“Of course.” Triston took his eyes on the figure nestled in the tree. “It is only I have a prior engagement I am tardy for.”
“A prior engagement, you say?” the marquis asked. His father’s face reddened once more when Triston nodded. “You knew full well we meet each week at this precise time and place.”
“Unfortunately, this could not be avoided.” Triston shook his head as if he were loath to depart his father’s home. “I surely must take my leave.”
“If you must—“
Triston didn’t wait for him to finish before turning and stalking toward the open study door.
His father’s words echoed in his wake. “Impertinent, always were and always will be. Shut my door!”
Triston pulled the door closed, the thud reverberating through his entire body, though in a satisfying way.
He’d bought himself another week. Seven full days until he would be summoned again to his father’s study to discuss trivial matters to keep up the appearance that the men were not at extreme odds with one another.
Triston only hoped that society had bought the ruse they’d been carrying on with since the marquis married his third and latest wife. If not, the ton would take great exception to his return to society, even with his two young sisters on his arms.
The hall window afforded a view similar to the study.
Triston took the few steps necessary and stood framed in the arched panes, gazing out as the afternoon sun warmed him through the glass. Sure enough, there was a woman perched in a Downshire tree, hunched over and staring at Lord Abercorn’s upper window. A thick limb prodding her back prevented her from sitting completely upright.
It appeared his father requesting he accompany his sisters during their debut Season was only one of the peculiar occurrences he would witness during his day. Triston was hard-pressed to determine which was more alarming: his need to return to society, or a woman perched precariously in a plum tree.
Certainly, one did not regularly see a person, a woman especially, balanced on a thin tree limb at least six feet off the ground.
He tapped the window to gain her attention.
No response.
Triston looked up at the window she stared at, but the sun only reflected a glare off the glass, preventing him from seeing what held her attention.
Turning his focus toward the front drive and then back toward the gardens, Triston searched for the Downshire’s groundskeeper. Frederick was usually tending the roses lining the drive during Triston’s weekly visits to his father’s home, but today he seemed to be absent.
He watched as the woman slipped something into her skirts, rubbing her hands together and looking about.
Was she not concerned someone would question why she was in a tree?
Triston shook his head. If the groundskeeper were nowhere in sight, it was his responsibility to inquire as to why the woman was trespassing on Downshire property.
That and assist her down from her perilous post.
Lady Edith Pelton sat perched in a tree, her head bent low, and a branch poking into her backside. She was filthy, she was sore, and she hadn’t managed to learn anything from the last several hours. The only thing she’d witnessed was the duke moving from his office on the first floor to the second floor—after a particularly buxom woman with midnight locks had joined him. They hadn’t entered any of the rooms facing her direction, nor had they returned below. That had been nearly an hour ago, and Edith had yet to note any other movement on the second floor, besides the occasional servant attending to their chores.
If she returned yet again with no new information on the Duke of Abercorn, nothing that condemned him for his wrongdoings—nor absolved him of his accused crimes—Lucianna would be irate. She’d likely demand to investigate the man herself, or worse yet, instruct Ophelia to write the article for the Gazette, attacking Abercorn, regardless of his culpability in Tilda’s death.
Edith would not allow that to happen, could not permit her dear friend to ruin a man’s life with no proof of his misconducts. Lucianna had agreed to wait until sufficient evidence existed, but with each passing day—and more articles submitted to the Gazette—her friend grew impatient.
Suddenly, a drapery on the second story toward the back of the townhouse was pulled aside, revealing a quite naked, raven-haired woman, her long tresses the only thing covering her exposed bosom.
It was impossible for Edith to take her eyes off the sight before her as the duke, fully clothed, stepped up behind the woman, wrapping his arms around her tightly as he fondled her breasts. The large window framed the couple perfectly. The woman began to sway before Abercorn, her backside still flush with his front.
Edith’s face flamed red with embarrassment at the scandalous spectacle.
The duke whipped the woman around until her naked breasts were pressed against his chest, and the woman’s rounded derriere pressed solidly against the windowpane. Abercorn slowly moved his lips to the woman’s neck and traced his mouth along her shoulder before suddenly straightening and throwing his head back in a silent chuckle.
She wondered what the raven-haired beauty had said to gain such a reaction from the cold, stoic duke.
Edith’s stare narrowed on the pair as the woman reached up and began to undo Abercorn’s cravat.
Before Edith even suspected what was happening, the duke’s eyes scanned the landscape outside his townhouse, his glare seeming to find Edith perched in the tree bordering his property. Abruptly, Edith ducked her head and slipped her journal into the secret pocket she’d sewn into each of her gowns for exactly this purpose before easing from the branch she sat on to scurry down the tree.
I cannot be caught, I cannot be caught, I cannot be caught, she chanted, placing her booted feet on another branch before dipping low to take hold of it and swing down to the ground below.
Almost there. Edith’s hands were mere inches from grasping the thick limb to lower herself…only six feet from escape.
“You, there!” a deep voice sounded behind her. “What are you doing up there?”
“Eeep!” The sudden exclamation took her mind off the limb she reached for, and Edith’s boot caught on her skirt, causing her to miss the branch completely. She stiffened her body as she fell, bracing for the impact she knew was to come as the air rushed by her.
The seconds slowed.
Giving her ample time to contemplate what she’d done in her life to end up falling from a tree in the fashionable St. James area of London, her arms pinwheeling as she hoped to ease her landing.
Thump.
Everything went dark, and Edith feared she’d landed on her head, doing irreparable damage.
She blinked several times and willed her mind to command her fingers to wiggle and her toes to curl in her boots.
Everything worked.
She said a silent prayer to whoever was looking out for her.
“I asked what you are doing on my property!” the man huffed.
Edith blinked again—still complete darkness. Maybe she had hit her head on the way down, but would it not ache?
“Do stop this ridiculousness and remove your garments from your head.”
She moved silently, rolling to her side, a resounding pain in her backside cluing her in to exactly how she’d landed.
Lifting her hands, Edith pushed at whatever covered her sight, only to see a pair of Hessians solidly placed beside her. Lowering the material farther, she noted thick, muscular calves leading to tree trunk-sized thighs clad in tightly tailored breeches.
Edith cringed, allowing the material to fall back into place, blocking out all view of the man once more.
“I would suggest righting your skirts, as your derriere is exposed to all and sundry who happen to pass by on the street,” the man commanded sternly.
From the dampness seeping from the ground beneath her hip and into her exposed knickers, Edith suspected she’d landed in a particularly well-tended and watered part of foliage.
&nbs
p; The mention of her derriere brought back images of the raven-haired beauty’s bare buttocks pressed firmly to the window of Abercorn’s townhouse. Her face heated immediately, and Edith longed for nothing more than to stay hidden.
She wished a carriage would come along and put her out of her misery, as it were.
It was difficult to decide which was more embarrassing: her fall from the tree, her skirts being cast over her head, or that whoever the man standing above her was had witnessed it all.
“If I remain as such, will you go away and act as if this never happened?” Edith asked.
“What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not verify a damsel in distress was uninjured after a fall such as this?” His Hessians crunched dry, fallen leaves as he moved before her. “Besides, you are still trespassing, and I cannot allow that to go unresolved.”
Suddenly, her skirts were pulled away, and Edith looked up, the bright sun momentarily blinding her, causing spots of colors to cross her vision. She closed her eyes tightly and rubbed at her face.
“I am going nowhere, so it’s best if you remove your hands from your face and permit me to help you regain your feet.”
“What if I simply roll myself into the street and allow the next carriage or man on horseback to resolve this dilemma for us?” she said into the palms of her gloved hands.
“I would say that is a mess I would not relish cleaning up.” His stern tone had lessened, taking on an almost jovial quality.
Edith allowed her hands to fall from her face, and the man’s outstretched hand appeared before her. She took a moment to ponder his offer, knowing if she raised her eyes to his, she’d be far more exposed than her backside had been only a moment before.
“Come now, I do not bite—unless commanded to,” he said with a chuckle.
She couldn’t avoid the man any longer. He was not going away, nor did he appear the type to allow questions to go unanswered.
But blast it all, Edith did not need to accept his assistance to gain her footing.
Her backside and pride were already bruised; she had no intentions of accepting his hand.
With a huff, Edith placed her gloved palms upon the dirt on either side of her, preparing to push herself to her feet—without his help.
But with the action, her gaze traveled from the man’s offered hand and back to his thick thighs. The male could be a Highlander of old with such a foundation. Edith was helpless to stop her eyes from straying farther upward. His muscular legs gave way to a solid midsection that had her halting at his expansive chest. She need not allow her mind to wander far to know that under his linen shirt lay a chest of pure muscle, capped off by broad, sinewy shoulders certainly capable of lifting a fallen tree. Or a damsel in distress, as he’d dubbed her.
Edith swallowed, gulping down her purr of pleasure. What had overtaken her? He was only a man—a very strong man, his frame proving he exerted himself vigorously with regularity. It would not surprise her if he spent each day undertaking pursuits of manual labor, carrying carriage wheels as if they weighed no more than a bowl of orange marmalade.
He cleared his throat. “It is improper to stare, miss.”
Edith’s eyes widened in alarm. She was staring, and with no sense of regret. Whatever had come over her?
The moment she pushed on her palms to try and raise herself, a shot of pain traveled to her elbow. “Mayhap it is more than my backside that is bruised,” she mumbled.
“I am here to assist,” he repeated.
“You would like that much, I am certain, Lord—“ Edith’s words ended abruptly. She hadn’t any notion if the man before her was a lord. He could be no more than a common gentleman. “I can stand without help, but thank you nonetheless.”
“Torrington.”
“Pardon?” Her eyes snapped to his face—another colossal mistake as her mouth gaped at the Adonis before her, the noonday sun highlighting his umber brown hair, chiseled jawline, and decidedly aristocratic nose. He was what the great poets of old wrote about in their sonnets. He was the image every artist struggled to achieve in oils. He was what sculptors in Roman times worked a lifetime to create.
And he was standing before her…flesh and blood.
His eyes seemingly capable of seeing to her very soul.
“My name, miss. Lord Torrington—Triston if you prefer, as I feel we are now adequately acquainted.” He smirked at his jest and shook his hand before her face once more.
“Lord Torrington, it is,” Edith said, relenting and taking his hand.
“Come, miss, we can do away with formalities. After all, I know the fabric of your knickers.” His arrogant, amused grin grew, softening the hard line of his jaw—if it were possible.
At her gasp, he chuckled, hoisting her to her feet with one swift tug of her arm.
Chapter 2
When she’d regained her feet, the golden-haired siren pulled her hand from Triston’s quickly, as if his touch had scorched her palm through her sullied glove.
He raised a brow in question.
As a gentleman, he should inquire as to any injuries obtained in her fall. Yet, the memory of the sight of her pristine linen drawers, her skirts and cloak flung haphazardly over her head, took up his every available thought, making it impossible to organize his words in any semblance of order.
Her copper-colored eyes widened on him and then narrowed.
“How dare you—“ she stammered.
“How dare I?” He took a step closer, causing her to stumble back. “It is you whom I found lurking in a tree—on the property of a home where you do not belong.”
Triston did his best to keep his tone stern and his stance intimidating, though the urge to laugh nearly overtook him. Truly, he didn’t care what the woman was doing in the tree. However, he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that her motives intrigued him, especially as it took his mind off his meeting with his sire, the Marquis of Downshire.
It was more of a summons than an optional invitation to meet with his father to discuss the upcoming Season and his younger sisters’ presentation to the ton.
Yes, Triston would much rather focus his mind…and imagination as it were, on the jumbled woman before him.
Her brow scrunched, and her lips pressed together. “How do you assume to know if I belong here or not, my lord?” Her hands landed on her hips, her tone challenging.
“I assure you, I would know if you belonged on Downshire property.” He crossed his arms, refusing to advance any farther but also unwilling to back down. He’d had quite enough of women thinking they could order him about and instruct him on what is what. He was a bloody viscount, after all, heir to a marquis. The slip of a woman before him hadn’t any notion whom she dealt with.
Instead of holding her tongue, however, the hellion laughed—at him. A sweet, melodic sound that echoed down the row of townhouses along St. James.
“What, may I inquire, is so comical?” Triston demanded.
She sobered enough to reply, “You, thinking you know where I do and do not belong—or even whose property we are standing upon.”
Maybe he should have thought twice before approaching the woman. She seemed a bit peculiar, to say the least—and possibly utterly insane at worst. And this was exactly the type of situation his father demanded he refrain from being involved in until after Prudence and Chastity were safely, legally, and indisputably betrothed.
Yet, could an angel of such captivating beauty be absolutely unhinged?
It would be the ultimate paradox.
However, it would be little different from his own dear sisters, Pru and Chastity, who were also a complete contradiction. They were not beauties, but their wit, grace, and agreeableness would make them the perfect brides for any man—if one could only look past their plain, wallflowerish exteriors.
“Why are you looking at me as though I’ve sprouted horns and will gallop away at any moment?” she asked.
“I was contemplating the possibility that you are stark ra
ving mad.” Honesty was good—forthright responses were always what Triston fell back on when confronted with a question he’d rather not answer.
“Why, I never…” She jammed her gloved hands into her pockets as her voice faltered, her face a perfectly composed mask of rage. “That…well…certainly…”
Her angry expression told Triston this was another occurrence his father was determined to avoid during the upcoming Season. A public confrontation between his wife and son would draw unwelcome attention to them all, casting Pru and Chastity in a negative light.
Her shoulders straightened, and her chin notched up several degrees. “I assure you I am not mad—neither insane nor angry.”
He would beg to differ as she’d just been caught perched in a tree, then had fallen from said tree—which was irrefutable even to those who hadn’t seen, as she had leaves stuck to her cloak and a stick protruding from her hair. “I am pleased to hear this, but you still have not told me what you are doing on my property, nor your name.”
She glanced over her shoulder and up at Lord Abercorn’s townhouse before turning back to him. “There really is no need for all of this. I am uninjured, as you can see.” To prove her point, she flapped her arms, shrugged her shoulders, and bent over, touching her toes before straightening with a confident smile.
A lock of pure-spun golden hair came loose from her updo and fell across her face, the stick coming with it.
Unaware of his intentions, Triston reached out and pulled the stick free, then presented it to her before tossing it into a nearby shrub.
“Thank you, my lord.” She pushed the wayward lock of hair from her face. “I will be going now.”
“How will you arrive home?” He looked up and down St. James. No waiting carriage and no horse were in sight—besides his stallion, Blitz, being led around from his father’s stables. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave unchaperoned without proper conveyance.”
Her eyes darted down the drive bordering the foliage where they stood when she heard his stallion’s hooves on the cobblestone.
“Not so fast.” Triston made to grab her arm before she fled, but the woman flinched, freezing to her spot as if too terrified to move. “I only seek your name and the reason for you being on my property. That is all.”
The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Page 2