring the concept, although the mystery lover in her mind somehow began to look like Lord Burke. Even when she deliberately tried to alter her mental image of a suitor entreating her, picturing him with fair hair and a slender build, his eyes seemed to gleam at her with as much deviltry as Lord Burke’s always did.

Irritably she flipped over onto her stomach, paging through
50 Ways to Sin
to re-read the key scene. This time she lingered over every word, reading again how Sir Everard brought Constance to her climax. Constance confessed that though his blows stung, they also excited her, amplifying her pleasure almost to the point of senselessness. There was obviously more to lovemaking than Joan had even guessed. Again the rogue thought crossed her mind that a rake as wicked as Tristan Burke would surely know each and every way of making a woman delirious with pleasure . . .

From the hall downstairs the clock chimed the hour of two in the morning. In the quiet house, the sudden sound gave her a violent start. The only thing worse than getting caught before she read
50 Ways to Sin
would be getting caught the morning after, when Polly came in to make the bed. Reluctantly she got out of bed and went to her writing desk, where she secreted the pamphlet between the pages of a book of household management stratagems. Her mother had given her the book, but thankfully didn’t quiz her on the advice within; the book’s main value in Joan’s eyes was as a place for hiding illicit items like
50 Ways to Sin
.

She settled back into her bed, trying to banish the wicked images from her mind. Overall it had been a successful night. She had punched Lord Burke in the face, obtained the elusive copy of
50 Ways to Sin
, and finally been kissed by a real rake. And best of all, she hadn’t been caught doing any of it. If there was anything more satisfying than being naughty, it had to be being naughty without consequence.

After a long while, Joan went to sleep with a smile on her face.

H
er reprieve ended at breakfast the next day.

“Good morning, dear,” said her mother, looking more like herself this morning, when Joan reached the breakfast room.

“Good morning!” She went to kiss her mother’s cheek. “You appear greatly revived.”

Lady Bennet waved one hand. “Yes, your father had the physician here for an hour. I just overtaxed myself.”

“And you won’t do it again,” put in Papa from the other end of the table.

“I’m fine, George.”

“You won’t do it again,” he repeated, turning a page of his newspaper. “Out of compassion for my nerves, if nothing else.”

It looked very much like his wife wanted to roll her eyes. Joan leapt to her mother’s defense. “She looks very well this morning, Papa. Anyone could become overtired at a ball. It was very hot in that room last night.”

Her father gave her a glance. “Overruled, am I? Then I charge you, miss, with seeing that your mother drinks that entire dose of tonic.” He nodded at a small glass at Lady Bennet’s elbow, which held a dark plum-colored liquid. “I shall take myself off and try to recover from the great anxiety I experienced last night.” He rose and gave a brief bow. “Your servant, ladies.”

“Good-bye, Papa,” said Joan sweetly. “Good luck bidding on horses at Tattersall’s.”

“Minx,” he said with a wink, and left the room.

“Are you truly well, Mother?” Joan turned back to her mother when her father was gone. Lady Bennet did look much improved, but up close Joan could see how pale she was.

“Well enough.” Lady Bennet’s stern look was ruined by the brief fit of coughing that took her. Wordlessly Joan nudged the dose of tonic forward. “Oh, very well,” murmured her mother. She drank it with a grimace. “There; you can report to your father that I drank the horrid concoction. And now you may tell me how you came to dance with Lord Burke last night.”

As an ambush, it was masterfully done. Joan had already begun to smile in agreement with the suggestion of reporting to Papa, and thus was caught completely off guard by the next words. Instead of her poised and dismissive prepared answer, she blurted out something almost guilty. “How did you know about that?”

“A note from Lady Deveres, delivered first thing this morning.”

Joan picked up her spoon and poked at her poached egg. Lady Deveres was known for the quality of her gossip; if she relayed a story, it was almost certainly true, no matter how shocking. Before today, Joan had thought that a good thing, but now she wasn’t so sure. “Oh. Well, I did dance with him, but only because I feared he would cause a scene otherwise.”

Lady Bennet tapped her fingers on the table. “No doubt. But he’s utterly unacceptable, far too wild and unmannered.”

“Like Douglas,” Joan dared to add. “I expect Douglas wagered him some shocking amount of money that he wouldn’t dance with me, and he did it just to spite Douglas.”

“Your brother knows better than to wager with the likes of Burke. He would be way out of his depth,” Lady Bennet said. “And Douglas would never involve your name in wagers.”

Douglas would risk anything for a wager that appealed to him, even though Mother was entirely correct that he would be in over his head with Lord Burke. Douglas was allotted a comfortable bachelor’s allowance by their father, but Lord Burke was reputed to have over twenty thousand pounds a year. He could buy and sell Douglas several times over, and had probably done so more than once. She left off mutilating her egg and poured herself more tea. “I can’t think of any other reason Lord Burke would ask me to dance, and Douglas gave me such a glare whilst dancing, I felt sure I had done him a harm somehow by saying yes. And you have to admit, Douglas has got himself into more than one scrape at Lord Burke’s instigation.”

Her mother’s lips thinned. “I shall speak to him about it.”

“I think you should,” Joan said somberly. “Lord Burke is staying in his house, you know. Who knows what mischief he might encourage Douglas to get up to?”

Her mother frowned. Joan decided she had said enough, and reached for another muffin.

A footman came in with a note on his tray. “Just delivered, my lady,” he said, presenting it to Mother.

Mother read the direction on the front before holding it out. “It’s for you.”

She tore it open. “It’s from Penelope Weston. She’s invited me to walk with her the day after tomorrow in the park.” It was a mild surprise Penelope could wait that long; she and Abigail must be desperate to know what had happened last night. Joan had half expected Penelope to break down the door at the first light of dawn.

For a moment her mother’s eyes closed. The Westons weren’t quite the society she preferred her only daughter to keep. Mr. Weston was an attorney’s son who had made a fortune in the canals, which wasn’t as bad as making it from trade but also wasn’t terribly refined. Still, a fortune was a fortune, and Mr. Weston had settled large dowries on both his daughters in the hopes of seeing them move up in the world. As a result, they were invited to all but the most elegant events; the hostesses of London hardly wanted to deprive their younger sons of any opportunity to catch an heiress.

And fortune or no, Joan had found kindred spirits in Abigail and Penelope. No matter how much Lady Bennet might wish they had better connections, she did acknowledge that Mrs. Weston was a woman of taste and sense, and her daughters were formed in the same mold. “I have no objection,” she said. “Joan . . . did Lord Burke tell you he was acting on a wager last night?”

She paused, half risen from her seat. “No,” she said carefully. “I am only supposing . . . I don’t think he truly wanted to dance with me. He certainly gave no appearance of pleasure.” She firmly blocked all memory of the last few minutes of their encounter from her mind. “He argued with me and then walked off without a word of farewell when the dance was done.”

Lady Bennet eyed her closely. Joan kept her face innocently blank. “It seems odd,” said her mother at last, suspiciously. “I hardly think you’re the sort of lady to interest a man such as he.” She hid another cough behind her handkerchief, and waved away Joan’s instinctive move toward the teapot. “Very well, you may go. But Joan dear, in the future, you must refuse, if he should ever ask you again. I don’t trust him.”

She let out her breath in relief and smiled. Never mind that her own mother didn’t think she was attractive to men—at least not to devilishly handsome men. She was going to escape serious repercussions, and that’s what mattered. “Of course I would refuse, Mother. Although I find it highly unlikely Lord Burke will ever seek me out again.”

Chapter 8

T
ristan got up early the morning after the ball and went to the boxing saloon. He hadn’t been there in a while, but this time he stripped to the waist and spent almost three hours in the ring, taking on anyone who wanted to hit and get hit. He would have stayed there, too, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the thrill of each landed blow, but Bennet appeared and just stood beside the ring, glaring at him.

That was precisely what Tristan had hoped to avoid by leaving the house so early. After he’d walked away from Miss Bennet the previous night, leaving her flushed and flustered behind Lady Malcolm’s potted palms, he’d just kept walking: out of the ballroom, out of the Malcolm house, all the way across town into the narrow lanes behind Covent Garden where a man could lose himself in gin houses and gaming hells. Because he’d needed to be lost. Good Lord above, he’d gone and kissed the Fury—and his mouth still hungered for the taste of hers. Not even a river of spirits could quench it.

This was a serious error, and not one he was prepared to repeat. Nor was he anxious to face the inevitable questions from her brother. What the hell could he say, anyway? It would have almost been preferable to have let Jessica Elliot find him, no matter how peevish she’d sounded when she almost discovered him behind the potted plants with Miss Bennet. And he’d thought staying hidden would be the wise choice—which proved his instincts worthless, frankly.

He ignored Bennet while he finished his bout, but Bennet stalked around the ring when he ducked out and headed for the tub of water in the corner. Tristan leaned over it and poured a few ladles of water over his head and chest. A servant held out a length of towel, and he draped it over his dripping hair. “What?” he said once his face was safely hidden.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” snapped Bennet. “What the devil were you thinking to dance with my sister?”

Still toweling his hair, Tristan shrugged. “I felt sorry for her. She didn’t dance a single dance.”

“That’s hardly your fault! I daresay she doesn’t like to dance anyway, being taller than most of the men in the room.”

Bennet didn’t know his sister well, if he thought the woman didn’t like to dance. There had been a kind of excitement in her face, a delight that was both wistful and determined, as if she meant to enjoy every moment of the dance no matter who her partner was. That expression had kept him awake far too long last night, and in fact was partly behind his quest for punishment today. She wanted to dance—longed to dance, even—and he hadn’t been a very charming partner. “It’s not her fault she’s tall. She didn’t have to accept when I asked her.”

“But why the devil would you ask her at all?” Bennet demanded. “You were the one who said she was trouble and ought to be avoided; now my mother wants to tear a strip off my hide for exposing her to you! She accused me of
wagering
you into dancing with Joan—horrid thought, risking money on anything involving my sister!” He grimaced. “She’d do whatever it took to make me lose, I’ve no doubt.”

Tristan tossed aside the towel. “Are you here to defend your sister’s honor, or to mock me for dancing with such a harpy? You’re not making sense, Bennet.”

His friend followed him into the other room. “Both, unfortunately. Mother came to my door herself this morning to give full vent to her spleen when she learned you danced with Joan—and a waltz, no less.”

“Everyone waltzes. In fact, I thought I saw you with a fetching blonde in your arms during that same waltz.”

Bennet flushed. “Well—yes—Mother insisted I lead out Miss Drummond again.”

Tristan uncorked a jug of cool water and took a long drink. He was still avoiding facing Bennet, which was cowardly but damned if he felt like changing. “Was I not supposed to dance, while you were swanning about the room yourself? You made me go to the blasted ball.”

“Not to dance with Joan,” growled Bennet. “Blast it, Burke—” He stopped, and ran his hands through his hair. “You know my mother never warmed to you,” he went on more calmly.

“Not because of anything
I’ve
done,” Tristan said pointedly, finally spearing a hard look at the other man. “You know damned well she blames me for all your vices, without pausing to wonder how you manage to carry on at them even in my absence.”

Bennet flushed darker red. “Fair enough. But there’s no arguing with her now; she’s fixed her mind against you. So for both our sakes, leave Joan be.” He gave a rueful grin. “It shouldn’t be that hard. You said yourself she’s trouble. I’m doing you a favor, really—should you ever encounter her, you have my permission to run the other way.”

Tristan just grunted and snapped his fingers at the boy to fetch his clothes. Trouble, yes; but even more dangerous than Bennet suspected. Because Tristan didn’t want to run the other way when he saw Miss Bennet, as vexing as she was. He wanted to best her, to leave her speechless; he wanted to hear her confess that she was wrong and he was right, about anything at all. And most worrisome of all, he wanted to kiss her senseless when she did so. Maybe even before. He must be cracked in the head.

“So are felicitations in order?” he asked, trying to change the subject so Bennet wouldn’t keep talking about her. “Do I need to remove myself to a hotel so your bride can redecorate?”

His friend scowled. “Damn it, Burke, I’m not betrothed—”

“Two dances with the same woman? It won’t be long.”

“It was to appease my mother,” growled Bennet.

The servant had come back with his clothing. Tristan took his shirt and pulled it over his head. “I vaguely remember your mother. She wasn’t the most dreadful woman. Why, pray tell, does she inspire such terror in her children’s hearts that they cannot twitch without fearing her retribution?”

“It’s not terror,” Bennet exclaimed. “I just—just— It’s just not wise to rouse her temper, that’s all. It’s more peaceful.” Then he frowned. “Did Joan complain of her as well?”

The servant held out the cravat, neatly pressed again. “Wasn’t your sister sneaking out after she came to your home the other day? I gathered it was in defiance of your mother’s wishes, yet all she did was stroll up Bond Street. And you can’t refuse so much as a request that you attend a certain ball.” He began knotting the cravat, keeping his eyes on the looking glass the servant held up. “I suppose one might understand an unmarried lady being kept close by her mother,” he added. “But you’re a grown man. Buck up, old chap. Appeasement leads to subjugation.”

Bennet snorted. “As if you’d know! Free as a bird, your entire life.”

Tristan pulled the loose end of the cravat through the knot and stabbed a pin through it. “Yes, free from all that parental oversight that chafes you so.” Also free from any sort of loving home, but he forbore to mention it. His parents had been dead so long, he couldn’t even remember them. For all he knew, his mother might have been worse than Bennet’s.

“It certainly never appeared that you minded!” Bennet clapped him on the back, apparently restored to good humor. “Just trust me—it’s easier to appease Mother. I danced with the girl, everyone was satisfied, and now I’m free again.”

“Did you like the girl?”

Bennet blinked. “What?”

“Did you like the girl?” Tristan repeated, pulling on his jacket. “If you’re going to waltz with a girl, you might as well enjoy it.”

The other man stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Bloody hell! You don’t have to like a girl to like waltzing with her. Miss Drummond is nothing like the females I prefer—you know that. I might as well ask you if you enjoyed dancing with my sister!”

He should have laughed. He should have agreed wholeheartedly, and let the whole question drop. Instead Tristan pictured the curve of her lips when the music began, and felt the sway of her body in his arm. Somehow he couldn’t poke fun at Miss Bennet, not even to her brother. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, and walked away before Bennet could recover from the shock.