He paused for a more thorough exploration. She felt his touch as surely as if his fingertips had been caressing her skin, tracing every smooth curve. Too familiar. Too intimate. The nerve endings that only moments before had been demanding she scratch a nonexistent itch began to work in concert, all their energy now focused somewhere near the base of her spine. Desperate to appease them, she wiggled her hips soundlessly beneath the coverlet.
He heard her nonetheless. Or else the movement, though slight, had caught his eye. He turned, the journal in hand, his long fingers pale against its dark cover. She had startled him. Surely he had not meant to pick it up. A soft sound, a murmur of disappointment, slipped past her lips, and she shifted again, hoping these would be mistaken for the noises and movements of sleep.
Though he did not seem to imagine she was fully awake, gone were the leisurely motions, the careful study of moments ago. He turned rapidly toward the door and was to it in half a dozen strides. When he reached for the latch, she saw he still held her journal in his other hand.
The Duke of Raynham was a thief.
Rational thought urged her to speak to him in a low voice, prompt him to drop the book and leave.
Pure instinct ripped a scream of betrayal from her lungs.
She freed herself from the tangle of bed linen and leaped to her feet, racing toward the door. Tristan, frozen in surprise, did not protest when she ripped the journal from his hands and flung it back toward the bed. “How dare you?” she demanded.
“Miss Burke, I—”
His explanation, his excuse—whatever it might have been—died on his lips. Up and down the corridor, beds creaked, footsteps pounded, doors rattled. Up and down the corridor, voices rang.
“What was that?”
“Who—?”
“Is someone hurt?”
“I think it came from Miss Burke’s room…”
In another moment, the corridor was filled with people and candlelight. Mrs. Newsome, who had been bustling toward the disturbance, skidded to a stop and stared in horror, scarlet from the ruffled edge of her nightcap to the high collar of her flannel dressing gown. Lady Easton Pilkington, by contrast, was deathly pale. Lord Beresford and Lady Lydgate, suspiciously late to the party, whispered to one another behind her raised hand. Captain Whitby alone did not press forward, but clung to the shadows beyond the nearest sconce, his expression unreadable, his arms folded across his chest. Self-consciously, Erica imitated the pose and recollected belatedly the diaphanous quality of her borrowed sleepwear. Cool night air penetrated the thin fabric and swept along her flushed skin.
From the chamber across the way, Caroline emerged last of all, her eyes awash with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. But it could not be, could it? For there they stood, the center of a circle of otherwise disapproving, disbelieving stares, Erica in a rumpled nightdress and Tristan in his shirtsleeves and stockings, bright spots of color high on his chiseled cheekbones. They would hardly have been worse off to have been caught in flagrante delicto.
Caroline’s lips pursed, and again Erica had the distinct impression she was fighting back a laugh. “Oh,” she said when she had mastered whatever impulse had distorted her lovely mouth.
Tristan, too, was battling some emotion, but it was assuredly not laughter. A muscle ticked along his jaw and his eyes flashed, putting Erica in mind of the way lightning pierced storm clouds, momentarily shifting the sky from black to deepest blue and back to black again. He glanced first at Caroline, then turned toward Erica—no easy task, as his spine appeared to have been replaced with an iron rod, his posture so rigid that even his complete uniform, were he still wearing it, would have been unequal to it.
“Miss Burke,” he began, and this time, nothing and no one interrupted him, although Erica felt certain the words he spoke now were not at all the words he had intended to speak two minutes past. “It seems I have the honor of asking you to be my wife.”
She understood, suddenly, Miss Pilkington’s impulse to giggle. Or perhaps that alarming bubbling sensation in her middle presaged something a bit more dire. Either way, she clamped her jaw tight against it. No, no, no. Nothing made any sense. She was the one who spoke wildly, whose thoughts moved with the jerky leaps and wobbly steps of a spring lamb. Tristan was all cool logic and order. So why was he spouting nonsense now? Why wasn’t he explaining to all these people, herself included, the reason he had come to her chamber in the middle of the night? He certainly hadn’t compromised her. At least, not in the traditional sense, though when she thought of her journal in his hands she felt undeniably violated. And earlier in the evening there’d been the kiss…well, kisses…but surely even a high stickler like Mrs. Newsome wouldn’t require such a dire punishment for mere kisses. And punishment it would be. Of the worst sort. For both of them. Imagine…her, a duchess?
And he was imagining it too. Of that, she had no doubt. While she stood there, not speaking, some of the cold fury in his aspect leached away, to be replaced by something very like panic. Probably he was forcing himself to contemplate the years ahead, saddled forever with an unsuitable woman, when he might have had Caroline instead.
A noise grated in Erica’s throat then, too rough and too loud to be a laugh. Frankly grateful that only sound and nothing more humiliating had burst forth, she notched her chin a bit higher. Oh, what would her sister say when she heard what had happened? Even though nothing had happened, really…
Except that for some inexplicable reason he had tried steal her journal.
“Miss Burke?” he prompted, for all the world as if he had asked a serious question requiring a considered answer.
“A Thiarna Dia,” she muttered.
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you, ma’am.” Not even a glimmer of humor. His voice slid along her spine like icy raindrops.
“I most certainly will not marry you,” she said, crisply enunciating each word so that everyone within earshot could hear. And before he or any of the assembled company could recover from the shock of either their discovery or her refusal, she stepped backward into her chamber and slammed the door between them.
Chapter 13
Erica awoke to a tap on her door, surprised to discover she had slept at all. The morning light had a distinctly grayish cast, as if the sky had not yet made up its mind whether the day was to dawn wet or dry. Something firm and sharp-cornered was pressing into her ribs, and when another soft knock came, she raised herself from the bed enough to discover she had collapsed atop her journal.
She rolled onto her back, brushing tangled hair away from her face and rubbing her knuckles into the thin, salty crust of dried tears at the corners of her eyes. Probably some servant, ordered to retrieve the finery that had been loaned to her and then send her on her way in her mud-stained pelisse. Perhaps if she simply ignored the knocking, she’d be left alone, walled into the chamber and never spoken of again. Perhaps that was how one actually died of embarrassment.
“Go away,” she muttered, not quite loudly enough to be heard in the corridor.
“Miss Burke?”
The duchess’ voice, so unexpected, brought her to her feet. After fumbling to free herself from the bed linens, Erica closed her fingertips around the cool, heavy silk of the dressing gown and drew it about her as she stumbled toward the door. When she reached it, the Duchess of Raynham was lifting her hand to knock again. The Laurenses, even by marriage, were a persistent lot.
Erica made herself open the door wide and invited the duchess into the room with a sweep of one arm. No sense in staging another scene in the corridor for all to hear. And why else would the woman have come but to rail at Erica for having schemed to trap her stepson?
“I’m sorry to have to wake you, Miss Burke,” the Duchess of Raynham said gently. Genuinely. “I know you did not have a restful night.” Her kind eyes were shadowed with worry, and guilt rolled over Erica. How u
njust she had been to this lady, who had been nothing but generous and who evidently had come herself to spare her guest the silent judgment of Mrs. Dean and every maid and footman at Hawesdale Chase.
When she had stepped far enough into the room that the door could be shut behind her, Erica repaid that kindness and generosity by turning to her and demanding an answer only Tristan could give. “Why did he do it?”
Startled, the duchess drew back from the question, straightening her spine and tucking in her chin. “Vivi told me you had a tendency to be forthright.”
Lady Viviane. The girl would be sent back to the schoolroom and Miss Chatham, probably not even allowed to say goodbye. The realization left Erica feeling hollower yet. “A flaw, I know,” she conceded.
“A quality too few possess, I should say,” the duchess corrected. “Especially women.” Unbending slightly, she folded her hands in front of her, their pallor stark against her black gown. “If you mean to ask why he offered for you, I can only say that for as long as I have known him, since he was a young man, he has always possessed a strong sense of honor and sought to demonstrate it. He tries to do what is right.” Her skirts swayed slightly beneath fidgeting fingers. “And even as I speak those words, I realize how ludicrous such a claim must sound to you, since if it were true, he ought never to have been in such a position to begin with.”
Erica let her breath escape. At least the duchess did not intend to accuse her of having invited him to her room. To her bed. But then, the man Tristan’s stepmother knew did not sound at all like the sort of man who hid in abandoned cottages rather than going home. Who went sneaking about after dark, prying into things that were none of his business. Whereas the man Erica knew had done exactly that.
Which of them had made the truer sketch of his character?
Tempted to scramble for her journal, she instead walked toward the dressing table and reached for the hairbrush to have something with which to occupy her hands. But as her fingers curled around the cool silver, she remembered that Tristan had been the last to touch it, as his fingers passed over the vanity’s contents in the dark. In a flash, the metal grew hot in her hand and she dropped it onto the table with a clatter. “I cannot decide, Your Grace,” she said without turning, “whether you are more relieved at my refusal, or surprised by it.”
“Why must I be either one?”
Not expecting such an answer, Erica sank down into the chair at the dressing table, meeting the duchess’ gaze over her shoulder when she glanced into the mirror.
“There are women who value their reputations above their happiness. And there are women who would angle for a proposal from a duke.” The wry edge to her voice made Erica wonder whether the duchess numbered Miss Pilkington among the latter. “I hardly know you, Miss Burke. But from what little I do know, you seem inclined to show better sense than either. Although Tristan is not my son, his happiness means a great deal to me,” she continued after a moment. “I would wish for him the sort of match that would make him happy.”
Erica dropped her gaze. “And he could not be happy with me.”
The words sounded more cutting than she had intended, she realized belatedly. As if she were challenging the duchess’ assertion rather than confirming it. But she knew she could not make a man like him happy. Lately, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble making anyone happy. Including herself.
The duchess’ reply, when it came, was measured. “It is, I think, more difficult for a marriage to promote happiness when it has not been freely chosen.” She stepped toward the dressing table, picked up the brush, and began to turn it over in her hands. “Though not impossible.” Though her movements were unhurried, Erica recognized in them a familiar sort of nervous energy. The type to which she had always assumed real ladies were immune. Particularly duchesses.
She gave the brush an airy wave with a flick of her wrist. “When Vivi was a little girl, I used to brush her hair every night.” The slight, faraway smile of memory accompanied the words. “Truth be told…I had little choice. She would never submit to having her nurse do it.” Almost absently, she began to run the brush softly over Erica’s unruly mass of hair. Her practiced hands made sure, calming strokes, as if Erica were some wild creature capable of being soothed by it. Domesticated. “I think, on the whole, a woman with your spirit would be an equal match for Tristan,” she said after a while. Erica’s eyes had begun to drift closed, but now popped open, imagining his reaction to his stepmother’s pronouncement. “The question, really, is whether you believe he would make you happy.” One final stroke, and the duchess returned the brush to the tabletop. “And that question you would seem already to have answered.”
Warily, Erica nodded. Oh, yes. She’d left him in no doubt. And if she felt any regret for her hasty reply, what would be the point in wasting energy on the matter? What was done was done.
“Now, wash your face and get dressed, Miss Burke,” the duchess ordered as she inspected her own appearance in the mirror, avoiding Erica’s gaze. “You have a caller.”
“A—a caller?” Erica darted her eyes toward the window, thinking first of her sister. But surely the roads had not yet improved enough for Cami—or anyone else—to travel to Hawesdale.
“Yes. A caller.”
Suspecting subterfuge, an attempt to force a meeting with Tristan, Erica sent her a questioning look as she rose. But the duchess would say nothing more.
* * * *
Even before he saw the stranger, Tristan realized that seeking refuge in the library had been a mistake. It was unlike him, unworthy of him, to avoid the breakfast room merely to avoid an uncomfortable scene with his guests. But he’d done it all the same. And for his pains, he was to be treated to uncomfortable memories instead: Erica sweeping from shelf to shelf in search of a suitable volume, his plot to use his poor sister to keep his mysterious guest occupied, and finally, the fateful suggestion to show Erica the conservatory. All of which had led to last night. Charades and kisses and—Christ—those heart-stopping moments in her bedchamber, even before he realized he’d been caught.
What he ought to do was write a letter to Colonel Scott and resign his commission. Once, he’d fancied himself a top-notch intelligence officer. Though he’d prayed to never have to put such knowledge to use, he’d learned what to do if he were captured in enemy territory. How to stay silent in the face of threats, even torture. What to say if words must be spoken.
None of that preparation had included blurting out a proposal of marriage.
Nor had he been prepared for the wave of disappointment that had crashed over him when she’d turned him down flat.
He was well aware that throughout Hawesdale at this very moment, people were murmuring about last night, in accents ranging from the servants’ northern notes to aristocratic drawls. And every one of those voices was claiming, each in its own way, that Miss Burke must be “tapped.” Out of her mind to turn down an offer from a duke.
But if they could see into his mind—or his heart—and if they knew how he had hesitated at the foot of her bed for a moment too long, remembering the feel of her lips and wondering what it would be like to slip beneath the covers beside her and stay, when all his life he’d only ever wanted to go… Well, they would have known it was he who’d run mad.
At precisely that moment, he spotted an unfamiliar figure waiting near the desk and feared he’d added hallucinations to his disorder.
But surely, if his mind were prone to conjuring visions, it would offer up something more in the line of a certain flame-haired woman? Not a silver-haired man of medium height, somewhere between fifty and sixty years, who turned toward the doorway when Tristan made his way deeper into the room, though he had not made a sound. The carpets were thick as featherbeds in the library; his father had despised interruptions.
“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “I was instructed to wait here for Miss Burke.”
/> Tristan prided himself on his ability to recognize, on the basis of fewer words than this man had just spoken, a person’s education and origins and rank. The county he called home—sometimes, even the particular corner of it. His occupation.
But the stranger remained an enigma. He was not a Londoner, though he had spent enough time in that city that his birthplace no longer revealed itself through clipped consonants or rounded vowels. His clothes, his bearing, all the clues by which people tipped their hands, all the masks behind which they hid—the collective image formed by these pieces of evidence was hazy at best. The only sure thing, his unspecified connection to Erica, raised more questions than it answered.
“Do I have the honor of addressing the Duke of Raynham?” the man asked, when Tristan did not speak.
Warily, Tristan tipped his head in acknowledgment. “And you are?”
“Arthur Remington, Your Grace.” He bowed. “Lord Ashborough’s man.”
A curious description. Man of business? Manservant? Not a valet, surely, given his ill-fitting clothes. Yet somehow he carried about him an air of precision that might, at times, have veered toward the fastidious. Tristan had the distinct, unsettling impression that Mr. Remington would have little difficulty assuming whatever role the marquess demanded of him.
“Remy?” Erica’s voice came from behind him. Tristan turned to find her paused on the threshold, as if she too did not trust her eyes.
“Miss Erica.” The man’s shoulders lowered half an inch, the closest they likely had ever come to sagging with relief.
Erica hurried to him, skirting past Tristan as if he were no more than another piece of furniture. “Is Cami here? Is she—?”
“Lady Ashborough is perfectly well, ma’am. In Windermere, with his lordship.”
“He sent you through the storm?” Her gratitude was tinged with a sharper note: annoyance with her brother-in-law for putting another in harm’s way.
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