Lord of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  She said something to Chetwyn. With a slight bow he moved in behind her—

  Tristan clenched his back teeth, tightened his hands into fists, and growled low. He didn’t think he’d been loud, but she suddenly jerked up her head and looked in his direction. With a soft smile to Chetwyn, a word to the other gents, mallet in hand, she began striding across the green and he wondered briefly if she was coming to deliver a blow to his head for disturbing her game.

  Then she smiled brightly at him as though she was truly happy to see him, and he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. He would do anything to keep that smile on her face, and that made him want to leave because he’d never cared so much in his life about the ridiculous parting of the lips, revealing of the teeth.

  “You came,” she said softly.

  “You are quite astute, Princess.”

  Her smile diminished and he wanted to kick himself for the harshness in his tone. Could he sound any less charming? Maybe she should hit him with the mallet. Good and hard.

  “You’re not comfortable,” she said.

  “You seem to have quite the round of admirers.”

  “Jealous, then.”

  Why should he be jealous? He’d tasted what they hadn’t and would again if he so desired. He so desired, dammit. Two minutes after leaving her company, he wanted to be back with her. He didn’t know what to make of this strange obsession. “I think coming here was a mistake. I should probably go.”

  “Turning cowardly, already?”

  He gave her a look that normally quelled rambunctious men—men much heftier than she—into behaving. She merely angled her chin defiantly.

  “It’s only because you don’t know everyone,” she said patiently. “Let me introduce you around.” Gliding over, she slipped her arm around his.

  “Keeping the mallet?” he asked.

  “Never know when I might have to use it on a hard head. In particular, yours.”

  He couldn’t help the grin that tugged up the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were sparkling with teasing. She nudged her shoulder against his arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He realized with a sudden unequivocal certainty that he would walk through hell for her. No doubt he was about to do just that.

  Anne began with Chetwyn because she knew that, like Walter, he possessed a kindness and wasn’t likely to give a cut direct. That she couldn’t rely on her brothers to be charming was a sad state of affairs. She was quite aware of the two who had come—Jameson and Stephan—shooting daggers at Tristan. Based on his cocky grin and swagger, she was rather certain he was mindful of it as well.

  She supposed she couldn’t blame them for keeping their distance. Confidence radiated off him, and his command of himself and those around him was evident in his mien. In his presence, everything—everyone—dwarfed. Just as they had on his ship, as they did in her bedchamber. It wasn’t because he was a lumbering giant. Because he wasn’t. It was quite simply that he was so self-possessed. He’d been on his own since he was fourteen. In years, he was no older than Jameson, but in life’s experiences, her brother had no hope of ever catching up.

  Until this moment she wasn’t quite certain she’d realized all that. What could he possibly talk to these men about that he wouldn’t find trivial? The weather? When they complained of the light drizzle while he had survived nature’s fury? A trip to the seaside when he had walked along shores that possibly weren’t even marked on a map?

  She wanted to tell her brothers to stand at his side, that he possessed a goodness. But her brothers would only accuse her of becoming starry-eyed. Perhaps she had. She knew only that her heart had soared when she spotted him lurking beside the rhododendrons. He’d come when she knew he didn’t want to, so perhaps she meant a tad more than a bit of bed sport to him.

  “I remember my father speaking of a visit he made to Pembrook,” Chetwyn said, sipping on the champagne that the footmen were serving. “I seem to recall he had a jolly good time fishing while there.”

  If she hadn’t spent so much time in Tristan’s company, she wasn’t certain she would have noticed the subtle start of surprise that appeared in his eyes and was gone in a blink. She wondered if it was because he hadn’t expected Chetwyn to be so cordial or if he was remembering a happier time.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “We have a pond. It was once well stocked with fish. I spent many an hour sitting with father, waiting for them to bite.”

  “Is that why you love being out on the water?” she asked, striving to keep the conversation on an even keel.

  “I love the sea because it provided me with a safe haven when mine was taken from me.” Although she had been the one to ask the question, he directed a challenging glare to Chetwyn as though he expected him to argue against the claim.

  “I never much cared for Lord David,” Chetwyn said. “He seemed to be rather too full of himself.”

  For the second time Tristan seemed taken aback. But before he could respond, Chetwyn added, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with Fayrehaven. Lady Anne, don’t think I’ve forgotten that we’ve yet to finish our game.”

  She smiled. “You were giving me such a sound thrashing that I was hoping you would forget.”

  He winked at her, brushing her elbow lightly and quickly with his fingers. “Later, m’dear.”

  He strolled away as though he had no cares, and she wondered if Tristan would ever be as at ease. Even that first night when he’d been slouched in his chair at the tavern, he’d possessed an alertness, as though he could enter into the thick of a brawl with a second’s notice.

  “I didn’t think to ask earlier, but how is your head?” she asked.

  A wicked gleam came into his pale eyes and she suspected he was going to say something bawdy. Perhaps he thought better of it, because his words were innocent enough. “Much improved.”

  He shifted his attention back to where Chetwyn had departed. “Was your fiancé like him?”

  Now she was the one startled. “Like Chetwyn? Very much so, yes. They were brothers after all.”

  “I’m nothing at all like my brothers.”

  “At your core, I suspect you are. Did you all fish with your father?”

  “We did. God, I haven’t thought of that in years. Father was a large man—or at least he seemed so when I was small. His presence diminished everything around him. He was bold, strong, invincible. As grand as Pembrook. But at the pond, I would stand beside him and …”

  She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “And what?” she prodded.

  “Suppose you teach me to play croquet.”

  She’d rather pursue what had brought the melancholy to his eyes. She hoped it was tender memories, knew that even the fondest of reminiscences could bring a hint of sadness for the moments remembered, and those lost. He had lost so much. She was rather certain he’d share no more with her. Besides, it was best to move back into the fray of the party before her brothers decided they needed to interfere.

  “It’s quite easy. I suspect you’ll be rather good at it. Come along.”

  She retrieved two balls, told him to select a mallet.

  “I’ll share yours.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “You need one with a longer handle.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  “But you’ll have to hunch—”

  “I’ll be fine, Princess.”

  “You are quite the stubborn man.” Grateful others were farther along in the game, she trooped over to the first stake, well aware of his long strides keeping pace. “The object, of course, is to run the course, passing the ball through the wickets until we reach the other stake. Like so.” She positioned herself, concentrated on placing her mallet in alignment with the ball so that a smart tap—

  She felt his arms come around her, his hands close over hers.

  “What are you doing?” She hated that she squeaked, sounded breathless, was frozen.

  “Learning to play croquet.”

  �
�You could by watching my movements.”

  “And such lovely moments they are, but where’s the fun in merely watching? Much better to learn by experiencing. You see, this way, I know precisely how to hold the mallet, how much my body should tremble—”

  “Tristan!” Her voice was low and sharp.

  “You are trembling, Princess.”

  “In anger. You’re making a spectacle of us.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind my being behind you last night.”

  Oh, dear Lord, she hadn’t. She’d been on her knees, he on his, when he entered her. “We didn’t have an audience.”

  “I want you, Anne. Where can we go for a few moments alone?”

  “You’re going to ruin my reputation. Then who shall have me?”

  “I’m not doing anything improper.”

  “You’re doing everything improper.”

  “I thought the whole point with these games was to offer an opportunity for flirtation.”

  “But not an opportunity to hold, to—” To be acutely aware of your warmth, to inhale your earthy orangy scent, to imagine those hands that are now tightened around mine luxuriously caressing my body. “You go too far.”

  “I could go farther and well you know it. Why did you invite me here if not to flirt?”

  “I thought—”

  “My Lord Tristan!” Lady Hermione called out.

  “Dear God,” he grumbled, “that girl is as tenacious as a barnacle.”

  He released her, stepped back, and while Anne knew she should be grateful—had she not been advocating for just such a move?—she was sorry that he was no longer holding her. As she spun around to greet Lady Hermione, she noticed that Jameson was much nearer and she had no doubt that he’d been charging over to rescue her. That would not have gone well at all.

  “Had I known you were going to be here, I’d have not delayed my arrival,” Lady Hermione gushed, her cheeks flushed, her smile so wide that it filled half her face.

  Oh, what a nasty thought. Normally, Anne was not one to think unkindly of others. She wasn’t jealous. Absolutely not. She understood that Tristan was a temporary fixture in her life. One did not become attached to things that had no permanence.

  “Lady Anne was just teaching me to play croquet,” Tristan said.

  “Oh, is that what she was doing?” Lady Hermione gave her a once-over. “I wasn’t quite sure.”

  “You look lovely today, Lady Hermione,” Anne said, wanting to get the attention off of herself.

  “Why thank you. It’s a new gown. The color of Lord Tristan’s eyes.” She batted her pale lashes up at him.

  “Yes, I have eyes of my own so I can quite see that,” Anne said. Oh, she was in an ungracious mood. She couldn’t very well claim Tristan, could she? That would bring about an entire host of complications.

  Lady Hermione apparently was not to be deterred from her quest. “Oh, I say, Lord Tristan, I would so love a turn about the garden. Will you accompany me?”

  “Lady Anne and I are engaged in a game of croquet.”

  “But surely it will keep. With English weather, you never know about the sun. It could rain at any moment.”

  The argument made no sense for if it rained, how would they play croquet? Besides, there wasn’t a dark cloud in the sky. It was a lovely day. If it rained, Anne would eat her hat.

  “Please, just a quick turn.”

  Anne could tell that he was debating between telling her to take a jump into shark-infested waters and offering kindness. When he turned to her, she wasn’t surprised to see the regret in his eyes because kindness had won out. “Not to worry,” she offered, before he could say anything. “Jameson is lurking nearby. I’m of a mind to entice him into playing me and then beating him soundly.”

  With a wink he took her mallet, and holding it with only one hand, let loose a negligent swing that sent the ball rolling through the first two wickets.

  “You cad! You know how to play.”

  He grinned. “Before you spotted me, I’d watched you long enough to figure it out.” He leaned near. “Later, perhaps,” he said quietly, and she could do no more than nod, certain he wasn’t referring to catching up to her later here.

  She tried not to feel a spark of envy when he offered Lady Hermione his arm and escorted her toward the roses. She wished she was walking in the girl’s place. No one would fault her for talking and laughing with him as they strolled about the garden. How simple—

  “Well, that was an embarrassing display,” Jameson said tartly as he came to stand beside her.

  “Yes, I daresay, Lady Hermione seems intent on garnering his attention.”

  “I was referring to you and that man.”

  Her blood boiled. “That lord.” She moved in front of her brother and even though he was a head taller, she still managed to meet his gaze levelly. “He is a lord, Jameson, however much you may wish he wasn’t.”

  “A lord does not wrap himself around a woman—”

  “I was instructing him on how to properly hold the mallet.”

  His jaw dropped. “You honestly expect me to believe that you were responsible for that charade?”

  “I don’t expect anything of you except to be civil. Why will you not give him a chance to prove himself? It’s not his fault that Lady Hermione traipses after him like she’s transformed into his shadow. Would you rather he rebuffed her, hurt her tender heart?”

  “She has nothing—”

  “She has everything to do with it and well you know it. As do I. Now do you wish to play a game of croquet or not?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  She took a deep breath. “That’s a pity. Because I do.”

  Resisting the urge to accidently swing the mallet into his shin, she held tightly to it and marched away.

  “He’s absurdly handsome, isn’t he?” Sarah asked.

  Anne was sitting at a small round table with her, eating a scone, sipping a cup of tea. She knew she should be out enjoying the company of the other guests, but she seemed only capable of watching Tristan as he played croquet with Lady Hermione. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Of course, you have, silly girl. I suppose the duke would be so if not for the scars that mar his face.”

  “Why didn’t you invite him?”

  “Lord Tristan? I should think it’s obvious.”

  She gave Sarah a pointed look. “No, Keswick.”

  Sarah seemed to become interested in her clotted cream. “Well, I don’t really know him or his wife.”

  “How can they become known if everyone ignores them?”

  Sarah looked up indignantly. “What would you have me do?”

  “Call on the duchess.”

  “What if the duke is there?”

  Anne smiled. “He’s not going to bite.”

  “He’s quite frightening.”

  “At the ball I thought his wife looked to be madly in love with him, so how bad can he be?”

  “I suppose we could go together.”

  Anne’s smile grew. “I think that’s a lovely idea.”

  Sarah glanced toward the guests. “I didn’t invite her, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Hermione. She prattles on so, drives Fayrehaven to distraction. One of her friends must have sent word that Lord Tristan was here. She is making quite the fool of herself.”

  “I feel for her. He won’t settle down. He won’t give up the sea.”

  “Not for her, but he might for you.”

  Anne jerked her head around. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Sarah scoffed. “Anne! I fully expected at any moment that he would toss you over his shoulder and cart you away. The man is clearly intrigued by you.”

  “It’s all a game, Sarah. Just a game.”

  No matter how much she might have wished otherwise.

  Brooding, Tristan sat alone in Sebastian’s study, slowly sipping good whiskey and staring at the portrait above the fireplace. It was late. The house was quiet.
He supposed he should go to Rafe’s for a bit of sport, but he’d had enough of games for the day.

  Once Lady Hermione had latched onto him, he’d been unable to shake her. He didn’t want to hurt her but she was becoming quite the nuisance. Not that he’d listened much to what she’d had to say. Instead his mind had drifted off to a lazy afternoon when he’d been fishing with his father. He’d been happy. That’s what he’d been unable to tell Anne. Standing beside his father, he’d known contentment. A month later he’d been running for his life, and he’d not experienced that sort of contentment again until he’d been standing beside Anne on his ship.

  What was it about her that made her different from every other woman?

  Hearing the door open he glanced over and watched as Sebastian strode toward him with the confidence of a duke. He’d once used Sebastian as a mirror, but now they were far too different, and it had little to do with the scars that puckered their flesh.

  His brother was settled with a wife and son. He had his estates. He was again in possession of his titles. He was where he would have been had they never been forced to leave everything behind. Yet it wasn’t the same. It occurred to him only now that Sebastian and Mary should have been at that blasted and utterly boring garden party.

  Sebastian stopped by the cherrywood cabinet and generously filled a tumbler with whiskey before taking the chair across from Tristan. “You were awfully quiet during dinner.”

  “Did Mary send you down to prod me for answers?”

  “She was a bit concerned.”

  Tristan ran his finger around the lip of his glass. “I attended an affair at Fayrehaven’s this afternoon. Croquet, little pastry delicacies that would hardly fill a boy much less a man, and nothing stronger than champagne.”

  Sebastian arched a brow. “Are you courting Lady Hermione?”

  “God no! Can you truly see me with such a flighty chit?”

  Sebastian studied him intently for a moment. It was disconcerting to realize that even with his solitary eye he could probably see more clearly than Tristan. “Someone, though. Do you want to talk about her?”