Each time he called her Anne, it spoke of intimacies. She wished he’d revert to calling her Princess. It kept her hackles up, made it easier to deal with him, to keep her distance. He was a lord and it gave a new meaning to everything they’d shared.
“The duke, your brother, I’ve never seen him. Is he about?”
“He’s dancing with his wife, Mary. To your left.”
As unobtrusively as possible, she glanced over her shoulder and nearly lost her footing. The left side of his face was heavily scarred and he wore an eye patch.
“He’s my twin,” Tristan said quietly.
“I can see a bit of resemblance.” The dark hair, the jawline—
“Most people don’t look beyond the scars.”
She studied the duchess. She had vibrant red hair and was smiling up at her husband as though she adored him, as though he had no hideous countenance to look upon.
“She doesn’t seem bothered by them.”
“But then she loves him.”
That much was obvious. She returned her attention to Tristan. “Do all of you bear scars?”
“None we can’t live with.”
Why could others not see what these brothers had endured to reclaim what they’d lost? Why were they not welcomed? Because they’d not grown up within the familiar confines, because they stood out as different.
She realized the music had drifted into silence as their movements came to a halt.
“Will you keep your promise to Lady Hermione?” she asked.
“If would be cruel of me not to, don’t you think? But I want another dance with you.”
“That would be most unwise.”
She hated the words even as she spoke them. He didn’t argue. He simply began to lead her from the dance floor. Tense and bristling, Jameson was standing at its edge. She was surprised he didn’t charge into the fray and snatch her away.
Just before they reached her brother, Tristan said, “The last dance of the evening is mine.”
Before she could object to his possessive tone—or admit how it thrilled her—he released her and strode away.
For the first time that night she was truly looking forward to something, and that filled her with a certain amount of dread. Nothing could exist between them beyond what they’d already shared. In spite of his being a lord, his life was the sea. Hers was here.
Chapter 15
“The ladies are all atwitter,” Sarah said as she cornered Anne in the ladies retiring room.
“Ladies are always atwitter,” Anne responded coolly. She’d needed a moment alone to regain her composure. Lie, lie, lie. She’d needed to be away from the dance floor so she wasn’t watching Tristan waltzing about with Lady Hermione. He smiled at her; he spoke with her; he was holding her in his arms only moments after doing the same with Anne. She wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous. But she didn’t much like seeing him with another lady. Especially as he seemed to be enjoying himself so much.
“You danced with Lord Tristan,” Sarah said.
“I’m well aware with whom I danced. He wasn’t in disguise, for goodness’ sake.”
“He’s dangerous, Anne.”
I’m well aware of that, and in ways you can’t even imagine. “It was merely a dance.”
“You weren’t here when he and his brothers returned two years ago. They were savages.”
“Because they reclaimed what was stolen from them?”
“It was the manner in which they did it. They burst in, uninvited, to Lord David’s ball and ordered him to leave the residence.”
“It was their residence, was it not? It was Easton House, wasn’t it, which belonged to their father and thus his son, the next duke?”
“Well, yes, I suppose if one were to be literal about—”
“I don’t see how one could be anything else.”
Sarah glared at her. “The residence aside, they made quite the spectacle of themselves. Why the eldest brother almost choked his uncle to death.”
Anne wasn’t certain she could blame him for such an action.
“And poor Lady Lucretia has been in seclusion ever since,” Sarah continued.
Their uncle’s wife. “She’s a widow now, isn’t she?”
“Quite. After her husband’s mysterious death. Slipped from a tower, in the rain. Supposedly.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think they killed him.”
She didn’t want to admit that she could quite easily see Tristan killing someone. But not without very good reason.
Tristan stood in a darkened corner of the terrace and smoked on a cheroot. Dancing with Lady Hermione had been an exercise in frustration. The silly chit talked incessantly. She invited him to ride with her in the park, to have dinner with her family, to dance with her again. He’d made up one excuse after another. Perhaps it would have been kinder in the long run not to have danced with her, not to give her any hope at all that more could be between them.
Two years ago, he had wanted nothing more from her than a bit of innocent flirtation. He’d certainly never considered wooing her into his bed. She was a child. She didn’t have Anne’s allure.
Now, Anne … damnation, but he was obsessed with thoughts of her. She invaded his waking hours as much as she did his sleeping ones. He would be studying charts or discussing with merchants the possibility of carrying their cargo—and there she would appear. He thought he should be envisioning her hair draped over her nude body or her slender form writhing beneath him. And he did visit those images from time to time. But more often than not, he thought of her smile or her laughter or the way it had felt to have her standing near him on the deck, listening to the whales. Or sharing meals with her. Verbally sparring with her, the challenging glint in her eyes when she gave no quarter.
He should be back at sea, yet here he was in a place that he loathed. He thought one more sighting of her would have satisfied him, but he’d seen her and wanted more. To speak with her.
He’d spoken with her, and it wasn’t enough. He wanted a dance.
He’d had his dance, and now he wanted one more.
He wondered if he could lure her into the garden for a kiss. Just one more—
“Lord Tristan.”
At the sound of Lord Jameson’s commanding voice, Tristan took a last drag on his cheroot, dropped it to the ground as he exhaled, and snuffed out the sparks with his boot. He turned to find four fair-haired gents blocking his way. “Ah, Lord Blackwood’s sons, I take it.”
“You are never to go near our sister again,” Jameson said.
“Your sister strikes me as a lady with a mind of her own. If the words come from her, I’ll heed them. From you, no, m’lord.”
“How do you know our sister?” one of the others asked. He appeared to be the youngest. A year, maybe two older than Anne.
“How does any gentleman know any lady?”
“The problem there, Lord Tristan, is that none of us consider you a gentleman,” Jameson snapped. “We watched as you cut your swath through London’s ladies two years ago. Our sister will not succumb to your charms.”
She already has, m’lord, hung at the edge of his tongue like some poor blighter forced to walk the plank in shark-infested waters. Those words would earn him a sound beating from the gents who stood before him. But more, they would anger Anne and he wasn’t quite done with her yet. Of course, neither was he done taunting Lord Jameson. He had decided that he didn’t much like the fellow. He could hardly signify that this man was Anne’s brother.
“Lady Hermione didn’t succumb, my lord. We never shared more than a dance.”
Even though they were in shadows, enough light filtered in from the garden path for Tristan to see the fury ignite Jameson’s eyes. He’d noticed the way the man looked at Lady Hermione, and Tristan was fairly satisfied to see that he’d guessed correctly at some of what might lie beneath the man’s animosity toward him. You’re welcome to her, old man.
“Why the devil wo
uld I care about that?” Jameson asked.
“Because you fancy her, my lord.”
“You know nothing. Stay clear of our sister or you’ll know the weight of our fists.” The man charged toward the doors leading back into the ballroom.
His brothers weren’t so quick to leave. They each took a moment to glare at Tristan, issuing their silent challenges, before sauntering away.
He glanced up at the hazy sky. Damn but he hated London, Society, the rules. He needed the wind around him and the sea beneath him. He’d been residing at Sebastian’s residence, but tonight, he decided, he’d sleep on his ship, just to have the rocking motion that had so often lulled him.
“Tell me that barbarian is not the sea captain you hired.”
Anne was grateful for the dark confines of the carriage because she was relatively certain based on the heat searing her face that she was now scarlet. Jameson had just delivered their aunt to her residence and was now escorting Anne home. Her other brothers had departed from the ball at various times to head to their clubs. It seemed Jameson, however, was taking his role of oldest brother to the extreme.
“Good God, he is, isn’t he?” he asked.
“I knew him only as Captain Crimson Jack,” she admitted rather reluctantly, but she couldn’t see lying about it. She didn’t need him making inquiries along the docks. Sooner or later he was bound to uncover the truth anyway. Better to control the discovery and subsequent consequences.
“What a colorful moniker.”
“He came highly recommended and he was a perfect gentleman on the ship.”
“He is not a gentleman. He gave Lady Hermione cause to believe he would ask for her hand and he did not. He left with nary a word and she has been pining for him ever since. Now he is back and he didn’t even bother to call on her.”
Now Anne wished for some light so she could study her brother’s face in the shadows. His voice held such distaste that she was surprised he wasn’t spitting. “You seem more concerned with his treatment of her than my acquaintance with him.”
“I’m only telling you of his behavior so you understand he is a blackguard of the lowest order. Not to be trusted. I forbid you to speak with him again.”
Forbid her? She almost snapped that it wasn’t his place to forbid her anything. Instead she stared out the window. Tristan had claimed her for the final dance of the evening. She wasn’t certain where he’d been all night. After his dance with Lady Hermione he had disappeared. She’d feared that he’d left. A silly thing to worry over but she had wanted another dance with him.
But then he’d appeared, as though out of thin air. Perhaps he’d been playing cards. It didn’t matter. She was back in his arms, and while she knew it was a very dangerous place to be, she couldn’t help but feel glad to be there. They didn’t speak this time. Not a single word. Yet there had been so much communication. She’d recognized the appreciation in his light blue gaze, and the longing that mirrored hers. She’d fallen into the welcoming depths of his eyes and found herself yearning for dark forbidden corners where their bodies could share secrets.
It was all so wrong. Yet the knowledge did little to curb her desire.
She didn’t want to contemplate that he might have taken advantage of Lady Hermione, that he might be the sort who left broken hearts in his wake. Surely he understood how vulnerable hers was. Although she had no intention of giving it to him. What they shared was the physical only. She couldn’t allow it to be more. She couldn’t risk being hurt again. Love led to unparalleled pain that couldn’t be assuaged so easily. Always there would be a final separation.
Much better to live one’s life with a man whom she could like, but in whom she would not invest her heart and soul. Chetwyn came to mind. He would be such a man. No passion. No risk to her heart. No worries.
Proper. It would all be very proper. She suspected even his lovemaking would be proper. No sweating bodies, cries of pleasure. No torrid breathless moments.
The carriage came to a halt and she realized that they’d arrived home, her wayward thoughts careening into oblivion.
“Do we have an understanding?” Jameson asked. “Regarding Lord Tristan.”
“Yes, Brother. I understand perfectly what you said.” Doesn’t mean I’ll heed your orders. But she did understand them.
She retired to her bedchamber, rang for Martha, and an hour later was prepared for bed, though her emotions were in such a swirl that she knew she’d be unable to sleep. She considered going to the library to fetch a book, but she doubted she’d be able to concentrate.
“Will there be anything else, m’lady?”
From her bench in front of the vanity, she peered over at Martha. “No. Thank you. Sleep well.”
When the door had clicked shut behind her maid, she turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror. Her first ball after so many years away had not gone so terribly badly. She supposed she would survive the Season.
Leaning toward the mirror, she watched as a boot-clad foot and tight britches appeared through the window. Coming to her feet, she spun around and stared as Tristan made his way ever so calmly into her room.
He grinned. “I thought she’d never leave.”
Chapter 16
“What are you doing here?”
She didn’t seem alarmed, so much as curious.
“I came to see you of course.”
“My brothers are—”
“At their clubs. As is your father.”
“Still, this is my father’s home and for me to allow you to stay …”
Her voice trailed off, and he strove not to let show his joy at her considering allowing him to stay. Damnation but the past week had been hellacious. He suspected, and tonight it had been confirmed, that his calling on her would not be welcomed by her family. Before tonight he had no opening, no way to explain how he knew her. Now an introduction at a ball opened doors … and windows.
He strode over to her, cupped her face in his hands, and tilted up her chin so he could gaze squarely into her silver eyes. “Tell me to leave and I will.”
“God forgive me for my weakness,” she whispered, rising up to meet him as he lowered his questing mouth to hers.
It felt marvelous to once again have the taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her. Why did she call to him so? Why could he not leave? He’d readied the ship for departure. He wanted to be back on the seas. He wanted to hear the wind slapping the sails. He wanted to look out and see nothing that hindered him. He’d stood on the deck prepared to give the order to set sail and the words that had come out of his mouth surprised him as much as his men. “We’re staying in port.”
He’d gone to Sebastian’s, knowing that Mary would have an inkling as to which ball held the promise of attracting most of the nobility. He hadn’t confessed his interest in Anne to her, although she’d certainly given him a speculative look. Once he returned to his brother’s residence, she’d no doubt pepper him with questions regarding what she may have witnessed this evening. Small sacrifice for what he had now gained.
Anne was as greedy as he was, her mouth matching his eagerness, her tongue darting and exploring as though she’d only just discovered a treasure map and needed to memorize the paths that would lead to gold. Bold, so very bold. Her hands skimmed over his shoulders, his back, up into his hair. He couldn’t get enough of her touching him, but he wanted it to be flesh meeting flesh with no clothes between them.
Breaking away, she staggered back, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes dimmed with misgivings. “Not in my father’s house.”
“Get dressed. I’ll meet you in the back and we’ll find a room in a hotel where we can be alone.”
“As though I’m some common doxy?”
“As though I shall go mad if I don’t possess you.”
A bubble of laughter burst from her mouth, lighting her eyes, even as she shook her head. “It’s too tawdry. A room somewhere in which other people have slept.”
“Y
ou didn’t seem to mind my climbing into bed with you when we were on my ship.”
“It was another world. Far away. Not … here.”
God help him, he wanted to push her, but he’d seen how she’d suffered with the refusal she’d given her fiancé. He wanted to do nothing that brought back memories of the man who had once—and possibly still—held her heart.
“Seems you could at least be hospitable and offer me a drink. Still hoarding your father’s brandy?”
He saw the gratitude wash over her features because he was squelching his desires. Only for now, sweetheart. Misjudging an adversary on the sea could cost a man his ship and possibly his life. Tristan was not in the habit of misjudging. He was very skilled at biding his time until the moment was right.
With a nod she turned and headed toward her wardrobe. He wandered over to the sitting area and stared into the empty hearth. He couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to be with her in winter, snuggled beneath a layer of blankets, seeking warmth.
“Here you are.”
He took the snifter she offered, glad to see that she had one of her own. Brandy would serve much better for seduction than a fire.
He wondered if she read his mind, because a wariness touched her voice when she asked, “Would you care to sit?”
“Delighted.”
She sat on one end of the small sofa, drawing her feet beneath her, while he sat on the other, stretching out his legs. She looked young and innocent, cupping the snifter with both hands, watching him over the rim. “My brother informs me that you gave Lady Hermione cause for hope that your interest in her went beyond the ballroom.”
Damnation! It could be Lady Hermione more than this being her father’s residence that had Anne hesitant to welcome him into her bed. “I didn’t.”
“But you are in the habit of leaving women …” Her voice trailed off into an unasked question.
At every port. “Yes.”
“So this between us is—”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Or how long it will last?”
“Does it matter?”
Lord of Temptation Page 15