“The ladies are all atwitter,” Sarah said as she cornered Anne in the ladies retiring room.
“Ladies are always atwitter,” Anne responded coolly. She’d needed a moment alone to regain her composure. Lie, lie, lie. She’d needed to be away from the dance floor so she wasn’t watching Tristan waltzing about with Lady Hermione. He smiled at her; he spoke with her; he was holding her in his arms only moments after doing the same with Anne. She wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous. But she didn’t much like seeing him with another lady. Especially as he seemed to be enjoying himself so much.
“You danced with Lord Tristan,” Sarah said.
“I’m well aware with whom I danced. He wasn’t in disguise, for goodness’ sake.”
“He’s dangerous, Anne.”
I’m well aware of that, and in ways you can’t even imagine. “It was merely a dance.”
“You weren’t here when he and his brothers returned two years ago. They were savages.”
“Because they reclaimed what was stolen from them?”
“It was the manner in which they did it. They burst in, uninvited, to Lord David’s ball and ordered him to leave the residence.”
“It was their residence, was it not? It was Easton House, wasn’t it, which belonged to their father and thus his son, the next duke?”
“Well, yes, I suppose if one were to be literal about—”
“I don’t see how one could be anything else.”
Sarah glared at her. “The residence aside, they made quite the spectacle of themselves. Why the eldest brother almost choked his uncle to death.”
Anne wasn’t certain she could blame him for such an action.
“And poor Lady Lucretia has been in seclusion ever since,” Sarah continued.
Their uncle’s wife. “She’s a widow now, isn’t she?”
“Quite. After her husband’s mysterious death. Slipped from a tower, in the rain. Supposedly.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think they killed him.”
She didn’t want to admit that she could quite easily see Tristan killing someone. But not without very good reason.
Tristan stood in a darkened corner of the terrace and smoked on a cheroot. Dancing with Lady Hermione had been an exercise in frustration. The silly chit talked incessantly. She invited him to ride with her in the park, to have dinner with her family, to dance with her again. He’d made up one excuse after another. Perhaps it would have been kinder in the long run not to have danced with her, not to give her any hope at all that more could be between them.
Two years ago, he had wanted nothing more from her than a bit of innocent flirtation. He’d certainly never considered wooing her into his bed. She was a child. She didn’t have Anne’s allure.
Now, Anne . . . damnation, but he was obsessed with thoughts of her. She invaded his waking hours as much as she did his sleeping ones. He would be studying charts or discussing with merchants the possibility of carrying their cargo—and there she would appear. He thought he should be envisioning her hair draped over her nude body or her slender form writhing beneath him. And he did visit those images from time to time. But more often than not, he thought of her smile or her laughter or the way it had felt to have her standing near him on the deck, listening to the whales. Or sharing meals with her. Verbally sparring with her, the challenging glint in her eyes when she gave no quarter.
He should be back at sea, yet here he was in a place that he loathed. He thought one more sighting of her would have satisfied him, but he’d seen her and wanted more. To speak with her.
He’d spoken with her, and it wasn’t enough. He wanted a dance.
He’d had his dance, and now he wanted one more.
He wondered if he could lure her into the garden for a kiss. Just one more—
“Lord Tristan.”
At the sound of Lord Jameson’s commanding voice, Tristan took a last drag on his cheroot, dropped it to the ground as he exhaled, and snuffed out the sparks with his boot. He turned to find four fair-haired gents blocking his way. “Ah, Lord Blackwood’s sons, I take it.”
“You are never to go near our sister again,” Jameson said.
“Your sister strikes me as a lady with a mind of her own. If the words come from her, I’ll heed them. From you, no, m’lord.”
“How do you know our sister?” one of the others asked. He appeared to be the youngest. A year, maybe two older than Anne.
“How does any gentleman know any lady?”
“The problem there, Lord Tristan, is that none of us consider you a gentleman,” Jameson snapped. “We watched as you cut your swath through London’s ladies two years ago. Our sister will not succumb to your charms.”
She already has, m’lord, hung at the edge of his tongue like some poor blighter forced to walk the plank in shark-infested waters. Those words would earn him a sound beating from the gents who stood before him. But more, they would anger Anne and he wasn’t quite done with her yet. Of course, neither was he done taunting Lord Jameson. He had decided that he didn’t much like the fellow. He could hardly signify that this man was Anne’s brother.
“Lady Hermione didn’t succumb, my lord. We never shared more than a dance.”
Even though they were in shadows, enough light filtered in from the garden path for Tristan to see the fury ignite Jameson’s eyes. He’d noticed the way the man looked at Lady Hermione, and Tristan was fairly satisfied to see that he’d guessed correctly at some of what might lie beneath the man’s animosity toward him. You’re welcome to her, old man.
“Why the devil would I care about that?” Jameson asked.
“Because you fancy her, my lord.”
“You know nothing. Stay clear of our sister or you’ll know the weight of our fists.” The man charged toward the doors leading back into the ballroom.
His brothers weren’t so quick to leave. They each took a moment to glare at Tristan, issuing their silent challenges, before sauntering away.
He glanced up at the hazy sky. Damn but he hated London, Society, the rules. He needed the wind around him and the sea beneath him. He’d been residing at Sebastian’s residence, but tonight, he decided, he’d sleep on his ship, just to have the rocking motion that had so often lulled him.
“Tell me that barbarian is not the sea captain you hired.”
Anne was grateful for the dark confines of the carriage because she was relatively certain based on the heat searing her face that she was now scarlet. Jameson had just delivered their aunt to her residence and was now escorting Anne home. Her other brothers had departed from the ball at various times to head to their clubs. It seemed Jameson, however, was taking his role of oldest brother to the extreme.
“Good God, he is, isn’t he?” he asked.
“I knew him only as Captain Crimson Jack,” she admitted rather reluctantly, but she couldn’t see lying about it. She didn’t need him making inquiries along the docks. Sooner or later he was bound to uncover the truth anyway. Better to control the discovery and subsequent consequences.
“What a colorful moniker.”
“He came highly recommended and he was a perfect gentleman on the ship.”
“He is not a gentleman. He gave Lady Hermione cause to believe he would ask for her hand and he did not. He left with nary a word and she has been pining for him ever since. Now he is back and he didn’t even bother to call on her.”
Now Anne wished for some light so she could study her brother’s face in the shadows. His voice held such distaste that she was surprised he wasn’t spitting. “You seem more concerned with his treatment of her than my acquaintance with him.”
“I’m only telling you of his behavior so you understand he is a blackguard of the lowest order. Not to be trusted. I forbid you to speak with him again.”
Forbid her? She almost snapped that it wasn’t his place to forbid her anything. Instead she stared out the window. Tristan had claimed her for the final dance of the evening. She wasn’t certain where he’d been all night. After his dance with Lady Hermione he had disappeared. She’d feared that he’d left. A silly thing to worry over but she had wanted another dance with him.
But then he’d appeared, as though out of thin air. Perhaps he’d been playing cards. It didn’t matter. She was back in his arms, and while she knew it was a very dangerous place to be, she couldn’t help but feel glad to be there. They didn’t speak this time. Not a single word. Yet there had been so much communication. She’d recognized the appreciation in his light blue gaze, and the longing that mirrored hers. She’d fallen into the welcoming depths of his eyes and found herself yearning for dark forbidden corners where their bodies could share secrets.
It was all so wrong. Yet the knowledge did little to curb her desire.
She didn’t want to contemplate that he might have taken advantage of Lady Hermione, that he might be the sort who left broken hearts in his wake. Surely he understood how vulnerable hers was. Although she had no intention of giving it to him. What they shared was the physical only. She couldn’t allow it to be more. She couldn’t risk being hurt again. Love led to unparalleled pain that couldn’t be assuaged so easily. Always there would be a final separation.
Much better to live one’s life with a man whom she could like, but in whom she would not invest her heart and soul. Chetwyn came to mind. He would be such a man. No passion. No risk to her heart. No worries.
Proper. It would all be very proper. She suspected even his lovemaking would be proper. No sweating bodies, cries of pleasure. No torrid breathless moments.
The carriage came to a halt and she realized that they’d arrived home, her wayward thoughts careening into oblivion.
“Do we have an understanding?” Jameson asked. “Regarding Lord Tristan.”
“Yes, Brother. I understand perfectly what you said.” Doesn’t mean I’ll heed your orders. But she did understand them.
She retired to her bedchamber, rang for Martha, and an hour later was prepared for bed, though her emotions were in such a swirl that she knew she’d be unable to sleep. She considered going to the library to fetch a book, but she doubted she’d be able to concentrate.
“Will there be anything else, m’lady?”
From her bench in front of the vanity, she peered over at Martha. “No. Thank you. Sleep well.”
When the door had clicked shut behind her maid, she turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror. Her first ball after so many years away had not gone so terribly badly. She supposed she would survive the Season.
Leaning toward the mirror, she watched as a boot-clad foot and tight britches appeared through the window. Coming to her feet, she spun around and stared as Tristan made his way ever so calmly into her room.
He grinned. “I thought she’d never leave.”