Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leticia peered inside the classroom at the street urchins-turned-students. Thin bodies, ragged clothing, unkempt hair and shabby shoes, and in some cases, bare feet proclaimed them the poorest of the poor, the cast offs, the ones no one acknowledged that they existed. Yet their eyes lit up with curiosity and delight. They had hope for a better future. They’d even recruited other students. The school now had over two dozen eager learners. How could anyone not see the value of this effort?
While she let her gaze rove over their happy faces, she gave a little start. Molly, who had been missing the last few days, had returned. As the girl turned her head, Leticia let out a gasp at the swollen, bruised face.
Poor thing. No wonder she’d been absent. She must have met with an accident and needed time to recover. If Leticia had bothered to check, perhaps she could have been of some assistance. Perhaps she still might help the child in some way.
As Mrs. Harper ended her lesson and invited the students to practice their reading, Leticia leaned in and caught her eye. Mrs. Harper nodded.
“Molly,” Leticia beckoned. “It’s time for your music lesson.”
The girl stood and came to her, not quite meeting her gaze. As they left the classroom together for the smaller front room they’d taken to calling the music room, Leticia eyed the girl.
They sat and Leticia smiled. “I’ve missed you, sweeting. How did you get hurt?”
Gaze downward, Molly mumbled, “Fell.”
An inner warning sounded inside Leticia. “What happened?”
The girl’s breathing grew rapid. “Oh, nuthin’. Jes’ clumsy. Tripped an’ ’it a table.”
Leticia touched her arm. “Sweeting, did someone hurt you?”
Molly shook her head.
“You can tell me if someone did.”
Molly nodded. Letting it go for the time being, Leticia pulled out the simple etudes she’d brought for the children to learn, and began the lesson. In the background, children’s voices rose as they repeated lessons in unison. Leticia corrected Molly’s hand position, reminding her to curl her fingers and sit up straight, and reviewed counting the rhythm.
At the music lesson’s conclusion, Leticia sat back. “Very good. You may tell Sarah it’s her turn and return to your seat.”
“Yes, miss.”
As the girl stood, Leticia said, “Molly, you can tell me if something is amiss. I will do anything I can to help you.”
Again, the nod. Leticia sighed. Did some neighborhood boy hurt her? They tended to travel in packs and sometimes got rough, even with girls. Leticia must keep a sharp eye out.
Throughout the day, the music lessons continued, crowding out other thoughts. As the last music student left, a shadow drifted into the room.
“You’re very good with them.” Tristan’s voice, rich and low rumbled, and a spot inside her heart warmed.
He stood leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, handsome and smug, but with a softness in his clear eyes that had never been there before. Wind-tossed dark curls tumbled over his brow invitingly. A bottle-green tailcoat gave his handsome looks an exotic slant. Had he always looked so good in buff breeches that fit him like a second skin?
Her pulse leaped and pounded double time.
But this was Tristan. Her childhood friend.
She stood and made a point of gathering her music. “Your arrival is timely. We will be stopping for luncheon soon. Then we’ll begin our first dance lesson. Are you still willing to help us demonstrate?”
“Of course.” He pushed off the wall and strode to her, all fluid grace. “What are you going to teach them?”
“My aunt’s servants said reels are popular. I thought we’d start with a Scottish Reel.”
“Good idea.” In the main entryway, he stopped and picked up a large basket. “I brought luncheon.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you. I only have a bit of fruit and cheese. We can eat in the kitchen. Mrs. Harper will let the children have a recess soon, so they can eat as well. You know, I suspect what little we feed them here is more than they get any other time.”
“You’re providing food?”
“Not much. Bread and milk in the morning, apples and bread and sometimes cheese at noontime. We found that they are more alert and learn better.”
Tristan nodded. “It’s difficult to concentrate when one is hungry.”
“Exactly!” She smiled.
Tristan always understood. She hugged her music and led the way to the kitchen. Tristan’s presence filled the room. As he strode next to her, again came that fluttering sensation. His bay rum aftershave tickled her senses, familiar, and yet more, as if his unique scent had shifted subtly, from one that reminded her of their long-standing friendship, to a sensation of, well, something entirely uncomfortable. And yet, she wanted to bury her face into his neck and inhale.
All her senses sharpened and focused on him, magnifying his breathing, the rustle of his clothes as he set out food, each shift of his arms and shoulders, the thickness of his lashes, the tumble of his hair over his forehead.
Good gracious. Whatever ailed her?
In the kitchen, while Leticia cut slices of crusty bread and placed them on a plate to take to the classroom, Tristan spread out the contents of the basket, enough to feed four grown men. After she delivered the food, she returned to share her meal with him. He sat across from her, casting occasional glances at her as they ate and chatted of inconsequential topics.
Mrs. Harper entered but stopped short. “Oh, forgive me if I’ve interrupted.”
Tristan stood as if a lady had entered. “Not at all. Please join us.” He indicated a chair at one end of the table. “Does the footman—er, Peter was it?” At her nod, he continued, “Would he like to join us as well?” At Mrs. Harper’s surprise, he added, “We’re in a school kitchen. I’m not one to stand on ceremony.”
The young teacher smiled at him, then turned her head to the doorway. “Peter,” she called. “Do join us. Mr. Barrett has enough to feed a small household.”
Tristan grinned at the teacher in friendliness and a touch of humor—no sign of the rakish flirt. Had he really changed so much that he would not show a trace of interest in the pretty young widow?
The footman appeared. They ate luncheon together, Tristan including all three of them in the conversation as if they were great friends. She watched Tristan, again lost in the admiration of his handsome face. A new maturity had settled over him, making him more handsome and dynamic than ever before. In many ways, he had transformed into the man Leticia had always believed he could be. Of course, this new lifestyle may be temporary as a way of dealing with the accident and the loss of his friend, and nearly the loss of his own life. She should not place too much hope in his behavior becoming permanent.
But oh, if it did…
What? What did that mean for her?
She’d never considered Tristan as anything more than a friend—until lately. No, she would be wise to focus on Lord Bradbury and Captain Kensington as potential husbands. They were steady and reliable.
Yet they did not add the same excitement to her life as Tristan, the same sense of belonging. That sense of belonging probably arose from her lifetime friendship between them—not because of a future as a couple. Didn’t it?
After luncheon, Mrs. Harper returned to the classroom. Peter divided his time between lounging in the back of the classroom, patrolling the exterior, and casting adoring glances at the teacher.
Tristan and Leticia settled in the front parlor in a pair of chairs next to a small pot-bellied stove opposite the pianoforte Lord Bradbury donated. He had proven himself a kind and supportive man. She should not judge him too harshly based on one conversation.
Leticia pulled her shawl more closely around herself. “I hope you don’t mind waiting a bit. Mrs. Harper has a firm schedule. Today, she made some alterations to create time for the dancing lesson, but not until they finish mathematics.”
“There is nothing I would rather do than spend time with you.” That soft smile reappeared, flirty and …affectionate? Yes. Affectionate. He’d been unusually affectionate of late in a way that transcended their usual friendship.
Did her interpretation of his affection arise from the strange, womanly attraction she’d developed for him over the last few weeks?
Footsteps pounded up the front stairs and the front door banged open. “Where is she?” A male voice roared. A bearded man in a coarse coat burst inside, his face purple and his fists held upward on either side of his body. “Molly!”
Leticia and Tristan leaped to their feet, Tristan stepping in front of Leticia protectively.
“Molly, you stupid wench, come! Now!” shouted the man.
Mrs. Harper stepped out of the classroom, her eyes wide. Molly peeked her head outside the doorway, surrounded by other faces.
Leticia drew herself up and stepped around Tristan. “You are interrupting our school, sir. Please leave.”
The man turned his gaze her way. “My girl will ’ave no part of this. Molly! Come ’ere. Now!”
With a whimper, Molly shuffled to him. He cuffed the back of her head. “I tol’ ye to stay away.”
Molly shivered. “I wanna read, Papa.”
Oh, dear. Surely this vile man wasn’t this sweet child’s father?
“No! I forbid it!” He boxed her ears.
“Stop!” Leticia rushed forward but Tristan caught her by the arm.
“Sir.” Tristan’s voice, filled with authority, caught the man’s attention. “There is no cause to strike the child.”
“She disobeyed me. I won’t ’ave a willful girl, getting’ no ’igh falutin’ ideas.” He spat on the floor and grabbed Molly by the arm.
Molly burst into tears. “Please, Papa, please let me stay.”
As the girl’s father raised his hand to strike her again, Tristan grabbed the man’s arm. “If you hit that child in my presence again, I will flatten you.”
The man swung at Tristan who neatly dodged it and landed a punch of his own. The man staggered back but as he lunged, Tristan pulled out a pistol. The sight checked the man’s step.
The girl’s father stared hard at Tristan. “Molly. Out.”
Molly shuffled toward the door.
Leticia called. “Molly, wait. You don’t have to go with him. Remember when I said I would help you? You can stay here, or…”
“Shut yer trap, woman!” the girl’s father snarled. “My girl. Not yours. She goes wit’ me.” As if remembering the pistol trained on him, he snapped his mouth shut.
“No,” Lectica said. “I won’t allow you to take her. You—”
Tristan’s voice cut across hers, gentle but decisive. “He’s right. As her father, he has a legal right to keep her.”
She turned to Tristan, angry and helpless. “He hurts her.”
Tristan kept his focus on the man, steady, grim. He flicked his gun toward the door. “Go. Do not return.”
The man cast a sneering glance at all of them and dragged his hapless daughter by one arm. He left the door wide open behind him.
Peter closed and bolted the door. “Sorry, Miss. I’ll keep better watch.”
Mrs. Harper shepherded the children back to the classroom and instructed them to recite sums aloud.
Leticia rounded on Tristan. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me—”
“Keep her?” Tristan supplied. “Then what?”
She struggled to come up with an answer. “I don’t know, but I can’t stand the thought of her living with such abuse.”
Tristan tucked away his gun and put a hand on each of her shoulders. “If you tried to take her from her father, you would be in danger of the law.”
Leticia struggled against anger, helplessness, sorrow.
Gently, Tristan pulled her in close and held her. “I know, Tish.” He let out his breath. “Fathers should love and protect their children, not hurt them.”
Enfolded in the soothing comfort of his arms, her distress faded. She held on to him as a deep place inside her sighed.
He let out a caustic laugh. “Although, I suppose some children are full of the devil and deserve a few beatings.”
She pulled away to look at him. “No child deserves any beating.”
“Not like that.” He glanced at the door through which Molly and her father exited.
“Not like what your father did to you, either.”
Memories surfaced of, as a child, often finding Tristan, grim and teary-eyed but trying not to cry, curled up in the hollow of the oak near the brook after his father had whipped him. She had always put an arm around him and tried to reassure him that he was a good boy. Eventually, he stopped believing her. Now, as it did then, the idea of the gentle, dreamy-eyed Tristan she knew as a child being subjected to harsh punishment sent pain through her.
His eyes took on a faraway look, his expression unbearably sad. “I was such a disappointment…the reason my mother left.”
“No, of course not.” Did he really believe his mother ran off because of him?
His lips tightened. “I would never treat my children that way. There are more effective ways of punishing a misbehaving child and ensuring discipline than inflicting welts and bruises.”
“Of course there is.” She smoothed back that curl that always tumbled over his brow and let her fingers slide along his smooth-shaven cheek.
His eyes became intensely focused on her. With deliberate slowness, he slid one hand up her arm, over her shoulder, up her neck to her face. His thumb grazed her cheek in a feather touch. The air around them thickened, and all her nerve endings tingled as if a thunderstorm raged nearby. His gaze focused on her mouth. Her lips heated in response. He lowered his head, paused, met her eyes. A question lay there, open and honest.
She didn’t know the answer. Her heart throbbed and a slow, burning tightness coiled in her stomach. He moved his other hand, slow and sensuous, up her shoulder to her other cheek. He stood, warm hands on her face, his eyes hot. He lowered his head again but paused a breath away.
Is this what she wanted?
He brushed his lips over hers, warm and unbearably soft. Someone let out a sigh. Or a moan. The pressure of his mouth increased to a gentle tug, asking, testing. It returned with renewed heat, no longer asking but offering. Unimaginable pleasure crept over her. The slow burn intensified.
Footsteps outside the room neared. “Stay in line, children.” Mrs. Harper’s voice rang out.
Leticia leaped away from Tristan. The warmth of his touch, his kiss, remained. While Tristan moved to stare out of the window, Leticia sank into one of the armchairs facing the stove. She pressed a finger over her lips. They throbbed. Burned. Delicious warmth inside her made her want to stretch like a cat. No wonder mothers and chaperones kept such wary eyes on young girls. Everything proper inside her crumbled under the power of Tristan’s skillful kiss. The reckless behavior of so many women now made perfect sense.
She was a fool to venture there, especially with a libertine of Tristan’s caliber. She would do well to remember that he was not the sweet, sensitive child she’d comforted, confided in, played with, loved as a brother but most of all as a friend. Over the last several years, he’d become a rake in every sense of the word. He claimed to have changed, and indeed appeared to have done so, but this newly reformed side of him may not be here to stay.
If she gave her heart to him, only to have him eventually resume his life as a rake, she may never survive the heartbreak.