Chapter Twelve
A week after the unforgettable excursion to Vauxhall Gardens, Tristan arrived at Averston House in Mayfair a few minutes early for the ball. He found Elizabeth flitting about, giving final instructions to the footmen and adjusting flower swags adorning the room. Maids lit the remaining candles in the ballroom while the chalk artist packed away a pallet of chalks next to an ornately decorated floor. Tristan studied the chalk drawing on the parquet with a practiced eye—cherubs and flowers intertwined the Averston family crest, giving the fierce falcon a decidedly tamer look. Fitting, considering how Elizabeth had tamed Richard, transformed him from an unyielding, pompous stuffed shirt into a man of warmth.
Tristan shook his head. No woman would tame him. He liked himself as he was, thank you very much—free and unfettered.
“Tristan.” Elizabeth smiled and held out both hands as she came to him. “You’re early.”
“I thought I might lend a hand, if needed.”
“How kind, but I believe everything is in readiness.” His sister-in-law fluttered her hand above her head in a gesture that encompassed the room. “What do you think?
“I’ve never seen anything grander.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Is it too much?”
“Oh, no. All the biggest snobs will be green with envy and they’ll fall all over themselves to try to match what you’ve done here.” He looked around again. “My mother used to throw balls and such, but nothing on this scale.”
As a child, he’d peeked out through the railings, awed by the glittering display. Mama had always kissed him good night before going downstairs to join her guests. Tristan had always followed, and sat watching until his nursemaid had shooed him back to the nursery. Mama had been so beautiful and seemed happiest the day of a party. If Tristan hadn’t been such a misbehaved boy, she might have loved him enough to stay.
“Tristan?”
He remembered himself. “It’s perfect. All the Averston ancestors are nodding in approval.” He turned away from her probing gaze.
Leticia and Isabella arrived, so deep in conversation with their aunt, Mrs. Tallier, that none of them saw him. “…don’t want any kind of censure to touch your name,” Leticia said.
“If Lady Averston says it’s acceptable, I’m sure it is,” Mrs. Tallier said.
Leticia frowned, a familiar mulish look in her eyes. “It’s all well and good for old maids and widows and married women, but I’m not sure it’s proper for a young miss newly out.”
“What do you think, Tristan?” Isabella said.
Four pairs of eyes turned to him. Leticia’s glance slid away and a faint blush touched her cheeks. The memory of his hand on her soft cheek sent his heart racing. He couldn’t believe he’d almost kissed her. Leticia, of all people—his oldest and most trusted friend! What had he been thinking?
Would she have enjoyed his kiss?
“You ought to call him Mr. Barrett,” Mrs. Tallier gently chided.
“I do in public, Aunt, but I’ve known him most of my life so it seems overly formal to do so in private,” Isabella said. She addressed Tristan. “Do you think it would be wrong for me to take part in the auction?”
Leticia let out a sharp laugh. “It’s futile to ask Tristan anything about propriety. I doubt he knows the meaning of the word.”
Tristan took a step back under the force of her verbal blow. Did she have such a low opinion of him? Or did she bear some belated anger over their near kiss at Vauxhall? She hadn’t seemed upset at the time, or later in the evening. It would be like a woman to think about it later and get all riled up over a small thing.
He bristled. “Just because I have a reputation, doesn’t mean I am not a judge of what’s proper. I know the rules of society.”
Instead of looking apologetic, Leticia set her mouth in a challenging glare. “Then tell my sister and aunt that Isabella should not put herself on the auction block.”
Before Tristan could open his mouth, Isabella let out a huff of annoyance. “I’m not selling myself as a slave; it’s a supper dance.”
“She’ll be viewed by every man in attendance,” added Mrs. Tallier, “which could be of great advantage, especially if the bids climb as high as I suspect.”
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth looked between all four of them, her eyes wide with alarm and her chin quivering as if she were about to burst into tears. “You don’t think this will create a scandal, do you?”
“Certainly not.” Mrs. Tallier turned to Leticia. “You, young lady, ought to trust your elders. Lady Averston would never do anything outside of the pale. If she did, I would not support it.”
Tristan almost pointed out that Elizabeth, younger than Leticia, could not rightfully be her ‘elder’, but thought it a moot point.
Leticia’s mouth worked, visibly torn. Tristan hooked his arm through hers. He walked forward, forcing her to walk backward until they reached the far end of the ballroom away from the others. With his hand on each of her shoulders, he turned her to him.
“Tish?”
Leticia’s eyes grew shiny as if she were fighting tears. “I don’t want this to hurt Isabella; I couldn’t bear it if it did.”
His ire melted under her rare show of emotion. “It won’t. Everyone knows this is for charity. Elizabeth and your aunt are pillars of society and etiquette; everyone respects them. As they said, this is for the supper dance and supper. What could possibly happen?”
She let out a half sob and shook her head, her hands coming up in a helpless gesture.
He lowered his voice into soothing tones. “I’m sure the guests are the picture of propriety. Richard and Elizabeth were very selective with their invitations.”
Leticia drew a labored breath and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
He squeezed her arms. “I know you’ve taken some abuse about this school idea, but you’re doing the right thing. I admire your passion.”
She looked up at him with those large green eyes, so trusting, so lovely. “Do you really?”
“Indeed. If anyone dares speak out against you or Isabella, I’ll take them out and thrash them.” He smiled to soften his words, though he meant them.
She laughed ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I was tempted to crack my umbrella over Lord Petre’s head when he was so rude.”
“I’m sure you were. You are downright lethal with umbrellas.”
They shared a smile remembering when she’d done that to him years ago.
Tristan looked over his shoulder as voices filled the ballroom. “It looks as though your guests are already starting to arrive. Shall we?” He held out an elbow.
She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I impugned your honor. I didn’t mean it.”
He opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “You impugned my honor?” He donned a fearsome scowl. “That’s it, woman; choose your weapons. I’ll meet you at dawn.”
She smiled at his idle threat. “Of course you know what is and isn’t proper. I merely…”
He waited, not certain he wanted to hear the rest. She shook her head and never completed her sentence.
He finished for her, “You hate what a rake I am and you think me incapable of anything exemplary.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.
She looked up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. He was starting to hate what a rake he had become, too. It was all so meaningless. Maybe it would become fun again when he had Leticia wedded and his obligation to her ended. Or maybe it had been so long since he’d been with a woman that he had forgotten how well it helped fill his emptiness—temporarily, at least. Perhaps he needed a bracing drink. Or a smack to the side of his head.
The evening began in earnest, guests arriving, gentlemen paying their subscription, greeting, laughing, drinks flowing. Music began and soon dancers obliterated the chalk drawing on the floor. Tristan did his part, dancing with as many wallflowers as he could find and flirting with proper older ladies until they cracked a smile. He didn’t realize until his dry throat drove him to the lemonade table that he hadn’t touched a glass of champagne. He rather became accustomed to having a clear head. Odd, that.
For Leticia’s sake, he kept an eye on Isabella but she had no shortage of partners. Rather, they seemed to be stumbling all over each other for the opportunity to partner her. Overall, the evening progressed flawlessly, which reflected well on Elizabeth as well as for The Cause.
After the quadrille, Richard stepped forward and held up his hands. The string quartet silenced. Voices died down.
“Welcome, esteemed guests.” His brother’s voice rang in authority—probably the same voice he used when addressing Parliament.
“As you know, this evening is to benefit a school for orphans, to teach them basic skills so they may become respectable working class instead of thieves and pickpockets and worse. With that end in mind, the supper dance will be an auction. Every lady who feels inclined to do so may come to the front of the room and we gentlemen will auction for the privilege of waltzing with her, and then, of course, enjoy her company throughout supper.”
Lady Brinton, Elizabeth’s sister, stood up first. “I will volunteer.”
A collective sigh came from the guests as the beauty made her way to the middle of the room. Toasted as a diamond of the first water when she arrived on the scene two Seasons ago and later made a match with Lord Brinton, she would surely create a heated bidding.
Richard bowed to Lady Brinton, took her hand, and called out, “What is your offer for the charming Lady Brinton?”
“Ten pounds,” called the Duke of Suttenberg.
“Twenty.” And so the bidding continued. The Duke bid for a dance with his daughter, no doubt to help drive up the bids, as did her husband, Lord Brinton. One lady after another stood next to Richard, smiling as gentlemen caught the spirit of the game proving how generous and deep in the pockets they were. Elizabeth brought in three hundred pounds.
Richard’s chest puffed in obvious pleasure that his bride had fetched such a handsome sum from another gentleman. Tristan grinned. Elizabeth had thought herself plain next to her beautiful sister; perhaps the bid tonight would help dispel that belief.
When Isabella stood, several young bucks bid, each growing more and more reckless. Three hundred pounds also won the supper dance with Isabella. Tristan craned his neck until he spotted the winning bidder, a friend of Richard’s known as a kindly, respectable gentleman. Tristan could trust him not to take advantage of the sweet young lady. Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. Next to him, a young man muttered as he watched Isabella take the man’s hand and stand next to the winner until the bidding ended.
Lady Tarrington stood, wife of the Earl of Tarrington. The bidding heated as men vied for the attention of the lady whose beauty had not diminished with age. Her husband won her bid, paying nearly as much for Lady Tarrington as Elizabeth’s bid had fetched.
Leticia stood. Tristan’s stomach tightened. Wearing a stunning gown of ivory trimmed in leaf-green, almost the shade of her eyes, she smiled out at the crowd but he recognized that nervous pull to her mouth. Surely she didn’t fear she would fail to bring a high bid, did she? He must make an effort to compliment her more. Without the near kiss, of course.
She would bring the most money of all, if he had to pay it himself.
“Twenty pounds,” he said at the exact same time as another voice. He glanced around to locate the other voice.
“Thirty,” called someone else.
“Fifty,” bid a third.
Unexplainably annoyed and unable to locate the other voices calling out, Tristan shouted, “Two hundred pounds.”
A brief silence followed his jump in the bidding.
“Two hundred fifty.” Ah. Kensington. Good man to keep his word to help to drive up the bids.
“Three hundred.” Lord Bradbury.
Tristan glared at the back of the lord’s head. “Three hundred twenty-five.”
Bradbury stood. “Four hundred.” His focus fixed upon Leticia who looked stunned.
A collective gasp arose.
“Why, she’s not that beautiful,” a woman whispered to another behind her fan.
“Someone must love her,” said her companion in reply.
“Or be trying to woo her.”
Tristan would not be outdone by the smooth Bradbury. He fisted his hands. “Four hundred twenty-five.”
“Five hundred pounds.” Lord Bradbury’s voice rang out.
Tristan growled. Five hundred pounds? How dare that encroacher step in Tristan’s territory! As he opened his mouth to bid higher, he caught himself. What had gotten into him? He wanted Leticia to spend time with Bradbury. Tristan had picked out the lord for her because he matched all of Leticia’s criteria. Bradbury was perfect for Leticia.
So why did his hackles raise at the thought of that man waltzing in—literally—and having supper with his Tish? Tristan laughed to himself and unfisted his hands. He had no designs on Leticia, and no urge to dig that deep into his pockets.
Richard glanced at Tristan to see if he would bid again, but Tristan made a wave of surrender.
Richard grinned, a regular occurrence since his marriage to Elizabeth. “Lord Bradbury, for the modest sum of five hundred pounds, you have won the supper dance with the incomparable Miss Wentworth.”
Laughter and applause rang out. A few more ladies stood, received bids, then Mrs. Hunter arose and lifted her chin.
Tristan gaped. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Wearing a scandalously low-cut gown of icy blue silk, Mrs. Hunter stood looking out over the crowd. Her eyes met his boldly, daring him to bid.
The bids flew then, and Tristan called out a few, so as not to hurt her feelings, but her bid reached well over three hundred pounds. Mr. Wynn came in as the highest bidder. She smiled and took his hand, avoiding Tristan’s gaze. Wynn grinned like the rake he was and in a scandalous move, kissed her hand, clearly hoping he’d won more favors than a dance and supper. She gave Wynn the same come-hither smile she’d used on Tristan a few weeks ago.
Tristan had probably ruined all his chances of ever taking the beautiful temptress as a lover. The thought should have bothered him—it had been too long since he’d had a woman in his arms. Instead, he felt as if he’d dodged a bullet.
The bidding ended and Tristan glanced about seeking Leticia. There. Next to Bradbury. She lit up all of London with her smile, no doubt delighted her evening had been such a successful venture. He couldn’t blame her for being happy; she’d created a heated bidding war. Surely her delight had nothing to do with being won by Lord Bradbury. Surely.
Shaking his head over his own reaction, Tristan laughed it off. If all progressed as it appeared to be, Leticia would be as disgustingly happily married to Lord Bradbury as Richard and Elizabeth. Then Tristan’s troubles would all be over. He’d be free to pursue whatever, or whomever, he wished. He’d be free.
Free and alone.
As the music began, Tristan moved off the dance floor while the winning bidders and their partners began the waltz. Leticia’s face glowed as she laughed at something Lord Bradbury said.
Tristan had the sudden urge to plant a fist in the center of Bradbury’s nose.
Kensington ambled over to Tristan. “A good bluff, Barrett. You took quite a chance, though.”
Shaking off his irritation, Tristan raised a brow at Kensington. “Chance?”
“If Bradbury hadn’t come through, you would’ve paid a pretty price for a dance with Miss Wentworth.”
Tristan shrugged. “Ah, well, good cause and all that rot.”
“You played the part of the outraged suitor.”
“All part of the act, old man.”
“You should take to the stage.”
Tristan eyed him but Kensington wore a mild expression.
“You played your part well, too,” Tristan said.
“As you said, a good cause. Since I didn’t win the hand of a fair maid for the supper dance, I shall have to make my donation in private.”
“Good of you.”
“She is pretty.”
Tristan followed his line of sight. Leticia waltzed by in the arms of Bradbury, blast the man.
Wait. Kensington admired Leticia now, too? “What about your being uninterested in marrying?”
Kensington’s mouth quirked. “Not saying anything about marrying—merely that she’s a pretty lady. She has the kind of quiet beauty that grows on a man, like a flower opening up from a bud into a vibrant blossom.”
Oh, so now Kensington waxed poetic? Perhaps Kensington’s nose ought to be rearranged as well.
Kensington seemed to come back to himself. “How is your sister? Selina, isn’t it?”
“She’s well.”
“Italy, right?”
“Last I heard. She’s been to France and Greece, too. She is supposed to come home this summer but her last letter indicated no interest in returning.”
The waltz ended and they went into supper. Tristan kept quiet and consumed enough food to impress a horse. After a few minutes, he realized his rudeness to those sitting near him, so he donned his famous charm like a suit of armor and flirted with all the females within earshot.
Wynn and Mrs. Hunter appeared to enjoy each other’s company, as did Leticia and Lord Bradbury, blast him. Tristan made a renewed effort to avoid the couple and focus on the ladies he presently slayed with his wit and charm, not to mention his dangerous good looks, of course.
After dinner, Tristan sauntered along the terrace to take in some air. Mr. Seton stood looking out over the gardens lit with Chinese lanterns. Tristan wandered over to him and offered the quiet man a smile. The cold air turned their breath to puffs of smoke.
Tristan tilted his head at Seton. “How are you enjoying London this Season?”
“Well enough.”
“Odd weather we’ve been having, eh?”
“Yes. Nice enough for our day at Vauxhall, though.” Seton took a pinch of snuff.
“Good thing my petition to the weather god wasn’t in vain.”
Mr. Seton gave a start. “What?”
“A poor jest. Glad to hear you enjoyed it.” Tristan clapped the diminutive man on the shoulder.
“I did. Thank you for including me.”
They made small talk over the next few minutes until the conversation turned to people they knew.
Tristan saw his chance. “Say, what do you know about Lord Bradbury?”
“Lord Bradbury? I admit I don’t know him well.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
Mr. Seton looked thoughtful. “He thinks before he speaks. He’s even tempered. Genuine.”
“The type the ladies would like.”
Seton nodded. “My sister admires him.”
“Any public affairs?”
“None that I know of. I see him at soirees or the opera on occasion, often with a different lady, and all of them respectable.”
“He never consorts with actresses or opera singers? No mistresses?”
“I haven’t heard that of him. Why?”
Tristan shrugged. “He seems to have taken an interest in my friend Leticia. I don’t want him to break her heart.”
“I noticed that. At Vauxhall.” He let out a sigh and stared down at his drink. “And tonight.”
Tristan winced. He’d forgotten Seton had feelings for Leticia or he wouldn’t have brought up the topic of Bradbury.
“Lord Bradbury isn’t the type to break hearts,” Seton added. “He is every bit as honorable as your brother; he’d never show interest in a lady and then walk away.” Seton sounded unhappy rather than admiring. He let out another sigh. “I suppose I never had a chance with her anyway.”
Tristan nudged him. “Come, let us get a drink. I’ll bet you a guinea Mr. Wynn loses at cards tonight.” He pointed his chin toward the game table visible through a window.
Seton shook his head, declining the bet. “Wynn always loses. You’d think he’d learn how to bluff.”
Tristan grinned and mulled over what Richard and Seton had said about Bradbury. They both seemed to think the young lord worthy of Leticia. From what Tristan observed of him while they were at Vauxhall, they were right. Bradbury had behaved with upmost propriety without a trace of rakishness or recklessness. He’d be a perfect husband for Leticia.
The thought didn’t quite ring of victory.