Obviously the duke noticed the change in her because he continued: “I don’t care if you sleep with him. But if you make a fool of, or hurt, my brother in any way, I will
ruin
you.”
Mon Dieu
. How fortunate Trystan was to be so loved, so protected. Why had her siblings not protected her in this way? Why had they sided against her instead of standing up for her?
Her gaze locked with the duke’s. She lifted her chin, then dipped it again in agreement. “I understand you perfectly, Your Grace.”
“Good.” He straightened. “I don’t know why Trystan is hell-bent on impressing you, but God knows there are worse notions for him to get into his head. Hopefully, he’ll disabuse himself of it soon enough.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Was there anything else, Your Grace? I do have a business to see to.”
The duke smiled then—a little twist of his lips that she supposed was supposed to be humorous. “Then, I shall leave you to it. I do admire your backbone, madam.”
“A girl’s got to have something to recommend her,” she quipped, with much more disinterestedness than she felt.
Still smiling in that unnerving fashion, Ryeton bowed and took his leave of her as though he had taken tea rather than threatened her. Once he was gone Vienne slowly sat down. Her knees trembled slightly, and not only because the duke had gotten to her.
Trystan wanted to impress her? It seemed preposterous. She would think herself the last person on earth from whom he would seek approval. Surely his brother was mistaken. If Trystan wanted her approval, it was because he wanted to rub her face in his own achievements or make a fool of her in the process. After the way she ended their affair, she couldn’t blame him for that—it was what she would do were the tables turned. She’d learned long ago that making oneself vulnerable to a person, trusting in them—especially a man—was just asking for trouble.
Trystan had made her feel so vulnerable. She’d had no choice but to end things. It was either hurt him or risk having her heart broken—and she had too much self-preservation to allow that.
She forced her attention back to the papers in front of her, but her mind refused to process the information on them. She kept thinking about Trystan and the kiss they’d shared the night before. He had enjoyed it, if only for a moment or so. She had enjoyed it as well, and that in itself was reason to never do it again.
Seducing Trystan to assert herself was not the right choice; it was far too risky to her own safety and there was too much to lose concerning the emporium. They were partners now, whether she liked it or not. Even she had to admit that he had some very good ideas—ones she never would have thought of.
If making the venture wildly successful meant working with Trystan and putting aside their differences, then she could do that. There were other ways she would insure the realization of her dream without sacrificing her vision.
She picked up the invitation that had been sitting on her desk for almost a week. Trystan’s birthday was tomorrow. She’d been invited to the party at Ryeton House and intended to go, even though the duke would no doubt monitor her behavior the entire evening. It would be the perfect time and place for her to offer Trystan an apology for the kiss. Knowing him, the pleasure of seeing her admit to being wrong would be the best gift anyone had ever given him.
I
t hadn’t been his idea to have a party celebrating his thirtieth birthday, and Trystan had little choice but to go along with the plan—just as he had no choice but to meet Archer for breakfast that morning. His brother hadn’t been content to dine alone and instead had breakfast brought to Trystan, banging on the door of his rooms at the ungodly hour of ten o’clock.
Normally Trystan was up, dressed, and fed long before that time, but he hadn’t staggered home until almost six and was very much asleep in his bed and—blessedly—still dressed when his brother came barging in with three of the hotel staff carrying trays of food and a large pot of strong coffee.
Fortunately Archer waited until the staff left them and he was sopping up egg yolk with his toast before asking for details of his evening after leaving Saint’s Row. Trystan, however, refused to share the embarrassing details and, in the end, managed to keep most of them to himself. There were some things a man didn’t want to share—not even with his brother. Oddly enough, Archer chose that morning to be tactful and didn’t push, so Trystan escaped relatively unscathed.
It was probably too much to ask that the same apply to that evening.
He thought by thirty he would feel like a man. He
should
feel like a man, and for the last five years or so he had. But that was time spent mostly abroad—away from family and old friends who had known him his entire life. New people treated him like a man of business, but people who had known him all his life treated him as they always did—like Grey’s and Archer’s younger brother.
It was his party, but he stood off to one side, nursing a glass of scotch. No overindulging for him tonight; he had yet to recover from the night before. And should have known better—about everything.
A movement at the entrance of the ballroom caught his eye and he turned his head for a better look. Standing just over the threshold was a vision in chartreuse silk, and wisps of copper hair curling around her face. The world seemed to slow and stop when he looked at her. His chest felt tight, as though his lungs were compressed as well. The music faded away, all the inane chattering and laughter drifted into nothingness. There was no one but her—and him—in this moment.
And just as quickly it was gone and the world came rushing back in a cacophony of music and voices. His field of vision cleared and he could see that Vienne was just another beautifully dressed woman in a ballroom full of other glittering, beautifully dressed women.
But perhaps she shone a little brighter than the others.
She was late—fashionably so—but it didn’t appear that she wished to create a stir, or even be noticed, for that matter. Trystan watched as she surveyed the bustling gathering—a party he hadn’t felt part of until her arrival. She found who she was looking for, and it wasn’t him. It was Grey. The two of them exchanged a look that Trystan could only describe as one of intense understanding. It was almost as though each of them dared the other to do something he couldn’t quite fathom.
It wasn’t a look between former lovers, or even current ones for that matter. He knew Grey was totally devoted to Rose—now a
former
lothario, of the worst kind, brought to heel by a woman just as determined to have what she wanted. But he did see some kind of tension between his brother and Vienne.
When Vienne looked away, his heart quickly gave a queer pulse.
What
had Grey done? As the thought flickered through his mind, an answer came just as quickly: Archer had told Grey about him taking off for Chez Cherie’s half pissed—and his big brother had decided to confront the person he automatically blamed for Trystan’s lack of sense.
The thought of Grey visiting Vienne—challenging her—on his behalf was mortifying. More so than Vienne’s rejection of him years earlier. More so than the fool he had made of himself trying to win her back.
Thirty years old and his brothers were still trying to fight his battles for him.
Perhaps he’d have another drink after all.
He made his way through the crowd of well-wishers—smiling mamas who had daughters for him to meet, men who had schemes they wanted him to support, and the odd old friend who sincerely wanted to reconnect, perhaps over a meal or a drink at a club. Those were the ones he agreed to immediately. They eased the anger bubbling inside him, the humiliation. His friends didn’t want anything but his company, and they weren’t going to hold him up against some foolish measuring stick only they could see.
By the time he reached the bar where one of Grey’s liveried footmen doled out scotch, bourbon, brandy, wine, and several lighter spirits, Vienne was already there, accepting a double scotch with a thankful smile.
“I’ll have one of those as well,” he told the footman. When Vienne turned, he watched as color that had nothing to do with the drink in her hand filled her cheeks. God love her, she was embarrassed. That took a bit of the sting out.
“Happy Birthday, Lord Trystan,” she murmured in that throaty voice of her, all the more sultry for the French that clung her words.
“Thank you, Madame La Rieux. I’m happy you could share it with me.”
She started but quickly recovered. “Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the world.” But he knew just from looking at her she’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.
So much for taking the sting out. She just shoved it right back in again, deepening the wound.
Trystan wasn’t about to go down this path, not tonight. He hadn’t the fortitude or the appetite. The footman gave him his drink and he raised it to her. “Well, enjoy your evening.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.”
A small smile curved his lips in response to the jolt of pleasure shooting through him at the sound of that word on her lips. He hesitated—purposefully—before slowing turning once again. “Yes?”
High color stood out on her ivory cheeks. Her skin was almost pure white, touched by the tiniest bit of golden warmth—like the sun creeping over fresh snow. Such beauty would be cold in an English woman, but no one would ever call Vienne cold. She burned like a flame, the brightness coming out in her vivid hair and sparkling blue-green eyes, the natural crimson of her lips.
“I wonder if I might have a moment?” Her chin came up. “In private.”
This was interesting. Was it another ploy on her behalf? Did she have some new trick up her sleeve? Whatever her motive, Trystan’s foolish curiosity got the better of him, as did his gentlemanly honor. It would be rude to deny her an audience, he told himself.
“Of course, madam.” He gestured to the French doors leading to the large stone balcony that overlooked the garden. “Shall we?”
He put one hand at the small of her back, just above the gather of material that cascaded down her skirts. The boning of her corset, molded to her body like a lover’s hand, was unyielding at the pressure of his fingers.
She had a particular liking for pretty corsets, if memory served . . . and
of course
it did. There was nothing he didn’t remember about her, from the tiny flowers embroidered on her undergarments to how to she liked her tea, to the sounds she made in bed—and not just those made during lovemaking.
The scent of her perfume teased him, bringing back memories best left in some dusty, distant corner of his mind. Did she remember him with such painful clarity? At night did she ever lie alone in the dark and imagine she could hear him breathing beside her?
Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t been stupid enough to fall in love.
Something made him turn his head as they walked, and his gaze met his brother’s. Grey’s stormy eyes narrowed slightly, but he raised his glass. Trystan raised his in response and then looked away before his brother could peer into his soul. Archer used to laugh when Trystan claimed Grey could see inside them, to their darkest secrets. Of course Archer would laugh, because he had the annoying tendency to view what lay beneath the surface as well. Only Trystan seemed to have missed out on that trait, at least where family was concerned. In business, he rather fancied he was a fair judge of character.
When they reached the balcony doors, he turned the handle and opened the etched glass door, then followed her into the night.
Light from flickering torches greeted them, casting a warm glow over the stones and creating seductive shadows. Beyond the City, there was a faint glow over the trees—London, a candle burning through the earth’s star-dappled darkness.
Trystan drew a deep breath, his lungs and senses filling with roses and jasmine and all the other flowers of Ryeton House’s garden. The smells were the same since he was a boy. His mother had overseen all the planting then, and it was nice that Grey and Rose hadn’t altered it. Perhaps later that evening, he’d mention to his mother how much he had missed being in her garden. She and his newly married sister, Bronte, had arrived together, along with Bronte’s husband. It did seem odd that his mother no longer lived in this house, but then it was equally odd without his father there. Yet they all had grown accustomed to his absence since his death.
Vienne had crossed to the balustrade and propped her forearms on it. He watched for a moment as she took a sip from her glass and raised her face to the warm breeze. If she took the pins from her hair, she could be a pagan goddess worshiping the night.
“What is it you wished to discuss with me?” he asked, going to her. He braced one elbow on the smooth railing, leaning his side into it. The sooner she said her piece, the sooner he could return inside and stop waxing romantic about how perfect she looked in the moonlight.
She closed her eyes—
gathering her courage?
—then turned her head toward him, eyelashes parting with grim determination. “Last night, it was wrong of me to kiss you. You were correct when you accused me of trying to manipulate you. I thought I could seduce you into doing what I wanted.”
Her honesty astonished him, as did the utterly open and shameless way she confessed.