The sound of horse hooves crunching in the snow distracted Irene from her study on Alexander von Humboldt’s findings on isothermal lines, despite that topic’s considerable significance. She peered from her window. A man rode a horse in the distance, underneath the low, horizontal stratus clouds. The brim of the rider’s top hat obscured his face, but his upright and broad shoulders were visible. His greatcoat fluttered in the wind, and for a moment Irene wondered whether he could be Lord Burley.
She pushed the thought from her mind.
Irene was of the advanced age of twenty. A woman of her age did not ponder their schoolgirl infatuations, no matter how worthy of rumination the earl might be. It didn’t matter how chiseled his features might be or how filled with mirth his eyes were, just as it didn’t matter that his figure fulfilled anyone’s definition of perfection and that his dark, tousled hair tempted one to touch it.
Naturally not.
Irene picked up her quill and scribbled more notes, before remembering she’d forgotten to dip it into ink. The scratches on the paper taunted her.
Fiddlesticks.
Irene returned her gaze to Highedge Hall. The gables were visible in the distance, and despite herself she sighed.
Though she had a certain fondness for seventeenth-century manor houses, an under-represented architectural period in the former colonies, where Irene had spent much of her life, she wasn’t observing the manor house because of some historical interest.
No.
Highedge Hall was where Tristan Lark, Earl of Burley, resided.
At least, he sometimes resided there.
Though, to be absolutely accurate, rarely resided might be more correct.
When Irene had accepted the duchess’s invitation to Salisbury Castle, she’d wondered whether he might call on them.
He hadn’t.
Most likely, he was in London. Apparently, he was always in London. Matchmaking for Wallflowers had named him its Top Rogue to Avoid, a title that was surprisingly coveted.
She forced her gaze away from the window.
When Irene was thirteen years old, she’d spied Lord Burley for the first time.
It shouldn’t have made a difference.
Irene had met men before. Her two older brothers always dragged friends to their mother’s sprawling house that overlooked the ocean. Irene’s mother had married a sea captain after Irene’s father had died.
Tristan—her brothers had called him that, and Irene had continued the tradition in her mind—had been different. Perhaps there’d been no competing idealized summer vision in his mind. Arthur and Percival had whispered that Tristan’s home situation was imperfect, and Irene’s mother had seemed particularly eager to spoil him.
Tristan had sauntered toward the house. When her book and papers had slipped from her distracted fingers, he’d picked them up. He’d flashed a smile, and that had been that: her heart belonged to him.
It hadn’t been logical. In fact, it had been utterly senseless, but the fact was there: she loved Lord Tristan Burley.
Fortunately, she aimed to lead other parts of her life with more logic.
One day, Tristan would marry.
He would wed a woman named Isabella or Lavinia, a woman with a beautiful name that matched her no doubt exquisite beauty. He wouldn’t marry a woman with a plain name, like Irene or Jane.
If Irene’s mother had her way, Irene would also marry. Irene’s mother had investigated younger sons of marriageable age who might be swayed by Irene’s dowry, if not her thin figure, large nose and overall inattention to feminine graces.
She sighed.
Being the youngest was vastly overrated.
It was especially overrated to be the youngest of a group of highly well-known siblings.
Everyone expected Irene to marry well.
The problem was, Irene lacked any desire to marry.
She was a bluestocking, and everyone said bluestockings made poor wives. They didn’t have sufficient interest in choosing china, and their adherence to current fashion was often dismal.
Even worse, Irene enjoyed being a bluestocking.
There was nothing more pleasant than learning a new fact about the world, just as there was nothing more enjoyable than creating, then conducting an experiment.
Husbands would not equal that experience.
After all, Irene had met a multitude of unmarried men at balls, and not a single one had expressed interest in the weather patterns she adored studying. She doubted marriage would transform these men, even if her older siblings revered marriage, bestowing it with powers that were more properly ascribed to the discoverers of the laws of physics.
TRISTAN GRASPED ONTO his horse as it galloped toward Salisbury Castle. He ignored the dried leaves that flitted through the air and crunched beneath his gelding’s hooves. The leaves had long abandoned the few trees, unwilling to accompany the branches they had spent so much time with, for the inevitable onslaught of bitter, frigid cold. The gusts took glee in shaping the long blades of grass that lined the path into unpleasant forms, as if it had recently taken a course on sculpting.
Finally, the castle loomed before him, and Tristan hesitated. Asking Miss Carmichael to pretend to be his wife had seemed feasible in the comfort of his chambers, guided more by his imagination than etiquette. If Tristan had desired to find a bride, he should have done so the proper way, and picked one from the debutantes that graced the balls each season. He certainly would not have selected Miss Irene Carmichael.
He sighed.
He knew what to do. He wasn’t a complete fool. He had paid attention to his classes at Eton and Oxford. The gentlemanly procedure would be to ride back, confess to Prince Radoslav that he didn’t actually have a wife, and face the prince’s inevitable tirade.
And yet...
If he did that, Prince Radoslav wouldn’t just know he didn’t possess a wife, a fact he seemed to take as a sign of incompetence. Personally, Tristan felt the prince should be cognizant of just how difficult it was to remain unmarried, given the swarm of matchmaking mamas who swooped toward him whenever he entered a ballroom, and be suitably impressed at Tristan’s ability to clutch onto bachelorhood.
Unfortunately, Prince Radoslav would also know Tristan had lied. The latter was a worse crime, and one Tristan did not intend to be found guilty of.
Tristan had visited Salisbury Castle. He knew where to leave his horse and which door to enter. Unfortunately, he’d have to choose a less conventional entrance. Tristan could hardly enter the castle and expect the butler to arrange a private tête-à-tête between Miss Carmichael and himself. Not when Tristan wanted her to feign being his bride, and not when being alone with a woman might lead to questions of compromise.
Blast.
Tristan had never been appropriately deferential at the sheer number of turrets that adorned the castle. Evidently, the Duke of Salisbury’s ancestors had considered their neighbors sufficiently troublesome to install elaborate fortifications, even if Tristan would be the first Earl of Burley to actually invade. At least this Duke of Salisbury no longer employed weapon-wielding guards.
Tristan urged his horse to circle the castle, so any onlookers might declare him an enthusiastic winter exerciser rather than someone scouting for methods to break into the building.
Finally, he inhaled and headed in the direction of the chit’s room. Thankfully, George had known which one. Apparently, the Duke and Duchess of Salisbury always placed their guests with a view overlooking Highedge Hall. The view might not be as pleasant as the one the duke and duchess had, but Tristan experienced some pride. The entire line of Earls of Burley had not matched his father’s instinct for disgracefulness. Some had focused on more than bosoms and rounded bottoms, or had at least directed any jubilation for the female form toward their wives.
Tristan squeezed through some bushes, grateful the current Duke of Salisbury’s security did not extend beyond the odd prickly thorn. Nobody would direct arrows through the turrets, a
nd Tristan started to scale the wall.
Whatever disadvantages Yorkshire sandstone had in appearance, time had created helpful indentures on the soft stone, and Tristan expressed gratitude to whichever of the duke’s ancestors had insisted on a family home that included a multitude of windows, all with convenient ledges. Whichever person had thought to plant a tree beside the window in question deserved a hefty reward.
Tristan scrambled up and slid onto the balcony. He pushed away the slight tingle of guilt. After all, he had a business proposition for her. Perhaps his method of introduction was unconventional, but not everything could be conventional.
Besides, what woman wouldn’t want a bit of pin money? He’d happily gift her some Parisian dresses for her trouble, or whatever it was women wanted these days.
Tristan peered through the glass door. His heartbeat quickened, and he hoped George had not mistakenly directed him to the wrong wing.
But a woman was inside.
Fortunately, she didn’t resemble the Duchess of Salisbury, which no doubt lessened Tristan’s chances of being attacked with a chemistry book, or whatever weapon the duke might choose. The Duke of Salisbury’s passion for science was renowned.
Tristan moved his hand to test whether the window opened. Thankfully, it did. Tristan was grateful the woman had not taken precautions against the chance an intruder might make a two story scale of the castle.
Fate was on Tristan’s side. He grinned and opened the door, moving silently, just as he’d learned when battling Bonaparte’s army. The woman seemed engrossed in a book, and ink stained her hands.
Her pince-nez glinted in the dim afternoon light. The frames might be gold, but that hardly rendered them stylish. Indeed, the bright color only further emphasized the device. Most women would rather stumble into furniture and remark upon a general clumsiness and the need for a strong forearm upon which to clutch onto, than wear pince-nez.
He surveyed the rest of her appearance.
Neither of Miss Carmichael’s brothers looked amiss in a ballroom, but her older sister, who’d somehow managed to wrangle a duke to marry her, was not renowned for her beauty. Miss Irene Carmichael resembled her sister.
She was thin, and her dark dress overwhelmed her, even though that wasn’t a power cotton often possessed. The staid color didn’t flatter her fair complexion, and the dress’s billowing sleeves and wide hem, an acknowledgment of current fashion, did nothing to enhance her. Her nose did not match the slenderness of her waist, sloping outward, though it occurred to Tristan that a more generous bosom would have been a better allocation of curves.
Breasts made everything better, and despite himself, he chuckled.
Miss Irene Carmichael shot him an appalled look.
Her eyes, what he could see of them behind the smudged pince-nez lenses, were a dull green color, the sort of color one rarely came across, except in ponds one had no desire to venture into.
This was a mistake. If only he hadn’t chuckled out loud.
Prince Radoslav would never believe he’d tied himself to this woman. He’d declare Tristan a fraud at once, and that was the last thing Tristan required.
“Excuse me,” Tristan said. “I—er—shouldn’t be here.”
Obviously.
Miss Carmichael leaped up, knocking her inkwell in a clumsy motion. Dark liquid splashed across her paper, but rather than blotting it, she stared at him.
CHAPTER THREE
A MAN WAS IN HER ROOM. He’d broken in, and Irene trembled. In novels, the step that followed a man sneaking into a home was often murder.
Irene inched toward the bell pull, keeping her gaze on the intruder.
The man looked curiously like Lord Burley, though that must be an impossibility. Lord Burley was wonderful and wouldn’t break into women’s suites. Lord Burley picked up papers belonging to practical strangers, and Lord Burley had once saved her brother Arthur’s life. Criminal activity hardly seemed a natural progression.
Not that the well-dressed trespasser fulfilled her preconceptions of burglar behavior. He didn’t mutter obscenities and paw at her attire. He hadn’t pointed a pistol at her and demanded money, though perhaps he’d calculated that he’d entered the wrong room and was pondering whether he might ask her for directions to the duke’s chambers.
Irene’s former nanny had worried about the prospect of Irene visiting Yorkshire by herself, even though she was staying with the Duke and Duchess of Salisbury and was ensconced in a castle. Irene’s nanny believed that Britain swarmed with criminals, though this person, certainly did not resembled the artistic depictions of criminals found on the pages of broadsheets.
He looked exactly like Lord Burley.
Her heart tightened.
Perhaps he was the man’s cousin. Or perhaps he was some by-blow of Lord Burley’s father. Everyone hinted that Lord Burley’s father had acted despicably, though Lord Burley’s mother seemed equally lavished with negative terms.
A pleasant scent of cedar and cotton and lemon wafted from the stranger. Despite the weather’s incessant tendency toward blusteriness, the man’s coiffure remained intact, as if he possessed a talented valet. Irene had never supposed valets were common hangers-on of burglars.
Snowflakes were scattered on the man’s greatcoat, bestowing an ephemeral quality on him she was certain he did not deserve.
After all, the man had broken into her room.
The fact was unconscionable, and she continued to inch slowly from him, maintaining eye contact. It was the same technique she’d read about in one of her books on Africa, though unlike in the next steps of the plan, there were no convenient trees she could climb and no rivers she could leap into to flee.
She opened her mouth to scream. She might be a dreadful singer, but screaming should be within her capabilities.
“Don’t yell,” the man blurted. “I know you don’t know me, but I won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes widened, but not from fear. This wasn’t any man.
Irene had heard that voice before.
This was definitely Lord Tristan Burley.
He seemed to be under the mistaken impression that they hadn’t met. Despite that seeming lack of an introduction, he was in her room anyway.
“Every criminal claims that,” Irene said.
“Nonsense,” Lord Burley retorted. “Some describe everything they’re going to do in excruciatingly detail.”
The earl grinned, and Irene’s heart raced.
He was here.
In her room.
Irene’s legs forgot how to stand, her heart halted its regular rhythm, and her breath abandoned her body, as if too bemused to stay with her.
Lord Tristan Burley wasn’t supposed to climb onto her balcony, and he wasn’t supposed chat casually with her.
Irene plopped down on her chair.
“Are you well?” Tristan’s face paled. “You look awfully ill. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” she said softly.
He blinked.
She raised her head. “I doubt the man who’d saved my brother’s life would extinguish mine.”
“You know who I am.”
She gave him a curt nod that felt too businesslike for the occasion. “Why are you here?”
“I need your help.”
His explanation made no sense, but then, nothing of his visit did.
“I need you to pretend to be my wife.” The words tumbled from his mouth.
Surely she misheard him.
Irene hadn’t thought her auditory abilities were lacking, but obviously they were. There was no reason for those words to come from his mouth.
“Obviously I’ll pay you,” he added. “I would hate to be inappropriate.”
Her lips twitched. “You find this appropriate?”
Tristan flushed, but then his eyes brightened. “Look! I’ll show you.”
He lowered his satchel, and Irene shrank back, half-expecting him to remove a pistol. Certainly, that would be more in ke
eping with men who sneaked into ladies’ bedrooms.
Her heart tightened. She couldn’t be here making absurd conversation with him. He might be handsome, and he might make her heart flutter, but it didn’t matter.
There was no world in which she could entertain thoughts of playing his wife, just as there was no world in which he should be in her room. Perhaps this was some ghastly joke. Men didn’t clamber into women’s bedrooms and ask them to pretend to be their wives.
She wished the Duchess of Salisbury’s bedroom was in this wing, and she wished the servants had not finished cleaning hours before.
Irene moved toward the bell pull and stretched out her hand.
“Don’t touch it,” Tristan pleaded.
Irene ignored his request.
She pulled the bell pull.
Now she only needed to wait for one of the servants to make the ascent from the kitchen to the faraway wing that Irene was tucked into.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I suggest you leave. The servants will wonder at your presence.”
“And whose reputation do you think that will harm?” The man raised an eyebrow as he removed a smaller satchel, and Irene stilled.
He had a point.
Irene didn’t want to imagine her mother’s tirade if she were discovered with a man in her room. Her mother excelled at monologues, but she’d never had such inspiration before.
She tightened her fists. She despised that he could break into her room, yet her reputation would be damaged.
Clinking sounded, distracting her from her thoughts, and he poured coins onto his palm. There were so many, and despite herself, Irene stared.
“This can be yours,” Tristan said. “If you pretend to be my wife.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Think of it as an acting assignment.”
“But I’m not an actress. I don’t desire acting assignments. I don’t need money either.”
“Then what do you want?”
Irene was silent.
No one asked her that question.
She hadn’t expected to hear it from a man who had broken into her bedroom like some common burglar, even if the only thing he professed to desire was her company.
A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble, #6) Page 2