“So you can rest some more?” Andrew asked with a chuckle. “It’s a miracle your blankets haven’t turned into cobwebs.”
“I’m not resting, I’m… thinking. I’m deep in thought. You should try it sometime.”
“You were asleep when I got here,” Andrew noted with a sigh. “I can’t imagine you would be having many profound thoughts in your sleep.”
“My dreams are very elaborate,” the viscount countered sarcastically. “I thought I told you to bugger off.”
Andrew sat at the end of the bed, leaning against the bedpost. A wicked thought crossed his mind, and his curiosity was begging to be sated. He knew it was none of his business, but he had to ask. “When was the last time you’ve had a woman in here?”
The viscount groaned.
Andrew’s brow shot up. “Never?”
“I’m not going to answer that question. A gentleman doesn’t talk about that sort of thing.”
“Indeed he does… when he’s in the company his oldest and fondest friend!”
Grumbling, Tristan managed to pull himself into a sitting position. His hair pointed toward the ceiling in a very comical way, and he didn’t bother with rearranging it. “If you really must know, I haven’t been with a woman in nearly eight years. There. Are you satisfied?”
“Good God, eight years? No wonder you stay in here all day. I’d be depressed too, if I hadn’t--”
“I’m not depressed.”
Ignoring his friend, Andrew went on, “…hadn’t had a woman’s companionship in eight years! I don’t know how you do it! I couldn’t survive without the fairer sex. I can put in a good word with a few pretty young widows, Randall. You need only ask, and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want a pretty young widow.”
“A pretty young wife, then? A chaste young thing? I know several.”
The viscount laughed. “You make it sound a great deal easier than it is.”
“It would be very easy for you!” Andrew insisted. “If you went out every once in awhile, attended a ball or two, you’d have loads of women to choose from. An attractive, rich, titled gentleman like you--”
Tristan clutched his stomach, and a roar of laughter took him. This time, his laughter was genuine. “Attractive?”
Andrew’s eyes fluttered sheepishly. “Yes, well… I don’t claim to be a judge of a man’s good looks, but I wouldn’t say you’re completely without appeal.”
Tristan shook his head. “I’m not as handsome as you, I daresay.”
Andrew wanted to protest, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was in possession of wicked good looks, and there was no denying it. To admit it would be vain, but to deny it would be foolish. “Well, you are far richer than I am. And you have your title.”
“But I wouldn’t settle for just any woman. I can’t stand silly girls,” Tristan sighed as he spoke. “I get along just fine without a wife, and I’ve had no one nagging me to find one since my father died. To be honest, you’re the last person I expected to nag me about my bachelor status.”
“Tristan, I…”
“Futhermore,” Tristan interrupted, “I am four and thirty. It’s not as if I’ve completely run out of time. You’re only a few years younger than me, Andrew. Why don’t you find a wife?”
Andrew sprung from the bed. “What? A few? I’m only nine and twenty! I have plenty of time!”
If his hitched eyebrow was any indication, Lord Randall wasn’t amused.
“Well, then… if you choose not to shackle yourself, I understand. Completely,” said Andrew, who started to twitch as soon as his own unmarried state was brought into question. “However, I wish you would find some time for your old friend every now and then. If you’d rather stay indoors than step out with Andrew Lamb, then… well… quite frankly, I’m insulted!”
“Insulted?” Tristan repeated. “Well, I can’t have that. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I rolled out of bed every once in awhile. Besides, I think it’s time I gave my valet some work.” As he spoke, Tristan studied his reflection in the looking glass, which was adjacent to his bed. “He’s not earning his keep if he leaves my hair looking like this, is he?”
* * *
Even when he wasn’t shabby and bedridden, Lord Randall was no match for Andrew’s magnetic allure. As soon as they set foot in the assembly rooms, everyone drew a collective breath—and it wasn’t because they were surprised to see the viscount out of his apartments. It was because he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a man whose face put all others to shame.
As soon as he entered, Lord Randall wanted to leave. When the young ladies started to amass around them, it did nothing to improve his mood. He knew they were here for--
“Mr. Lamb!” one of the young ladies shouted, completing the thought in Tristan’s head. “It’s so wonderful to see you again!”
“Hello, Miss Gibson,” Andrew greeted his greeter. “You’re looking lovely today, as usual.”
Another young lady, vying for Andrew’s attention, snapped open her fan and started flapping it below her chin. Tristan wondered if the gesture was supposed to look charming. He thought she looked ridiculous.
A third young lady, whose copper-red curls were piled intricately on her head, started to bat her eyelashes. Lord Randall thought he could feel a soft breeze as she fluttered them. “Won’t you ask me to dance, Mr. Lamb? You dance so magnificently!” chimed the redhead. Her mouth formed an exaggerated pout as she spoke.
“Of course, Miss Tierney,” Andrew answered with a grin. “I would be most delighted. I can’t think of a partner I would like better.”
The other young ladies sighed in unison.
“Won’t you introduce us to your friend?” asked the girl with the fan, who had yet to be named.
Andrew looked happy to oblige. “Oh, you haven’t met Lord Randall?”
“Lord Randall?” one of the girls repeated.
“Yes. My friend happens to be a viscount. Does it surprise you?” Andrew made a gesture toward the ladies. “Randall, meet Miss Gibson, Miss Gibson, Miss Tierney and Miss Whitaker.”
He wasn’t supposed to remember all that, was he? He had hardly been paying attention until he heard Andrew say his name. Introductions and false niceties were of no interest to him. “Hello… ladies.”
“You’ll have to forgive my friend if he seems antisocial,” Andrew lamented. “Carrying on a conversation with strangers is one of his weak points. Now…” He turned to the redhead with uncontrollably fluttering eyes. “Miss Tierney, I believe we have a dance lined up?”
Miss Tierney squeaked with delight and grabbed Andrew’s arm. “Of course, Mr. Lamb!” She glanced over her shoulder as he led her away, as if to gloat to her companions.
With Andrew gone, Lord Randall was left with Misses Gibsons and… what was the other young lady’s name? Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried to recall it. He would have to give Andrew a verbal thrashing for leaving him with three girls, who were obviously very silly. And they were far too young for him. As he glanced at each of them, he decided that none of them could be any older than nineteen. He had no interest in wooing a child.
Or wooing anyone. He had no talent for flirting.
“I wish I had someone to dance with,” said one of the Miss Gibsons. “There are never enough young men to dance with.”
Tristan hoped she wasn’t eyeing him as a prospective partner. He didn’t know why he let Andrew talk him into making an appearance at this dreadful ball. There wasn’t anything he enjoyed about a social gathering like this.
“What about you, my lord?” the other Miss Gibson tried to bait him. “Do you dance?”
His stomach was in knots at the thought of leading a girl to the dance floor. “I, um… I’m afraid not, Miss Gibson. As I can hardly walk on my own two feet without stumbling, I would be a very poor partner.”
“Surely you jest!” Miss Whitaker exclaimed, swatting his arm with her fan. “I’ve never met anyone as clumsy as that.”
“Until now,” Tristan completed her thought. “Besides, Miss Gibson was asking for young men to dance with, and I’m hardly young.”
The Gibson girls simultaneously shook their precious blonde heads. He had to admit, they were adorable. As cantankerous as he seemed, Lord Randall wasn’t immune to beauty. “No, my lord! You aren’t old at all!” one of them protested.
“No! You’re very young!” the other Miss Gibson added. “I’ve danced with men who are much older than you!”
“Somehow…” he said with a chuckle, “that doesn’t make me feel better.”
And with that, Lord Randall’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the ground.
Chapter Three
“You’re… dying, I’m afraid.”
As he listened to Andrew utter those words, Tristan wondered why he didn’t see it coming. He had been spending more and more time in his bed, but he didn’t think anything of it. He thought his problem was lethargy, not something lethal. He didn’t think anything like this could happen to him.
Dying. Him? Himself!
“Dying,” Tristan repeated the word. “As in… putting me in a box and lowering me to the ground sort of dying?” When he saw Andrew’s quivering lip, he knew it had to be true. “Hmm.”
Tristan thought about all the signs he somehow managed to ignore. The weakness. The shortness of breath. The dizziness. The palpitations of his heart. He should have guessed something awful was bound to happen to him. “So,” Tristan spoke again, “what exactly is my infirmity?”
When he spoke, Andrew’s voice was very soft. “I-I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this. The doctor should be returning shortly. He should be the one to tell you…”
“You’ve told me enough already, Andrew. If I’m going to hear some bad news, I’d rather hear it from a friend.”
Andrew leaned forward in his chair, clutching his head in his hands. “The doctor would do a better job explaining this.”
“I’m asking you to tell me,” Tristan insisted. “I don’t think it’s fair that you know more about my condition than I do at the moment. Do you?”
Andrew raked a hand across his lips. He had never been in this situation before. Tristan was like a brother to him, and this was the most dreadful news he ever had to deliver. How could he possibly find the strength to look his friend in the eye and tell him why he would cease to exist? “It has something to do with your heart, Tristan. It’s enlarged… a-and it’s not working as it should.”
“My heart.” Tristan closed his eyes.
“You’ll have to ask the doctor if you want to know more. He seemed to know what ailed you as soon as he saw you. He did a bit of poking around and… that’s when he told me the severity of your condition,” Andrew went on. “I, um… you’ve been unconscious for many hours. When you fainted, I didn’t know what to think! You gave me quite a scare, you know. Miss Gibson almost fainted with you!”
He appreciated Andrew’s attempt at humor, but nothing seemed humorous at the moment. “Well, there’s nothing scarier than finding out you’re dying. How long do I have, anyway?”
“To live?” Andrew asked, hoping he didn’t sound insensitive. If he was in Tristan’s shoes, he didn’t think he would want his friend pitying him. Therefore, Andrew was trying to act as normal as he could. “Several months, I think. The doctor wouldn’t answer with certainty. With your symptoms, you could have anywhere from two months to two years. Whatever happens will probably happen suddenly.”
Tristan’s eyes were still closed. When he thought about how quickly the last two years had gone by, he shuddered. Had he done anything worthwhile in his entire life? No. He had nothing, he had no one, and he would die a nobody.
Tristan clenched a fist beneath his blanket. “Leave me,” he said.
Andrew, who had been staring at the floor, redirected his gaze to meet his friend’s. “You want me to go?”
Tristan nodded. “I need some time to myself. I need some time to think about all this.”
“I understand.” With a sigh, Andrew rose from his chair and retreated from the room, leaving Tristan alone in his bed.
Unfortunately, his respite didn’t last long. The doctor entered his bedchamber shortly after Andrew’s exit, repeating everything his friend just told him. Lord Randall didn’t have long to live. His condition was very serious, and there was no way to predict how long his heart would last.
Only one thing was certain: he would die. And his life expectancy was far shorter than he would like it to be.
Ever since he opened his eyes on this dreadful morning, Tristan felt like he was living a nightmare—one from which he couldn’t wake himself. Everything felt unreal. Fatality didn’t seem like something that could happen to him. He never gave any thought to the idea that his world would end. Someday soon, he would close his eyes and never open them. No one would see his face again. No more thoughts would cross his mind, because he would be dead.
His life.
Over.
If nothing else, it was a humbling thought.
Several hours after Andrew delivered the terrible news, Tristan finally rose from his bed. But he didn’t stay on his feet for long, for fear that his heart could explode from overexertion. Yesterday, he would have thought it was an illogical, ridiculous fear. Now, unfortunately, an exploding heart seemed like a very possible possibility. As he moved across the room, Tristan didn’t feel too terrible. He didn’t feel woozy or sick. Was it possible the doctor had misdiagnosed him?
Tristan pulled the curtains, covering his bedchamber in darkness. It was still light outside, but he favored the dark. A dim room seemed more appropriate for his dim mood. As he rolled back in bed, he wondered if he’d been too curt with Andrew. After all, Andrew was his only friend, and likely the only person who would miss him when he was gone.
“No one else will care,” Tristan said aloud as he rolled back in his bed. “No one else will be impacted by my death.”
Actually, he could think of more people who might even be pleased by his death. At the moment, some distant cousin stood to inherit Lord Randall’s title and estate. His cousin, as well as his cousin’s wife, had every reason to be delighted by the news. And why should they feel sad? They didn’t know Tristan well enough to care about his passing.
“I’m so… worthless,” Tristan sighed, realizing how little value his life had. He made no mark on the world—none whatsoever. Now he had the audacity to feel sorry for himself. “I should have done something worthwhile when I had the chance.”
As he sat in absolute silence, surrounded by darkness, Tristan concentrated on his heartbeat. His heart was beating rapidly, perhaps a bit painfully, but it was beating nonetheless.
He wasn’t dead yet, was he?
All of a sudden, Tristan sat up in bed and shouted, “Dubois!”
A few seconds later, his French butler appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed with concern. “Oui, my lord?”
“You must send for Andrew Lamb. I must speak with him at once!”
Dubois lifted an eyebrow so high, it nearly reached his scalp. “But… my lord… do you not know?”
“Know what?”
“Monsieur Lamb has been here all day,” Dubois explained. “He is in zee parlor as we speak.”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered when he heard the news. How long had it been since he sent Andrew away? Three hours? Four? Even if he had no other friends in the world, at least Andrew cared about him. “Will you fetch him for me, Dubois?”
“Oui, my lord. Of course.” With a bow, Dubois swiftly exited the room.
When the butler was gone, Tristan threw back his blankets and rose from bed. He didn’t want to be bedridden when Andrew returned. As of yet, Tristan didn’t have much difficulty moving around. He reopened the curtains, lowered himself to a chair near the window, and waited for Andrew's arrival.
Lord Randall was done with self-pity. He didn’t want to spend another moment feeling sorry for himself. He ne
eded to do something worthwhile, and he hoped Andrew could help him with that.
A few minutes later, Andrew popped his head in the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Andrew. Come in,” Tristan responded, waving for his friend to enter. “Look, I’m not in bed anymore! You should be proud of me.”
As Andrew stepped inside, he lowered his eyes to the floor. Ever since he learned about Tristan’s condition, he felt awful for criticizing his friend’s idleness. “I… well…”
“Come on. Don’t be sheepish with me!” Tristan exclaimed. “Everything you said about me the other day was completely and utterly true. I know I’ve been wasting my life—what little of it I have left—in a bed. That’s why I need your help, Andrew. There’s no one else I can turn to.”
Andrew lifted his head, taking a long look at his ill-fated friend. For the first time, he saw the deep, dark circles below Tristan’s eyes. It wasn’t the face of a healthy man. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “If there’s anything I could do to help you, you know I would.”
“Good.” Tristan actually cracked a smile as he spoke. “I need you to help me find a wife.”
Chapter Four
Her life was over at two and twenty. The more she thought about what she let herself become, the more she hated herself. For one night’s pleasure, she traded her virtue. And she would pay for it for the rest of her life.
Now that she was with child, Leona Lennox spent most of her time crying, or considering what few options she had. She was, without a doubt, a fallen woman. She had disgraced herself. She could no longer call herself a lady, show her face with pride, or spend time in decent company.
She had yet to tell anyone of her little indiscretion, or what that indiscretion had resulted in. When she built up the courage, Leona knew she would have to tell her father. And she would pray he wouldn’t flog her, throttle her, or strangle her in her sleep. She had seen him lose his temper over the most trifling things. She shuddered to think of how he would react when he found out she was carrying some man’s baby.
The Fallen Woman (A Regency Romance) Page 2