.
“Remember that you are allowed to change your mind about that dance. The patronesses might tell you it isn't the done thing, but he's a Martin, and therefore does not matter. If you don't want to dance with him, you shouldn't have to.”
Blythe kept her disapproving missionary's frown on her face, but she thought she might bite Tristan if he brought up the matter one more time. “Tristan, please. Last time I checked, we were actually not still in the medieval era, and I may consent to a dance without your permission.”
“But why him?”
“All of God's creatures have a purpose. Perhaps I will find his when we dance. Remember, as it is said in Luke 12:6. Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies?”
Tristan scowled, but he didn't question her. Apparently, her trick of slipping random Bible verses into her speech was still working well. Most people either didn't want to admit they didn't understand them and agreed with her, or they tried to puzzle them out. Whichever one Tristan was doing, he at least let her alone as the dancing started. He probably should have been trying to find a partner himself, given his status as one of the most eligible bachelors in the room, but he was drawn into a conversation on Whig politics off to the side.
“Your guardian is a bit of a bear, isn't he?”
Blythe jumped a little and looked up into the handsome face of a man she didn't know. He was handsome enough, she supposed, but it was beyond the pale for a gentleman to simply sidle up to a lady at Almack's without virtue of an introduction.
She adopted a prim look. “I shouldn't like to speak ill of anyone, my lord. If you'll excuse me...”
“Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose I did not make as good an impression as I thought.”
“Sir?”
“Gerald Forth, Lord Cottering. We were introduced at Lady Melville's crush just a few weeks ago.”
She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that she was beginning to forget names and faces with the sheer amount of socializing she’d had to do. “I'm sorry, I simply do not recall.”
“That's fine, I can see that you're a young lady with a great deal going on.” Lord Cottering spoke with a kindness she had not expected. “If you'll grant me the favor of one short dance, I promise I won't even ask you to make conversation.”
That forced a small laugh from her that she hadn't expected at all, and she agreed, though only for Marchese, a dance that was short and therefore over quickly. Lord Cottering seemed amusing, and at least Tristan would see that she wasn't being entirely uncooperative.
Blythe's short responses and prim expression kept her mostly alone after that, by then the majordomo announced Parson Hollis, and Thomas was walking toward her with that irrepressible grin on his face. Despite her long expertise at maintaining her dour front, she couldn't stop a smile from crossing her lips before she dismissed it as well.
Parson Hollis was one of the older dances that was still danced in London. It was a slow and simple processional, couples together making their way up and down the hall in time to the stately music. It was antiquated in some ways, and Blythe suspected that it mostly kept its place on the roster due to the fact that it gave the couples a chance to chat with something close to privacy when they were together on the dance floor.
Thomas greeted her with all due decorum, and when he offered her his arm, she took it, allowing him to lead her out onto the dance floor. As the musicians began the soft strains leading up to the movement, he glanced at her.
“So, how shall we play this out? Would you like me to leer at you and give you a reason to slap me and run off in tears, or would you like me to act so besotted with you that it makes every man in this room curious about what it is that drew my interest?”
Blythe stifled a disbelieving laugh at his words. The music started, and they began the slow pace that started the dance. “What in the world are you talking about, Thomas?”
“I'm talking about what your angle is, young lady. The miss I met in the stews less than a month ago had a plan for every eventuality. It didn't escape my notice that you turned down every other dance you were offered, but for some reason, you said yes to me.”
“As a matter of fact, I did agree to dance with someone, but my goodness. 'For some reason?' Do you think so little of yourself that you cannot imagine a reason why I might want to dance with you?”
“Well, I definitely thought about it, and getting offended so you could leave or enhance your air of mystery certainly seemed to be the most likely. That's what I thought. I suppose I hoped something different.”
“Oh? And what did you hope?”
“That you simply wanted to dance with me.”
Blythe was grateful that the dance required the ladies to stand still while the men walked forward four paces. It gave her time to gather her thoughts a little bit, though she was hardly better when he returned and offered her his arm again.
“You are certainly not a bad dancer. You're at least as good a dancer as you are a brawler, anyway.”
“High praise indeed. I am grateful for the compliment.”
“So, I suppose I should ask you the same question. Why did you ask me to dance? It certainly wasn't to curry favor with Tristan. I'm pretty sure the only way you could win his favor is by leaping into an active volcano.”
“No, though I will say that the sour look your cousin gave me was fairly amusing. I wanted to know what in the world was going on. Who are you, Blythe?”
They were at Almack's, the gathering place of the ton's stars and luminaries. As a matter of course, everyone was hungry for the least little bit of gossip or scandal they could use to better their situations and batter down their rivals. It was risky in the extreme to call Thomas by his given name and to allow him to do the same for her. All the same, it was an intimacy that sent a shiver down her spine, making her reluctant in the extreme to tell him to stop.
“I'm just Blythe Dennings,” she hedged. “I'm the Duke of Parrington's second cousin. I do good works, or at least, I do the best I can. I like to sit at home and knit, and there are several prayer groups that I attend throughout the week.”
“I see. And do any of those prayer groups really exist?”
“At least one does. Thomas, please. We can't talk about such things here.”
“So, tell me when we can discuss them. Set a time and a place where we can meet.”
She nearly burst out laughing, but instead, stuffed it back with a frown. “Are you serious? Do you want me to make some... some sort of assignation with you?”
“Why not? You've shown that you are quite adept at getting out of the house without Parrington's notice. I mean, I can't imagine it's hard, given how your cousin takes his nose out of the air long enough to say hello.”
“Don't talk about Tristan like that,” Blythe said with a frown. “He doesn't deserve it.”
“Well, I may still be irritated about our fight. My lip broke open a few times in the weeks after. I'm glad his face is still marked up.”
“Honestly, you're like children,” Blythe said.
“Blythe, the dance is almost over. Tell me when I can meet you?”
“And I ask you again, why would I?”
“Because I met a contradictory young lady in the stews three weeks ago, and then I met her again among the gleaming London elite. I want to know what in the world you are doing.”
“Just for your curiosity's sake? I'm not sure I care to satisfy your curiosity, really.”
“And also, because I think you want to be seen.”
Blythe nearly missed a step. “What are you talking about?”
“It didn't escape my notice that you were all alone the night we met. I thought at first that you and Honey were a pair, and then it turned out that even the Quaker family you left her with doesn't really help you in whatever it is you do. You get waifs to them, but then you go your own way, don't you? Who really sees you, Blythe?”
No one.
The answer rang in her head like a bell, and for a moment, she was horrified to feel a thick lump come up her throat. She wondered wildly for a moment what it would do to her reputation if she simply started weeping like a ninny in front of the crush at Almack's.
“And you want to see me?” she asked as they faced each other for the final bow.
“More than anything, I think,” he replied, and then there was no time left. Tristan would never allow Thomas to get close to the house, and they didn't really have any social circles in common. She could tell him yes now, or simply let him slip away.
With an ache in her heart that she didn't understand, Blythe made a decision. “Three nights from now. Two in the morning, meet me at Seven Dials.”
Thomas didn't give her an answer. Instead, he offered her his arm and escorted her back to the sidelines where Tristan was waiting for her.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said softly, and then he was gone. In his place was Lord Cottering, smiling and taking her hand, but even as they took their places for Marchese, she couldn't help looking for Thomas in the crowd.
Blythe was getting damned tired of being summoned, she decided. She was still feeling bleary and tired from being in fancy clothes and scrutinized by what felt like all of Society from the night before when the maid appeared telling her that Tristan wanted to see her.
The house is not that big. Surely, it would not strain him to come and just... see me.
She reminded herself that no matter how they had grown up together, Tristan was now the duke, and she was just his father's charity case. Only that wasn't really true anymore, was it? Thinking about her inheritance gave Blythe a headache. She would go hours without thinking about it, but then suddenly, it would pop up in front of her again, reminding her that no matter what she wanted, everything was different now.
She glared balefully at the colorful wardrobe that Tristan had ordered for her, everything she would need to take the city by storm in her first season. They were beautiful clothes, and even if she sighed a little at how she looked in silk, the fact of their existence made her want to take some scissors to them. Blythe pushed back to the drab gray dresses she favored, pulling one on and heading to the library, where Tristan waited for her.
It occurred to her upon entering that Tristan was in far worse shape than she was. He was dressed in fresh clothes, and he was as closely shaved as ever, but despite all that, there was something frayed about the way he looked. When she looked a little closer, she could see dark circles under his eyes and a hard set to his jaw.
Becoming the duke had changed him, she thought with a pang, and she wondered if she would ever be really at ease with her cousin again.
“Good morning, Tristan,” she said.
He looked up at her. “Blythe. Come here and have a seat. We need to talk.”
I don't suppose it's going to be about how you are going to give up this attempt to parade me in front of London Society and let me live my life, is it?
Instead of saying any of that, she nodded briefly and came to sit at one of the chairs close to his desk, her hands folded in her lap. She expected him to say something about Thomas, but he surprised her.
“I have not asked you this before, because I assumed that you were as clueless as I was, but it occurs to me that perhaps you know more than you ever mentioned to me.”
“Tristan?”
“Why did my father leave you Gallowglass?”
“Tristan, believe me, if I knew, I would tell you. As it is, I have no idea.”
He gave her a long look, and she was startled by how cool it was. Tristan had a reputation for a certain amount of viciousness in the ton. He had always been more serious than Ned, and he'd never been one for making friends or sport. However, he had always been like a brother to her, and to have him looking at her like that sent a strange chill down her spine.
“I don't know what you expect me to say,” Blythe said softly. “You know as much as I do. You said yourself that you thought your father did not do well by me. Maybe at the end, he thought the same thing.”
“There was no telling what went on in my father's head. He was an older man when Ned and I were born, and we were never close. Toward the end, it seemed as if he grew even more secretive and difficult to know. Did you know him any better?”
Blythe stiffened at the tone in Tristan's voice. It made a low heat creep into her face, and she hoped that he wasn't implying what she thought he was implying. “I should have,” she said at last. “He was... bad-tempered toward the end. I wanted to help him, but I was so often put off by his moods. I should have tried harder. That's something that I will continue to regret, I think.”
She had never noticed before how dark and cold Tristan's gaze could be. It felt as if he were watching her, waiting for her to reveal some kind of stain or evil in front of his very eyes.
“If you have something to say, Tristan, please, just say it.”
She braced herself to hear Tristan call her a seductress who had taken advantage of his father, but finally, in the end, he was the one who looked away. He didn't apologize or tell her he was wrong to think that of her. Instead, he tapped one finger on the desk. “You danced with Amory last night.”
It was hard to fit Thomas into the world of the ton when she had first met him on the front steps of a terrible gambling hell. “You mean Thomas Martin. Well, yes.”
“Blythe, is there something going on between the two of you?”
This was more like the Tristan she knew, but at the moment, she was too riled to appreciate it.
She drew inward, pulling up that terribly prim facade that served her so very well. “You have seen our interactions. There's nothing else to say. I tried to help him a few weeks ago, when you two had that altercation in the alley. Then, last night, he asked me to dance, and I accepted.”
“Why him? Out of all of the people who asked you to dance, why did you accept his offer?”
“I was not going to dance at all,” Blythe said frostily. “You were the one who dragged me to Almack's last night. I would have been just as happy at home.”
Tristan slammed his hand down on the desk, making her jump. For a moment, the facade that she wore shifted, and she could feel the very real fear and shock on her face. She had never been afraid of Tristan before. However, it felt as if the Tristan that she knew was long gone, and the stranger who glared her from across his desk didn't care about her in the least. “I told you before. Stay the hell away from the Martins.”
She took a deep breath. “Tristan. I do not know why you are acting like this. No matter what you have implied or what you are suggesting, I have not done anything that would shame the Carrow name. I have done nothing that I am ashamed about, and I am certainly not so weak-willed that simply being in close proximity to a Martin is going to make me act in some unsuitable way.”
“You don't understand.”
“Explain it to me, please! You have been acting strange lately, ever since the day when we found out about Gallowglass. Do you want the property? Would you like me to sign it over to you? I will if you will simply leave me alone to live my life the way you are allowed to live yours!”
Tristan looked stricken by her words. He pulled back as if she had slapped him. “No. That's... that's not what this is about. God, Blythe.”
“Then whenever you figure out what it is really about, you should come to tell me. Because I want to know, Tristan. I really do.”
Without a single look back, she stood up from the chair and started to walk away. To her shock, Tristan was out from behind the desk, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and drawing her to a stop.
Blythe's startled cry shocked them both. He hadn't hurt her, but she had never imagined that Tristan would lay hands on her at all. He dropped her wrist as if it were hot, and Blythe had had enough. If she didn't get out of the room, she was going to hit him, and then what would happen?
Instead, she took to her heels, running out of the library and not stopping until she gained the safety of her own room. She bolted the door behind her, and by then, she was shaking hard enough that she ended up on the floor, teeth chattering and knees too wobbly to support her.
When she calmed down, Blythe realized she might have ruined everything. A good girl wouldn't scream at the master of the house like a fishwife, and she shouldn't have defied Tristan at all. She should have sweetly gone along with whatever he said and found her own way around it later on. Instead, she had gotten carried away by her own emotions, and now who knew what might happen? Tristan might just marry her to a shepherd in Dumfries simply to be rid of her.
There was no use crying over spilled milk though. She hoped the situation was not beyond salvaging. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, she would go to Tristan and apologize. She would show him that she was still his sweet biddable cousin and that nothing had changed at all. She could tell him that the shock of learning about the inheritance had left her feeling as unsettled as he had felt when he'd become the Duke of Parrington.
Tristan was reasonable. He would understand. Blythe forcibly pushed aside the thought that the old Tristan would have understood. She had no idea what the new Tristan might think or do, what he might think was good enough.
Blythe shook her head and suddenly wondered what Thomas would make of this. Would he care about the fact that Tristan seemed to be slowly changing into a monster, or would he simply dismiss it as Carrow nonsense?
Abruptly, Blythe wanted to see Thomas more than anything. She could still remember how close they had stood in the alley just three weeks ago, and last night, the warmth of his body as they had danced. The need to be close to him, to touch him, was as strong as hunger or thirst, and if she had been feeling more herself, she might have been shocked. However, sitting at the base of her bolted door, unsure what the future might hold, all she wanted was Thomas.