A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble, #6)
Page 7
“I do,” Irene said, and happiness thrummed through her. She wasn’t certain whether she could blame the sensation on the wine, the slight alcoholic taste of the cake, or simply Tristan’s presence across the table, and the momentary thought that this must be what life might be like to be married to him.
“And you clearly enjoy rambling through the countryside. Do you truly not mind that your husband intends to use his funds to purchase a gaming hell? A center of depravity? London’s nadir?” Prince Radoslav asked.
Irene glanced in Tristan’s direction; the earl’s face had paled.
Apparently, even the famous Charlotte cake could not distract the prince from his investment musings for long.
Irene stiffened, but she kept her chin raised. “Naturally, I have no reservations.”
“And why not?” the prince pressed. His dark eyes glimmered, in the same manner in which other eyes might sparkle when they found something delightful. No doubt, the prince found this delightful.
Irene inhaled. “I doubt you would describe the gaming hell in such negative terms yourself, since you are willing to lend money for his venture.”
“But other people will talk.”
“Then they may do so,” Irene said simply.
This time, the prince was silent, and a surge of victory rushed through Irene.
Princess Natalia cleared her throat. “Lady Burley, I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
The princess pointed to the ceiling. “What are those?”
Irene’s gaze followed the princess’s gaze upward. The ornately carved ceiling was beautiful. Indeed, everything in this manor house was exquisite. When she’d taken this role, she hadn’t imagined the sensation of wandering this place and referring to it as her own, to truly feel she had a home. Her childhood home was far away, and Irene was tired of moving from place to place, the length of each visit determined by the complexity of her mother’s social calendar.
Greenery dangled from the ceiling. No doubt the princess referred to this, and not whether the exquisite wood paneling was composed of pine or oak.
“Those are Christmas garlands. Not everyone hangs them up before Christmas. Some people believe them to be bad luck. I imagine because—,” Irene remembered she was the lady of the manor house and flushed. She cleared her throat. “Because you were coming, Lord Burley and I wanted to show you a traditional British Christmas. They do smell wonderful, don’t they?”
Princess Natalia wrinkled her nose. “They smell like the outdoors. I’m afraid I don’t see the point.”
“At least Lord and Lady Burley do not have a tree indoors like our neighbors on the continent.” Prince Radoslav patted his wife’s knee in a show of intimacy that made Irene’s heart ache.
“That would be dreadful,” Princess Natalia said.
“The greenery has particular significance,” Irene said hastily, lest the prince and princess continue to dwell on things they found strange. “Mistletoe for instance...”
Tristan stiffened, but his eyes sparkled.
“What does mistletoe signify?” Princess Natalia asked.
Irene’s skin heated. “Oh. Mistletoe... It’s quite silly, truly. Just an old wives’ tale.”
“Old wife?” Princess Natalia blinked.
“A woman who has been married a long time,” Tristan explained. “Someone who is quite wise.”
“Or mad,” Irene countered, hoping to not explain the superstition attached to mistletoe. She was suddenly aware she’d never been kissed.
“That depends on her husband,” Tristan said with a smile, and Irene found herself smiling back.
“They say if two people step underneath the mistletoe, they must kiss,” Irene explained finally.
Prince Radoslav widened his eye. “No matter who they are?”
“Precisely,” Irene said.
“Oh, so the English are not as stiff and reserved as they like to pretend,” Princess Natalia said. “I like this. It was a good idea to live with the English. We are beginning to see what they are truly like.”
The footmen cleared the food away, and there was a moment of awkwardness. No one had yawned during the dinner, and Irene wondered whether she should suggest that the princess and she should go to another room so that the prince and Tristan could play billiards or whatever it was men did on their own.
“Perhaps we can dance,” Princess Natalia murmured. She tilted her head, and her perfectly coiled tendrils waved.
“Dance?” Irene squeaked.
Irene didn’t dance.
Sometimes she sat in dusty corners of ballrooms.
Occasionally a man might ask her to dance, spurred by the knowledge she was related to the Duke of Alfriston. It didn’t take much time for him to learn he’d made a mistake, and that the smaller dowries other women could offer would more than suffice. No man’s cobbler was sufficiently proficient to extend multiple offers of dancing to Irene.
“Yes.” Princess Natalia nodded. “Surely even people in the country do that?”
The prince scrutinized Irene. “I would have thought somebody who desired to help her husband open a gaming hell would not be entirely unfamiliar with festivities.”
“Naturally, we adore dancing,” Tristan said.
“But I—er—” Irene stammered.
Tristan rose, swept into a bow, then extended a hand toward her.
Irene stared.
Irene might have agreed to play the man’s wife, but that had involved conversation with other people. Couples never sat beside one another while dining.
But a dance was entirely different. A dance involved his hands being placed on hers. Would he touch her waist? Or would he merely dance opposite her, jumping and moving his feet elegantly in a show of grace and athleticism that would make any dance partner quiver?
“We don’t have music,” Irene said triumphantly. “We cannot dance without music.”
“I shall fetch my maid,” Princess Natalia said.
“She knows how to play?” Tristan asked.
“Naturally.” The princess scrunched her forehead. “I cannot provide all the music.”
The princess soon returned with her maid, who began a waltz.
Goodness.
The maid had selected the most romantic dance, even though Irene knew the waltz was more popular on the continent and that it provided certain spatial advantages.
The prince and princess started to dance, and Tristan extended his hand to Irene.
Irene hesitated.
His scent did funny things to her heart. It trembled in his presence, fluttering like a trapped butterfly.
Dancing with him would be dangerous.
“Come, my wife,” Tristan said, his voice deep.
She stared at his hand for too long, but she could have stared longer. When she touched him, her hands trembled, even though she wore gloves.
His eyes widened in concern.
Oh, no.
He’d noticed her nervousness. That was the last thing she needed.
She didn’t want him to think she was becoming attached to him. That hadn’t been the plan.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” she warned, hoping he would attribute her nervousness to that and not her recognition of his absolute wonderfulness.
He smirked. “You’ve forgotten, dear wife, that I am an excellent dancer.”
Soon Irene swirled in Tristan’s arms. Even though she’d never liked dancing before, and even though she’d felt certain this time would be no different, she felt safe. Perhaps she stumbled on occasion, but it didn’t matter. After a while, she no longer stumbled on the steps, and she might as well be flying.
“Ah! You’re underneath the mistletoe,” Princess Natalia exclaimed. “You must kiss!”
Irene darted her gaze up. Mistletoe did hang before them.
She shifted. “I couldn’t...”
The princess’s brow crinkled. “But you said it is an English tradition.”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have to do it,” Tristan whispered.
“Of course we can,” Irene replied.
His gaze studied her, then his eyes softened. “Are you certain?”
She nodded and lifted her chin higher to meet him. Irene was suddenly aware things would change, that this was actually a dreadful plan. This wasn’t simply pretending to be Lady Burley when she was not, this was knowing him in a manner more intimate than she’d experienced with anyone else. Kissing was something only married people did, and unmarried people, shortly before they showed up with rounded bellies and planned hasty weddings.
In the next moment, Tristan leaned toward her, and their lips touched, and everything was magical.
He drew away quickly. “We kissed. Happy Christmas, dear wife.”
“H-Happy Christmas,” she stammered. Her heart raced. They’d kissed. They’d truly kissed.
The prince cleared his throat. “That was an appalling kiss. We kiss differently in my country. We kiss better.”
“Would you care to demonstrate?” Tristan asked.
“Naturally not.” The prince’s face reddened. “We are not standing underneath mistletoe. No, this is your English tradition and your new bride.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TRISTAN KNEW HE SHOULDN’T listen to the prince, despite his title and despite his importance.
He didn’t need to kiss Irene.
The prince was teasing him. It simply meant the prince was comfortable, and that today’s long meeting had been a success, even if it hadn’t ended with the desired signature.
And yet...
Irene’s cheeks had pinkened in a delightful manner. Ringlets framed her face alluringly, and she stared at him.
He gazed at her eyes. How had it never occurred to him that green was the loveliest color in the world? Her eyes were soft and gentle, framed by long lashes that swooped up and down.
He wanted to pull Irene closer to him.
He wanted to hold her in his arms again.
And he wanted to kiss her.
Truly kiss her.
And so he did.
His lips danced with hers, and his heart beat. Her slender form fit perfectly in his arms.
Tristan remembered where he was and stepped away.
He stared at Irene, despising that even now he longed to continue to kiss her. He wanted to press his lips against her throat, and he wanted to trail kisses to her bodice.
He’d acted horrendously. Irene was an innocent. And he’d kissed her. Truly, truly kissed her. He fought the urge to pull her back to him.
“The evening is finished,” he said, his voice rough.
“Naturally. We are encroaching on your time together,” the prince said. “I have forgotten that you are newlyweds.”
“So romantic.” The princess turned to her maid. “Come Elena.”
They left the room, and when the sound of their footsteps padding on the floorboards halted, Tristan remembered to breathe.
“I’ll take you home,” Tristan whispered. “I—I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She averted her gaze, and her cheeks remained pink, as if still horrified. “It was the mistletoe.”
Tristan nodded.
But it hadn’t just been about the mistletoe.
It had been about...Irene.
Tristan had long ago learned that kisses were unequally divided in excellence. Sometimes kissing even the prettiest actresses and widows was surprisingly unsatisfactory, despite those women possessing a beauty that any observer would confirm.
But he hadn’t been disappointed when he’d kissed Irene.
He’d been shaken.
Their lips had melded together. The kiss had been, simply, splendid.
They were quiet as they exited the manor house and strode toward the castle. The stars twinkled above, but Tristan didn’t want to think about romance.
Thinking about romance might make him kiss her again, and that would not do.
“I’m sorry about dragging you here,” Tristan said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Owning Hades’ Lair is your dream.”
“It’s not a good dream,” Tristan admitted.
Irene raised an eyebrow and observed him. “What makes you say that?”
“Well. I should desire to stay here, right? To take care of this manor house? And I will. I mean, if I manage to buy the gaming hell, I will do that. I’ll just have to hire an estate manager to look after things. In fact, I already have an estate manager, so he simply wouldn’t be losing his job.” Tristan laughed weakly. “I don’t intend to terminate any of the servants. I would still visit on occasion.”
“Like Christmas?” she asked.
He nodded. “Perhaps. Though I like London. I think I’m only realizing for the first time now the pleasantness that can be experienced with Christmas in the countryside.”
“I think,” Irene said, “that if your dream is to take over the gaming hell that you should do it.”
“Truly?”
She nodded. “Hades’ Lair possesses some respectability. I assume you don’t intend to have ladies of the night wander through the club?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not my plan. McIntyre and Vernon are fools to give Hades’ Lair up.”
“But they’re in love with their wives?” she prompted.
“Indeed.”
Somehow it seemed odd to be speaking about love to her. He didn’t love her. He barely knew her. And yet, earlier he’d been telling the prince and princess all the ways he did love her, and it hadn’t felt like a lie.
“I have a dream too,” Irene said.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“It’s a silly dream, but it’s my dream, and I don’t want to give it up either.”
“What is it? Does it involve science? Or perhaps mathematics? Don’t tell me that you’re a secret card counter!”
She giggled. “No, though I do like mathematics and I don’t mind playing cards.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want you to sneak into Hades’ Lair disguised as a man to win all the club’s money.”
She stiffened. He’d said the wrong thing, blast it. When one spoke frequently, one was apt to say the wrong thing on occasion, but this time, his heart ached.
“Not,” he said hastily, “that anyone could think you a man, no matter how thick of a beard you might paste on your face.”
He wished he could see her expression in the dark. He wanted to know if she was smiling. It was suddenly very important that she smiled, that she was happy.
“My sister pretended to be a man when she traveled to the Caribbean.” Irene’s voice remained quiet, lacking its earlier exuberance, and Tristan despised himself.
“I’ve heard that story.”
“You must think it dreadful,” Irene said.
“I think it’s brave,” he said. “But then, both your brothers were brave. It’s a trait you share.”
“I’m not battling the French.”
“But you are putting up with some quite difficult royals.”
And me.
They continued to plod through the snow, and Tristan resisted the urge to clutch her hand in his.
“Now, what is your dream?” he asked.
“I’m fascinated by the weather,” Irene admitted. “I’d love to study it.”
He widened his eyes. “The weather?”
“It’s the most enthralling topic in the world,” she declared.
“You absolutely are living in the right country then,” Tristan replied. “The weather is our main conversation topic. Though you’ll have to become better at grumbling.”
“I have no desire to grumble about the weather. I just want to know how the weather changes and how to better predict it. There are all sorts of discoveries being made, and I want to create maps that will show how the weather in one place wil
l affect the weather in another place.”
“Ah.” Tristan tilted his head. “That’s intriguing.”
He suddenly felt awkward. His own interests were more plebeian. School had been something he was eager to leave, and he was impressed by those who remained undaunted by the prospect of poring over thick tomes crammed with scholarly insights.
“I think so. After all, a few years ago this country was impacted by the weather.”
Tristan shuddered. “The year without a summer.”
“The more information people have, the better. The post system is brilliant. Now why can’t we provide real updates about the weather? That is something that would truly help people. It would give farmers a chance to plan better, but everyone would appreciate some advance warning.”
“You’re remarkable.”
“Nonsense.”
He shook his head firmly. “No. Your passion is marvelous. It’s not something everyone has. You can truly help many people, people you’ll never even meet, with your ideas.”
“I hope so,” she said. “And I’ve been studying as much as I can on my own. I taught myself German, so I can read Humboldt, and—”
“You taught yourself German?” he sputtered.
“I know it’s not that ladylike,” she said. “It’s less fashionable than French.”
“Which you probably also know,” he said.
“Well, yes.”
He smiled. “So I imagine you want to study under someone in a more formal manner?”
“Yes. One of the most revered people in the field teaches at Cambridge. The Duke of Salisbury knows him. But of course, it’s simply a dream. I’m a woman, after all. Even if he agreed to tutor me informally, my mother wouldn’t want me to move to Cambridge by myself. You probably think this is tiresome.”
He shook his head solemnly. “No. Dreams are never tiresome. Especially ones that have to do with you.”
IRENE’S HEART THRUMMED and energy swept through her. He’d accepted her dream so easily. He hadn’t laughed and told her that her questions about weather patterns were best solved by hoary-haired men.
Tension filled the air again, even though they were outside, and the sensation should simply be able to flutter away.