Anne wondered if inviting Tristan to the garden party had been a mistake. The following day he sent her two dozen roses. The unsigned note accompanying them had simply said, “You were right. Thank you.”
Right about what, for pity’s sake? That he would enjoy the garden party? That they couldn’t continue their trysts?
A week had passed and she’d not seen him. She tried to settle into the life that she had expected: morning calls, balls, dinners, courtship. But it seemed so trite. As though now she was a stranger to it all. She forced herself to carry on as though she’d not changed one whit since the stormy night she’d walked into a haze-filled tavern. Her father and brothers noticed nothing amiss.
Even Chetwyn seemed unable to detect the differences in her. He called upon her often, most afternoons in fact. This afternoon being no exception. They had abandoned his curricle and were now promenading through the park, admiring the foliage and flowers. She couldn’t imagine Tristan occasionally stopping to admire a bloom or inhale a fragrance.
Two other gentlemen had expressed an interest in her, but she wasn’t as comfortable with either of them as she was with Chetwyn. He was a solicitous soul and he fit her very much as an old shoe might. She grimaced at the image. He was more than that. He was pleasant, charming, kind. He never spoke harshly of anyone. He never tried to take advantage of their time together. He didn’t sneak her into dark corners for a kiss. He didn’t suggest in a low sultry voice that perhaps she should leave her window unlocked.
He made her smile. He brought her carnations. He read her poetry. But mostly he spoke of the ball that he and his mother would be hosting in honor of Walter.
“It’s been good to see Mother engaged in something other than weeping. She and Walter were so close, you know,” he said quietly as they strolled through Regent’s Park. They’d taken to visiting different parks and she wondered if it was in part because he hoped to avoid running into Tristan.
She considered telling him that Tristan was apparently no longer in her life, but that would be a tacit confession that he had once been, and she wasn’t quite certain how that would go over. She heard no rumors of him and Lady Hermione so she wondered if he was on the sea. She tried so terribly hard not to think of him at all, but he was always there, taunting her with memories.
But if she’d learned anything at all of late, she’d learned that memories did fade, muting the joy or pain associated with them. She had but to be patient and soon all of her remembrances would revolve around Chetwyn.
“I can’t imagine the devastation of losing a child,” she said, equally quietly. They always spoke as though everything they said was not to be shared with others, was a secret. It created a sense of intimacy, but knowing what true intimacy was, she recognized their habit carried a falsehood with it. She supposed one day that it wouldn’t. If he continued to court her. If he ever asked for her hand.
She could only hope that if she did marry, on her wedding night, when her husband discovered she was not . . . untouched, that he’d believe she’d given herself to Walter on the eve of war before he marched off, and hopefully he’d forgive her for such a rash act.
“It was devastating for her,” Chetwyn said. “At one point, she even said that she wished it had been me.”
“No, Chetwyn.” She squeezed his arm. “She didn’t mean it. Grief was speaking, not her.”
“So I told myself. I wish Father were alive. Sometimes I feel as though I’m a fake, wearing the mantle of marquess.”
His father had died nearly ten years ago. He should be accustomed to it by now, but still she realized that it could not be easy for one so young. Walter would have been twenty-five. Chetwyn was three years older. The same age as Tristan. She couldn’t imagine Tristan bemoaning his responsibilities. But then his life had been very different. The two could not be compared.
“You are an exceptional marquess,” she assured him.
“My mother might stop harping once I’ve seen to my duty of acquiring a wife.”
Her breath caught. He grimaced. “Sorry. I am here with you because I wish to be. I enjoy your company.”
“Parents are troublesome, though, aren’t they? Father is desperate for me to find a husband. But it is such a permanent thing that I don’t think the decision should be made in haste.”
“Quite right.” He sighed. “The ball. I was discussing the ball. May I confess something?”
“Without question.”
“Mother and I fought this morning. I’m of a mind to invite the Duke of Keswick. He fought in the Crimea. It seems appropriate.”
“Your mother disagrees.”
“Wholeheartedly. I understand he’s a bit rough around the edges, but he behaved exemplary at the last ball he attended. I thought perhaps he could even speak of the need to not forget those who fought and returned with challenges.”
“I believe he would be a wonderful addition to what you have planned.”
He smiled. “I quite agree. Now if you could help me convince Mother . . .”
“What if I did a bit more than that?”
“What have you in mind?”
“You shouldn’t invite him.”
“But you just said—”
“I’ll invite him. Then your mother can’t be mad with you.”
“No, she’ll be mad with you.”
“But I don’t live with her.”
“But you very well could in the near—” Blushing scarlet, he faced her and took her hands. Her heart was pounding like a regimental drum. “You must know that my interest in you goes beyond poetry and walks in the park.”
Her mouth suddenly dry, she nodded.
“If my interest is not wanted, you have but to say and I shall leave you be.”
So polite, so damned polite. He would never anger her; he would never challenge her; he would quite possibly never fight for her. She wanted more, but even as she thought it, only one man came to mind: Tristan. He brought with him thousands of lonely nights. With Chetwyn, she would have no loneliness. She would quite possibly have no passion, but perhaps she’d had enough to last a lifetime. Her aunt thought love was rare, and Anne had possessed it for a short while. Surely passion such as she’d known was even rarer. But the price to keep it was too high.
“Your attention is welcomed, Chetwyn.”
Smiling, he lifted her gloved hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You’ve made me very happy, Anne, and I shall do all in my power to see that you are happy as well.”
“But first you must please your mother.”
He chuckled lightly. “Yes, quite. At least until I can move her into the dower house.” He turned and they began walking again. “So about this invitation to Keswick . . .”
Living a good bit of his youth on the streets of London, Rafe Easton had developed a keen instinct when it came to judging men. Not all hands offered in assistance were harmless. Not all smiles led to laughter. Not all friendship was true.
So it was—as he stood in the shadows of the balcony of his gaming hell and watched his brother tossing dice—that he knew Tristan was in an unusually foul mood. Oh, he was quick to smile and jest but it was a performance, although Rafe was fairly certain his brother always performed when in London. Only tonight it reflected a harder edge. Tristan wasn’t enjoying the role he’d chosen for himself.
Rafe truly didn’t care if his brother wasn’t happy, but he could see his temper roiling to the forefront, and the last thing with which he wanted to deal was a brawl in his establishment. He’d worked hard to get where he was, made sacrifices, done things he’d have rather not done.
So he’d be damned if he’d allow one of the brothers who’d left him at a workhouse to tarnish what he’d accomplished.
“Mick, tell my brother that I wish to have a word.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man standing behind him said before skittering off to do Rafe’s bidding. Those who worked for him were loyal, but still he didn’t trust them much farther than he could see them. He certainly didn’t banter it about that he was a lord. Shortly after he and his brothers had made their return to Society, a few of his members recognized him, but because he kept to the shadows, many ceased to associate him with Pembrook. In time, for him, it was as though nothing in his life had changed.
He watched as Mick approached Tristan, leaned over, and whispered in his ear. Tristan paused mid-course in a throw and jerked up his gaze toward the balcony. Their eyes met, and Rafe knew that his held a challenge equal to the one that Tristan was sending. Rafe had no doubt that he could hold his own. He’d stopped being the baby brother the moment they’d cruelly abandoned him. He’d certainly never sniveled or wept since that night. No, since then he felt nothing at all.
The same couldn’t be said of Tristan. It seemed he felt a great deal too much.
Tristan sent the dice flying and turned away from the table without waiting to see how they might have landed. Mick stepped in to retrieve the winnings about which Tristan obviously didn’t care.
Rafe headed for his office, regretting that he knew what Tristan needed was a brother to stand beside him, but Rafe had long ago stopped being a brother to anyone.
The nerve of the pup! Summoning Tristan as though he were a mere member of the club to be brought to task because he was playing a bit too hard, drinking a bit too much, and swearing a bit too loudly. Granted, he didn’t pay the yearly fee so he supposed technically he wasn’t a member, but Rafe had never denied him the pleasures of his gaming hell. Tristan flexed his hands, contemplating how nicely his fist would fit into his brother’s face.
Tristan strode into the office in time to see Rafe fill two glasses with whiskey and shove one across the desk until it came to rest on the far side near a chair that faced him. Rafe took his seat, snatched up his glass, and lifted it in a silent salute before downing its contents.
Tristan supposed all that counted as an invitation.
“Why do you collect the damned globes?” he asked.
Rafe’s jaw clenched before he poured himself more whiskey. “Why are you acting as though someone took your favorite toy?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Tristan asked as he stepped farther into the room. “When we were boys. You were the one who stole my wooden horse.” His father had bought it for him at a fair. It was beautifully made, painted black, with a small decorated leather saddle. Tristan had carried it in his pocket everywhere he went. He’d even slept with the silly thing until he was eight.
“Of course it was,” Rafe replied laconically with no indication of remorse.
“Bastard. Do you still have it?” Since leaving Pembrook, he’d never longed for anything from there. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted the blasted horse, but he did dammit.
“No. Sorry, old boy, but it got left behind with my childhood dreams.” Rafe grimaced and downed his whiskey.
Tristan realized he’d revealed more than he’d intended. The brothers had shared little of their paths since that awful night, as though they didn’t wish to burden the others. He still loved his brothers, wished them well, but he hardly knew them. But then they barely knew him. He wanted it that way. It made him feel . . . safer. Not that they would wish him harm, but he didn’t like feeling vulnerable. Talk of the past always made him feel as though he were fourteen again and facing demons. He could hardly countenance that he’d revealed as much as he had to Anne.
Damn but he missed her. She’d been right, of course. He couldn’t continue climbing in through her window when she wanted the sort of life that she did so badly. Being at Fayrehaven’s garden party had shown him that.
He took the offered seat, lifted the glass, studied the amber liquid, and turned his attention back to his brother. “It was hard on you when we left.”
“I see no point in discussing what is too late to change.”
“Sebastian’s face is half gone. My back was torn asunder more than once. What scars do you bear?”
“None that concern you, but I won’t tolerate you causing trouble in my establishment.”
Not tolerate? Tristan wondered how Rafe thought he was going to bloody well stop him from doing any damned thing he wanted. “I was rolling dice.”
“You were looking for a fight.”
“Going to give me one?”
“If you like. I have a boxing room.”
Tristan tossed back the whiskey, relished the burning, and studied his brother. He’d never noticed how broad-shouldered Rafe was or how large and capable his hands seemed. He usually saw him going through ledgers like a bookworm. Although he recalled that Rafe—gravely injured—had fought off some ruffians when the brothers had first made themselves known in London.
Tristan grinned. “I’d just beat you, easily no doubt, and then you’d have another reason to despise me.”
Rafe shrugged, poured more whiskey into both their glasses. “So who is the woman who’s causing you trouble tonight?”
Tristan couldn’t help the look of surprise he directed his brother’s way. “What makes you think it’s a woman?”
“Because if it was a man, you’d take your fists to him and be done with it. But a woman must be handled a bit more delicately.”
Tristan couldn’t argue with that. “The lady is none of your business.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t cause trouble in my place.” Rafe opened a ledger and began to study the entries.
Tristan sipped his whiskey. He didn’t need to discuss his personal life. He didn’t need anyone to help him sort it out.
“Lady Anne Hayworth,” he heard himself blurt out, then wished he could take a cat-o-nine to his tongue.
Rafe looked up. “The Earl of Blackwood’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Did she not pay for the passage on your ship?”
“She paid.” A thousand times over. That was part of the problem. Having tasted the payment, he wasn’t of a mind to do without. But the time had come. He was rather sure of it. She tried to entice him to move about in her world, but he fit as easily as a fox in the midst of hounds.
“Then you want more from her.”
He wanted everything. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Chetwyn, of any man, running his hands over her flesh, burying himself deeply inside her—
Damnation. A possessive fury he’d never known shot through him.
“Lord Chetwyn has an interest in her.” It hadn’t helped matters that he’d seen her in the park with the blasted lord that very afternoon. She’d looked happy, had been smiling up at him. She’d laughed. Her arm had been wrapped around his as though she’d turned into a clinging vine. And damn them both to hell, they looked right together. Proper. Chetwyn was everything he wasn’t. People approached them, spoke with them. They didn’t stand warily back wondering what to expect.
“And you want to marry her?”
“Good God, no.” He couldn’t contain his alarm at the notion. How the hell did his brother come to that conclusion from this bit of conversation? “Marriage is not for me.”
“You just want to bed her then.”
There was no “just” when it came to bedding Anne. Her in his bed brought him more pleasure, more . . . joy than he’d ever known.
“I don’t want Chetwyn sniffing about her.” Which wasn’t fair to her if she liked the fellow, but dammit all, life wasn’t fair.
“Suppose you could abduct Chetwyn, drop him into the ocean somewhere.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But someone would take his place in her affections quickly enough. She’s a beautiful woman. Charming. Feisty. She can hold her own in an argument, doesn’t back down easily. When her temper flares, my God, she’s something to behold.”
“You’re in love with her.”
“What? No, absolutely not. She’s simply interesting and I appreciate interesting things.” Love certainly wasn’t an emotion with which he was familiar or had any desire with which to become familiar. It weakened a man. He’d loved his mother and she’d died in childbirth. He’d loved his father and he’d died. He’d loved his uncle and the blighter had led them to the tower. No, love wasn’t for him.
Rafe studied his refilled glass of whiskey. Tristan had a difficult time believing that the self-assured man sitting before him was the sniveling brat he’d known as a child. As the youngest, he’d been pampered and spoiled. But there was no softness in him now. What paths did you traverse, Brother?
If he weren’t more interested in solving the dilemma he faced with Anne, he might work at getting Rafe drunk and questioning him about the past. Instead he watched the wheels turn in his brother’s eyes.
Finally, Rafe said quietly, “The most powerful weapon among the aristocracy is gossip.”
Tristan was well aware of that. It had forced Sebastian to marry Mary. “As I mentioned, I don’t wish to marry her.”
“You don’t have to, but I thought you were striving to ensure that Chetwyn—or any other lord for that matter—didn’t.”
Tristan cared for her too much to hurt her in that way: to bring her public scorn and not marry her. But then things had turned out well enough for Sebastian and Mary. Anne would always be here waiting for him. He might actually begin to look forward to returning to England.
The suggestion began to have merit. Tristan wanted her. He never denied himself anything he wanted. He knew she desired him. It would be unfair for her to marry Chetwyn when she yearned for another. He’d be doing Chetwyn a favor.
Her as well, truth be told. She just needed to realize it.