Chapter Four
Tristan strode alongside his brother, Richard, and slapped his riding gloves against his buckskin breeches. He had to admit, the country life provided invigorating diversions. The pleasures of Town life were varied and enjoyable, but there was something about the simplicity of the country that left him feeling almost wholesome.
Richard removed his beaver hat, brushed it off, and set it back on his head, looking every inch a perfect English earl. “I daresay, the colonel has the finest hounds in the county, and his hunts always prove entertaining.”
Tristan smirked. “And seeing Seton almost lose his seat proved a bit diverting, as well.”
Richard chuckled. “Poor lad. He does try.”
“He should stop trying. I’m sure he has other skills. Of some kind. However hidden.”
“He had some rather kind words in your behalf.”
“Did he?” Tristan frowned. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Did you know his father is a member of the House of Commons?”
Tristan shrugged. “Of course. That’s why he’s invited to these parties.”
Sobering, Richard turned a rather discomfortingly piercing gaze on Tristan. “He said someone with a fine mind like yours should consider becoming an MP.”
Groaning, Tristan held out a hand. “Oh, no. Not the you need to grow up and start doing something worthwhile with your life speech again.”
Richard sighed. “Not a speech, a plea. Grow up. Choose a worthwhile occupation—something better than the next race or card game or light skirt.”
Anger simmered in Tristan’s stomach. First Leticia and now Richard. One would think they’d decided ahead of time to beat him with the whip of responsibility during the house party.
Tristan fisted his hands. “For your information, I have nobler pursuits.”
“I have something more meaningful in mind than fencing and shooting and fisticuffs.”
Tristan reined in his temper and smirked. “One never knows when one may need to use those skills.”
“I mean a calling, a profession—anything.”
Tristan’s last attempt to hold on to his humor collapsed. “Face it, Richard, I will never measure up to your level of perfection, so stop trying to make me over into your image.”
“That’s not what—”
“Stop.” Tristan wheeled around and strode toward the stables. With each step, his frustration heated, speeding his steps, until he reached a boiling point. Veering away from the stables, he headed for the open fields. He broke into a run, his long strides taking him far from the stables, far from the house, out toward solitude.
Dodging hedgerows and bracken, he flew over the ground, trying to leave all thought behind him. Still he ran, pushing himself harder until his lungs burned and his legs ached. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t lose the demons that always lurked nearby, nor all their insidious whispers that he’d never be good enough, never be worthy enough. Never be loved.
When he could run no more, Tristan slowed to a walk. He stripped off his tailcoat and loosened his cravat, then lifted his face to the sun. The image of Mama’s back as she left him burst into his memory along with his own child’s voice begging her to come back.
After receiving a paddling for not correctly conjugating his Latin verb, he’d fled his tutor in the nursery. Seeking Mama’s comfort, he’d raced into her sitting room. He’d found it empty. The house was empty. From that moment, his heart was empty.
A glimmer of life had sparked when he’d met Elizabeth, but that extinguished. Just as well. She and Richard were disgustingly happy.
And so he excelled as a debauched bachelor. Or he would be as soon as he cleared his conscience regarding Leticia. Then he could focus on getting Richard off his back. Perhaps it was time for a Grand Tour. The continent would take him far away from Richard, responsibility, and maybe his demons. He might pay a call on his sister Selina, try to coax her into coming home. Surely, she’d painted all of Italy by now.
Tristan headed for the river and strolled along its sun-dappled surface. Idly fingering his signet ring, he watched the sunlight shimmer on the water like thousands of prisms.
His stomach’s rumbling drove him back to the manor house. As he arrived at the edge of the outer garden and rounded a topiary shaped like a peacock, he almost collided with Leticia.
She put an arm out. “What’s amiss?”
He shook his head.
Leticia linked arms with him, and he slowed his step to match hers. She said nothing while they strolled in companionable silence.
After a pause, she offered, “You’ve been running again.”
He pushed his fingers through his hair but no doubt needed a comb and mirror. “Richard gave another speech about how I ought to do something meaningful with my life. He doesn’t understand. I’m not like him.”
“No of course not—you’re much more charming.”
He looked up at the exaggerated serious tone in her voice. As he suspected, her voice had been a mask for humor; her eyes twinkled and that mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her teasing soothed like balm over his wounds.
“I suspect you’re mocking me, Miss Wentworth.”
“Now, why would I do a thing like that, Mr. Barrett?” She batted her lashes, all innocence except for that gleam in her eye.
She probably agreed with Richard. She usually did, though gentler in her approach.
She touched his brow. “My, what a scowl. Either Richard gave you a proper whipping or you’re hungry.”
He laughed as the comfort of her companionship soothed the last of his ruffled feathers. “Do you know me so well?”
“We’d best feed you lest you start tearing into the roses.”
“I’d settle for a tree branch.”
She steered him back the way she’d come. “We had luncheon al fresco. I’m certain there’s plenty left.”
“Al fresco this time of year?”
“We decided to take advantage of the fine weather today, although it is a bit cooler than I prefer for outdoor dining.”
Voices drifted on the garden-scented breeze, guiding them to a wide lawn underneath a lilac tree. A few guests remained lounging on chaises and chairs, nibbling at cheese or fruit or drinking wine, all the while chatting with Colonel and Mrs. Sherwood. Neither Richard nor Elizabeth mingled with the diners.
At Tristan and Leticia’s approach, a servant brought them a basket. Within moments Tristan devoured ham, grapes, apples, bread, and cheese.
As he reached for a meat pie, she said, “Those have mushrooms in them.”
Only a good friend like Leticia would think of such a detail as warning him off from a food he disliked. Another knot in his stomach unwound and relaxed. He shook his head. “I don’t understand why people would ruin a perfectly good dish with such nasty little things. My thanks for the warning.”
“They were delicious; I had two.” Leticia smiled at their old debate and smoothed her skirts. “You missed a fascinating walk.”
With his mouth full, Tristan raised his brows.
“Miss Wynn tried to feed the ducks but they overwhelmed her and nearly knocked her down. Then the geese got involved, and when she ran out of food, they started pecking her, on a, er…rather embarrassing location. Her mother started shrieking and waving so madly to chase them off that she ran into her daughter and they both fell into the pond.”
Tristan snickered.
“Miss Wynn’s brother started laughing so she whacked his arm with her reticule. He said, ‘What do you want me to do, challenge the goose to a duel?’ And she said, ‘Yes, that, at least would have been gallant. That goose is the very devil!’”
Tristan chuckled.
Leticia leaned back on her hands and smiled up at Tristan with such an impishness to her expression that it transported him back to their childhood when Leticia wasn’t quite so pretty.
She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t have brothers, of course, but I’m certain you’d shoot the goose who, er, goosed me, instead of laughing at my discomfort, wouldn’t you?”
Tristan choked and swallowed his mouthful. “I’d laugh first. Then I’d shoot the goose that dared defile you, and I wouldn’t let you fall into the lake.”
“That is gallant.”
“Would you rather be sopping wet, or the object of laughter?”
“I’m accustomed to you laughing at me, so I suppose I’d take that over a spill in a dirty pond filled with cantankerous geese.”
“You didn’t seem to mind a dirty pond filled with cantankerous boys.”
She drew herself up primly and brushed a wrinkle out of her walking gown. “That was years ago. I associate with cantankerous boys on the dance floor now.”
“You associated with several of them last night. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yes, and I didn’t need your help, thank you.”
Tristan held out his hands in surrender. “I didn’t put them up to it. Well, maybe Seton; he was aching to catch your eye, so I made a suggestion that he might have better luck if he actually asked you for a set. The others did it on their own.”
“I’m happy to hear you didn’t have to force them to dance with a dowdy thing like me.”
“You aren’t dowdy and you know it, you saucy wench. By the way, that Wynn fellow is not a candidate for your future husband.”
“Oh? Didn’t you introduce him to me?”
“I felt obligated to do so because he asked. But under no circumstances are you to allow him to pursue you.”
“Why, Tristan, you sound almost protective.” Overly dramatic, she laid her hand over her head and fluttered her eyelashes like a coquette.
Tristan normally found her theatrics humorous. Today he scowled that she made light of his concerns. “He admitted to an indiscretion, so he isn’t a potential husband for you.”
Her brows shot up, but she looked amused rather than annoyed. “Don’t I have a say in this?”
“I’m making a judgment based on your own list.”
“I see.” Her mouth contorted as if trying to smother a laugh.
He glared. “I’m doing this to spare you embarrassment or bruised feelings later, you ingrate.”
She did laugh then. “Oh, Tristan. You can be very sweet, you know that?”
He had nothing to say to that so he stuffed a large piece of cake into his mouth.
She patted his arm. “Don’t frown so. It will mar your stunning good looks for your next conquest.”
He choked again. “Leticia, really.”
“Oh, right. How unladylike of me to use such a word.”
After finishing his cake, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Leticia’s soothing mirth had eased away his tension and all seemed right again. Content with a full stomach and in the presence of a friend who’d always understood him, he drew a breath and listened to the song of birds, the gentle lapping of the pond, the shiver of wings in flight, Leticia’s breathing. He always felt more comfortable with her than he had with any other female, even his sister, Selena. He smiled, recalling his sister’s letter detailing how much she enjoyed her time in Italy with Aunt Fanny. Perhaps he’d join them this summer after he matched Leticia with a boring, dependable husband.
Feminine laughter broke into his reverie.
“Good day, Miss Wentworth,” sang out a sultry alto.
Tristan opened an eye and peered at a cluster of ladies hovering nearby.
“Good afternoon,” Leticia replied. When they didn’t leave, but remained nearby, she motioned them over. “Care to join us?”
“Thank you,” said another.
A moment later Tristan found himself surrounded by a flock of pretty young ladies, all smiling and fluttering like so many hens. He got to his feet to greet them as Leticia made the introductions.
“Tristan Barrett? Oh, dear, I’ve heard of you.” The sultry alto voice belonged to a gorgeous brunette whose long-lashed eyes moved up and down his body, her come-hither tone not matching the disapproving words she spoke. “You aren’t as wicked and scandalous as they say, are you?”
Tristan cast an appraising glance over her, noting that she failed to blush or lower her eyes. What had Leticia said her name was? He gave her a lazy grin. “I am wonderfully wicked and properly scandalous.”
Trills of laughter erupted in all but one, a blonde who blinked and wore a bewildered expression as if she couldn’t quite place the meaning of his words.
“Miss Wentworth tells me you and she are childhood friends,” the brunette said.
“That’s true.”
“Then I suppose she knows all sorts of delicious secrets about you.”
“Perhaps some of the tamer ones I kept in my youth.” Wickedly, he added, “But nothing compared to those I have now.”
“You don’t say?” Again came that come-hither look.
Tristan gave her a heavily lidded smile. “She grew up to become proper and I grew up to become scandalous.”
“Oh, my,” said another girl, Wynn’s sister, by her coloring and the shape of her mouth, which, at the moment, pressed into a disapproving line. Her hair appeared to be damp, no doubt from her fall in the pond after the goose attack. “You are rather proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I’m honest, Miss Wynn.”
She inclined her head as if to concede his point, but disapproval still oozed from every pore. He pictured her at odds with a flock of geese. A pity he missed that little show.
“His honesty allows for some degree of exaggeration,” Leticia said with a knowing smile.
Tristan eyed Leticia. Could it be possible she didn’t believe every rumor that flittered around him? For the first time in his life, he wished all the rumors were false and that he’d been as upright as Richard. But Richard never had any fun; he always busied himself being perfectly respectable. So, Tristan would be perfectly dissipated. It wasn’t like he’d ever marry. No lady would have him, and he refused to give his heart or his hand to a lusty woman who’d eventually leave him in wreckage.
The brunette sidled in closer. “Are you going to join us for bowls and nine-pins, Mr. Barrett?”
He hadn’t heard that the game had been planned. He glanced at Leticia.
She came to his rescue. “The colonel has invited us all to the south lawn for bowls this afternoon, followed by an archery tournament.”
Tristan nodded. “Then by all means, who am I to miss a moment of sport?” He held out one arm to Leticia and the other to the brunette. “May I escort you?”
As Leticia took his right arm, a comfortable, familiar motion, the brunette entwined her arm through his left, a sensual movement that evoked all kinds of images that shouldn’t be in his head, at least, not while in Leticia’s presence. Leticia glanced at him, one corner of her mouth lifting as if she knew the direction of his thoughts. But that couldn’t be. She was an innocent.
He always worried that his wickedness would somehow taint Leticia. There were times when he almost decided he should stop spending time in her company lest he mar her pristine reputation. But dash it all, she was his oldest friend and the one female he trusted not to have some hidden agenda.
And he needed to find her a husband so she would be happy. Then he could be happy.
Chattering and laughing, the other ladies walked several steps behind Tristan and the ladies he escorted.
Feeling the brunette’s gaze, he turned to her. “Are you enjoying the house party?”
Boldly, she looked into his eyes. “I find it hard to believe that we haven’t been introduced until now, Mr. Barrett.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Well…” she looked him up and down again. “I’ve been in London the last four Seasons, and I tend to notice”—her gaze flickered to Leticia—“tall, dark-haired men.” She’d obviously amended the thoughts she would have expressed had they been having this conversation in private. “I’m certain I would have remembered you if we’d met.” Again, that come-hither smile.
He laughed hoarsely and wanted to tug at his collar that the brunette came on so strong in front of Leticia. It made him feel something of a rascal to be caught by his very virtuous friend in the middle of such bold flirtation.
Leticia leaned around him to speak to the brunette. “Are you accomplished at bowls and nine-pins or archery, Mrs. Hunter?”
Ah, Mrs. Hunter. He sent a look of gratitude to Leticia as he sifted through all possible Mr. Hunters in his memory. He came up with nothing. Who was her husband? And where the deuce was he?
Mrs. Hunter let out a throaty sort of purr that doubled as a laugh. “Please, we’re all friends here. And Mrs. Hunter makes me sound so old. Do call me Georgette.” She focused on his mouth.
“Yes, do,” Leticia said in an even voice but Tristan recognized the mockery couched in her tone.
So did Georgette Hunter, apparently, judging from her sideways glance and amused, condescending twitch of her lips. “To answer your question, Miss Wentworth; yes, I admit, I have a fondness for both bowls and nine-pins and archery, especially in such fine company.” She looked up into his eyes again. Hers were a vibrant shade of violet-blue and he found it hard to look away. She murmured, “How was the hunt this morning?”
“Splendid,” Tristan said. “The Colonel has the finest hounds in the county.”
Mrs. Hunter nodded. “So I’ve heard. I’d planned to ride with the hunt this morning but was a bit fatigued from the long journey yesterday in addition to last evening’s festivities. I’ll join you tomorrow.”
Tristan raised a brow at her. “A woman who rides to hounds. How unconventional of you, Mrs. Hunter.”
“Georgette, remember? I used to ride with my father and brothers. I assure you, I am a competent rider.”
“You don’t ride with your husband?” Tristan fished.
Mrs. Hunter made an elegant wave of her hand. “No. He was killed in battle two weeks after we married. He was a post captain, you see.”
“My condolences.”
Leticia broke in, all sympathy. “You must have been heartbroken.”
Looking down, Mrs. Hunter lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug. “We hardly knew each other. We met while he was home on leave, fancied ourselves madly in love, married in haste. It all seemed splendidly romantic at the time.” She sighed. “He’s been gone more than two years, and I am moving on.”
“Of course you should.” Tristan glanced at Leticia, whose brows had pulled into a troubled frown and her lips puckered.
He’d never noticed how shapely Leticia’s lips were. He wondered if Richard had ever been bold enough to kiss her. From their childhood, they’d always understood that Richard would marry Leticia, until Tristan’s actions threw Richard together with Elizabeth, leaving Leticia alone. He must remember his goal to find Leticia a husband—someone worthy of her.
A group of gentlemen clustered around a lawn preparing for bowls and nine-pins. Tristan guided the ladies on his arm toward the game area, appraising the men as potential husbands. Four were married, two too old, three he’d already determined were unsuitable. Tristan had not yet made a determination about Rowley. He seemed a good sort. Tristan would find out if he passed muster.
Ah. Rhys Kensington. He might do. Tristan didn’t remember seeing Kensington at the ball.
Georgette Hunter tightened her grip on Tristan’s arm and said in a near-whisper, “I think I’d do almost anything not to spend another night alone.”
She looked into his eyes with such convincing vulnerability that Tristan almost fell for it. He remained silent, and not because he remembered Leticia on his other arm. Did Mrs. Hunter intend her words as a plea for a proposal? Or did she mean to imply he’d be welcome in her bedchamber that night? Some other kind of clever trick? The brunette reminded Tristan of the mythical sirens who promised untold pleasure to sailors, yet lured them to their deaths.
“Please excuse me,” Leticia broke in. “I think I’ll retrieve my shawl from my bedchamber.” She unwound her arm from Tristan’s.
“Shall I fetch it for you?” Tristan offered.
“No, no, you two go on. I’ll join you in a moment.” With her head as high and regal as a queen, Leticia glided toward the manor house.
Tristan had the distinct impression he had been dismissed.