by Mia Marlowe
He felt for a pulse at the side of her neck and was relieved to find one, but she still wasn’t breathing. It was time to see if his physician friend’s ideas about how to revive a drowning victim were worth the paper he’d had them printed on. And if they’d work for someone who’d simply stopped breathing. Tristan pulled back the veil that covered the bottom half of her face and lowered his mouth to the Preston girl’s lips.
He forced them open and blew into her mouth. Then he pulled back to let the air escape naturally. The slight exhalation feathered over his lips. He repeated the process, this time splaying his hand over her bosom so he could feel the expansion of her ribs as he filled her lungs.
If the situation weren’t so damnably serious, he’d have relished her satiny softness.
In. Out. He forced himself to go slow as he offered her his own breath.
Then, after several moments, she sighed.
It was a small sound, no louder than the flutter of a bird’s wing, but it went straight to his gut. Somehow, the act of pressing his lips to hers changed between one heartbeat and the next. He was no longer reviving Miss Preston from a swoon. He was kissing her senseless.
And she was kissing him back.
Their tongues played a game of chase and capture. Her hand found the back of his head, pulling him down lest he decide to withdraw.
No chance of that. His fingers managed to slip beneath the stiff bodice to cup a breast and toy with a taut nipple.
Lord, she was tender. Ardent. Responsive.
The burden of his family’s expectations sloughed off him and he was suddenly only Tristan. Only a man tangled up with a woman whose kisses made him feel like a minor god.
She nipped his bottom lip and it sent his groin into pleasurable agony. He drew back in surprise.
What sort of debutant kissed like that?
Looking down at her, he could easily tumble into the stormy sea of her eyes and surrender to the grey swells without regret.
If it weren’t for his responsibilities. All the souls attached to Devonwood were depending on him. He had to make the match with Lady Florence work. He sat up to put a little distance between them.
“Are you all right?” he asked huskily as he raised Miss Preston to a sitting position.
“Better than all right,” she said, draping her arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his jaw line. One of her hands slid under his waistcoat and stroked his ribs through the thin lawn of his shirt. “I’m absolutely marvelous.”
That was the understatement of the Season. Delphinia Preston was a wonder. Something about her stood his world on its head. No one had ever made him feel as she did—both strong and weak, free and enslaved, all at once.
And he needed to stop letting her kiss and pet him or he’d forget himself and take her right there on the sweet grass, devil take the hindermost.
But he did intend to take her.
He gathered both her hands between his. “Miss Preston, . . . ” How did one proposition a mistress at the same house party where one expected to acquire a fiancée? “I don’t know how to say this, but I feel there is much more we are meant to be to each other.”
There. That should do for a start. Earnest, yet vague. He was inordinately pleased with himself over his little speech.
A smile spread over her features like a sunrise. “I feel the same,” she said. “But I thought you were set on Lady Florence.”
Tristan frowned. A true man of the world would lie charmingly about now. A few pretty words, a fulsome promise or two and Delphinia Preston would be in his bed by midnight.
He couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“I am still bound to court Lady Florence,” he admitted. “I have obligations.”
“I know,” she said simply, the smile fading only slightly.
Tristan pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Perhaps she’d agree to a long-standing arrangement. It wasn’t unheard of for a man and his mistress to stay together longer than the same man and his wife. He’d treat her well. She’d never know want so long as she was under his protection and—
“I also know I will never be your mistress,” she said with certainty as if she’d heard his thoughts.
His dreams of a clandestine love nest sizzled away with her words.
“I didn’t ask,” he said testily as he rose to his feet and helped her do the same.
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“How do you—” He tugged his waistcoat down. His friend Lord Sanders had claimed the Preston girl was half witch. Tristan was disposed to believe him now. “A man may not be held accountable for his thoughts. Only his actions.”
“I think your actions speak for themselves.” One of her pink nipples peeped above the lace at her necklace and she tucked it back behind the stiff bodice. Then she smiled up at him without a hint of maidenly shame.
He wondered suddenly if she was a maiden. She certainly didn’t kiss like one.
But if she wasn’t, why wouldn’t she agree to become his ladybird?
Delphinia Preston was a conundrum with feet.
“Are you fully recovered from your swoon?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, my lord. Are you?”
No, devil take it. His insides were roiling like the North Sea in a gale. What had she done to him?
He made a quick leg to her and swept up his tricorne, jamming it on his head. “I wish you good day, Miss Preston, and much success in your campaign to aid the orphans.”
“And I wish you success in your campaign as well, Tristan” she said.
It was a breach of etiquette for her to call him by his Christian name, but he didn’t mind. He liked the idea of his name passing over that sweet tongue of hers.
“Though you may find your plans changing soon,” she warned.
No, they wouldn’t. If he didn’t join the House of Devonwood to the House of Seabrooke, then his father’s estate was doomed. His grandfather had lost the family fortune in the South Sea Bubble two generations ago and Devonwood still hadn’t recovered. But the family held on. The first Earl of Devonwood had been created after he sailed across the Channel and ransacked the countryside with William the Conqueror—or the Bastard, depending on which side of history one wished to come down upon. Since that time, each successive Earl of Devonwood stubbornly held onto their land. None had ever surrendered so much as a handful of earth.
By God, Tristan wouldn’t be the first.
Even though the land was the only asset left to settle the growing debts.
Except for me, he thought ruefully. The Duke of Seabrooke had all the money he could possibly want. His connections would not be improved by a liaison with the heir to Devonwood. But the duke was determined that his eldest daughter should breed tall, well-favored sons and Tristan had the dubious honor of presenting a more than usually pleasing appearance.
Tristan wondered if this was how a prize stallion put out to stud felt.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was selling himself for a worthy cause—the continuance of his ancestral name and the good of the estate.
At least he’d always felt it was worthy until he looked into Delphinia Preston’s eyes.
He forced himself to turn away and flee the red silk tent. While he still had the strength of will.
* * *
Delphinia reattached her veil and lifted the curtain to watch him go. She wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. She’d always suspected an inanimate object could speak to her if she was only willing to listen. She could usually hear a humming sibilance emanating from an item that wished to communicate with her, a whisper just on the edge of sound. This was the first time she’d let the voice trapped inside a thing burst into her mind.
Tristan’s ring had plenty to tell her. Even after she lost consciousness, the ring told her about its owner’s character. The clunky bit of gold wasn’t shy about announcing his faults. They all poured into her without a filter. Tristan was vain and stubborn and proud. But he was also
brave, generous and doggedly determined to protect those under his care.
And after the ring spilled all its knowledge of his past, it deluged her with his present. The tangled net of his sudden and overpowering feelings for her sent pleasure streaming though her limbs.
Then the ring treated her to a glimpse of his future if he wed Lady Florence.
It was joyless as a funeral.
Her friend, Miss Harmony Downing, joined Delphinia at the entrance to her tent. “Oh, Del, we’ve done wonderfully today. We raised ever so much more than at the Crofton Fair last month.”
“Oh, yes, for the orphans.” Delphinia fished Tristan’s sovereign from its resting place between her breasts. “There’s a full purse beneath the table as well.”
“What fool gave you a sovereign?” Harmony asked with a laugh.
Delphinia arched a brow and sent a pointed glance across the clipped lawn to where Tristan had joined the group of gallants surrounding Lady Florence. The duke’s daughter was never without admirers, but the smile she gave Tristan made Delphinia’s belly tense.
“Lord Edmondstone? What’s he doing throwing money around like that? I’d heard he has pockets to let.”
“Evidently not,” Del said, wanting to defend him. Giving her this coin had cost him dear, but he wouldn’t stint when it came to charity. “Tristan has a generous streak.”
“Tristan, is it?” Harmony said with a sly grin. “If you’re calling him familiar now, I have to wonder what the two of you were doing in this tent. I’ll lay odds it had nothing to do with that crystal ball of yours.”
“He kissed me.”
Harmony’s grin faded. “Oh, Del. Be careful. Flirting is one thing, but a kiss! A man like that has expectations and it doesn’t include a girl with a miniscule dowry and no title. You only need use your eyes to realize he’s aiming high.”
Tristan offered his arm to Lady Florence and began escorting her through her father’s riotous garden.
“Maybe I’m aiming high, too,” Delphinia said. Just before her connection with Tristan’s ring was severed, she saw a fleeting glimpse of how his future might turn out differently. This vision was paler, less sure, but there was no denying that the less likely outcome was buckets better for the viscount. And Del had featured prominently in that future. “He’ll never be happy with her. Someone needs to save that man from his own foolishness.”
Harmony shook her head and slipped a hand through Delphinia’s arm so she could lead her away from the garden party that was beginning to break up into groups of two and three. A game of lawn bowling was taking shape under a massive oak and another cadre of revelers proposed an archery competition. Couples were forming up everywhere Del looked. Tristan and Lady Florence weren’t the only ones pairing off, but they were the only ones who made Del’s chest ache.
“I love you like a sister,” Harmony said, “so trust me when I tell you the fool in this situation is not the man pursuing the daughter of a duke.”
Delphinia watched as Tristan and Lady Florence strolled toward the entrance to the garden maze. He turned his head and his dark eyes met Del’s for the length of two heartbeats. The connection between them sizzled across the open space with such heat, she was surprised no one else was burned. Then Tristan led the duke’s daughter into the green bower.
Delphinia’s heart sank to her toes, but then she remembered the rush of bittersweet longing she knew Tristan felt for her and squared her shoulders.
“He only wants a bit of distracting and he’ll throw over Lady Florence,” she murmured, more to encourage herself than to share her plans with Harmony. What would induce a man to give up a monumental dowry, a duke for a father-in-law, and enough imputed prestige to cover his holding with reflected glory for generations?
I shall have to make him love me, she decided. How hard could it be?
Chapter 3
“Who is that girl dancing with Lord Edmondstone?” Lady Florence laid a hand on the forearm of Lord Milton Sanders. From the edge of the dance floor, they watched as the handsome couple moved through the forms of an elegant minuet from the edge of the dance floor. Even though the young lady didn’t wear a proper wig, her dark hair was perfectly coifed and the vibrant peacock blue gown made her stand out in the ballroom, rather like an exotic bird-of-paradise in a barnyard of brocade-covered hens.
“That, my lady, is Miss Delphinia Preston,” Sanders said. “Lovely girl.”
“Indeed,” Florence said, fanning herself in agitation. She’d never noticed that slightly ravenous expression on Lord Edmondstone’s handsome face when he was dancing with her. “Give the man a fork and he’d eat her in one sitting.”
“Can you blame him? She is rather delectable.”
Lady Florence responded with a sniff. A peek at an ankle was still beyond the pale, but no one faulted a woman for displaying her breasts to best advantage. The Preston girl certainly didn’t need that rope of pearls to draw attention to hers. Florence wondered if they could possibly be real since the young woman boasted no title.
Florence leaned toward Sanders to whisper behind her fan. “All I can say is if the neckline of her bodice were any lower, she’d need to rouge her nipples.” Some women did just that for nights at the opera in London or intimate dinner parties.
“Maybe you ought to bring out the paint pot for yours tomorrow night,” Sanders suggested.
Florence rapped his shoulder smartly with her fan. They’d been friends since childhood, since the Sanders barony abutted the Seabrooke estate, so she wasn’t so much affronted as annoyed with him.
“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “I wouldn’t presume to speak for Edmondstone, but I guarantee you that I’d be most appreciative.”
Florence tapped the side of her cheek with the tip of her fan, considering his words. “A judicious display of flesh might move Lord Edmondstone to more than stilted courtesy. The man is handsome as the devil, but honestly, his brand of wooing wouldn’t make a monk blush.”
“You deserve so much more, my lady.” Lord Sanders took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips in what appeared to be a perfectly courtly kiss. Instead he flicked the tip of his tongue between her fore and middle fingers, sending a hot flush coursing up her arm. “You deserve a bit of wickedness.”
She knew she ought to pull her hand away, but his warm brown eyes dared her not to. He’d teased her before while she negotiated the shoals of her London Season, but somehow, this didn’t feel the same. This time, he was serious. Well, she could be, too.
“What I deserve is a proposal of marriage from the right man.” She’d had plenty of offers, but her father had encouraged her to choose with her eyes instead of measuring men by their purses or titles. The duke wanted the prettiest, most well-favored grandchildren in the realm. Florence was determined to give him a son-in-law capable of breeding them. Lord Edmondstone was by far the most comely man she’d ever met.
“Say no more. I volunteer to submit to leg-shackles for life for your sake,” Sanders offered, his perfectly ordinary face sagging in a parody of woe.
“Oh, you!” She swatted him again. “We wouldn’t suit and you know it.”
“Why not me? I’ve an old and revered title, complete with an old and crumbling estate to match,” he said. “I frankly adore you and don’t understand why you haven’t succumbed to my charms already.”
He took a long sip of his punch and let his gaze roam around the room, which gave her reason to discount his words.
“Perhaps you’re trying too hard,” she said wryly, then just to be contrary, she brushed the handle of her fan across her lips. If he were paying attention, he’d recognize the signal that suggested she wanted him to kiss her.
It was wrong of her to flirt with him. Her father would never approve of Lord Sanders. The man was only an inch or two taller than she and the heels on his silver-buckled shoes were as high as her own. He always wore a beautiful full-bottom wig, but the forehead was high enough to make
her wonder if he shaved his head under it or if his own hairline was receding.
His nose was too big for the rest of his face and his lips were thin enough to be invisible. The only features that commended him were his speaking eyes. Along with the wit which sparked in their brown depths with flashes of droll brilliance.
I’d never be bored with Sanders, Florence realized. She’d also never give birth to the perfect grandchildren her father was so insistent upon if she wed the baron. But I’d wager they’d have lovely eyes.
* * *
Tristan couldn’t wait for this minuet to be over.
He still didn’t know what had possessed him to make sure his name appeared on Delphinia Preston’s dance card. He tried to convince himself that he was simply making sure the fire he felt when he touched her in the silk tent was an aberration—a combination of worry over a swooning woman and the opportunity to caress a silky breast.
Now, he touched only her fingertips, but it still felt as if he balanced the whole world in his hand.
Tristan gave himself a mental kick in the arse. Only a love-sick pup mooned about for what he couldn’t have.
He forced himself to look away from her as he stepped forward into the prescribed close position. The dance was designed to create a series of tableaus, beautiful stylized scenes of courtship, but none of it felt like mere display. Every bit of his being strained toward this girl about whom he knew next to nothing. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
“Most couples kiss during this pose,” she whispered. Her breath feathered warmly over his cheek.
“Most couples who do that are courting,” he said between clenched teeth. “We are merely dancing.”
Delphinia stepped back and they circled each other before coming together into another romantic position, their arms entwined. She leaned into him.
“Are you sure about that?”
Her soft mouth was so close. She was right about the conventions of the dance. It would occasion no comment if he brushed her lips with his.