by Hatch, Donna
She hesitated again. “I’m going riding with Captain Kensington.”
He deflated. Kensington. Curse the man. He had claimed no interest in marriage, so why take Leticia riding?
Tristan mustered on and collected his smile. “No matter. How about the theater tomorrow? Richard and Elizabeth will be there, too. You are all welcome.” He spread his arms to encompass the other two ladies.
A pained expression overcame Leticia. “We are already going with Lord Bradbury.”
He swallowed. His brilliant plan to find her a respectable husband appeared to be paying off…too well.
She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Tristan. I can go with you Friday afternoon, if you wish.”
He clawed at his composure and summoned a savoir faire expression. “Of course, Tish. No matter. The weather may dictate our actions. If the weather is clear again, we shall brave the gas balloon. If not, perhaps…” he had no clear social calendar and could think of nothing to suggest.
“I have yet to view the Parthenon Sculptures,” she suggested.
He raised a brow. “I didn’t realize you were a connoisseur of art.”
“Not necessarily, but I do enjoy seeing items of historical interest and taking in sights unique to London.”
“Your wish is my command, fair lady. We shall view the marble sculptures at the British Museum.” He released her hand, stepped back, and made a low, flourishing bow. Turning to Leticia’s aunt and sister, he bade them all good day and left.
Outside, Tristan let out a huff. So much for his plan. At least he had Friday. He toyed with the idea of joining Palmer and his other friends at the White Stag and drinking away his cares. The lure of mind-numbing drink and laughing with his old friends called to him like a siren’s song.
That would put him back on that same path leading to the same dead end where he’d wallowed far too long. People counted on him. Cared about him. He had a reason to live—not exist for the next mindless pleasure.
Taking advantage of the clear, cloudless day, he walked, not paying attention to his direction as he scrambled to find his own place in the world. Richard had always known his place; as a child, he’d been groomed to be the next earl and he excelled at his duties. When they were younger, Richard had taught Tristan some matters of estate as a side-thought in the unlikely event something happened to Richard, but Tristan had never paid much attention to the instruction, instead studying literature and poetry for his own enjoyment. He got his degree at Cambridge almost by accident.
But now, now he wanted—needed—more. An identity. A purpose. Perhaps he could help Richard by taking over the management of one or two of the properties. It would have the dual purpose of lightening Richard’s heavy load so he could focus on his wife. Helping Richard could be a gesture of gratitude for all the years that he’d watched over Tristan, and it might help in Tristan’s search for his own purpose.
He sent a note to Richard, asking to meet him outside of Parliament tomorrow after the next session. Richard’s reply came promptly.
The following afternoon, he dressed in fashionable yet understated clothing and set out for Parliament. Outside, he gazed up at the timeless structure that had helped shape British history and law. To be a part of that felt a sobering responsibility.
Members of Parliament left the building in small groups and Tristan wandered up the long sidewalk to the front steps, staring like a gawking child at the graceful spires pointing heavenward. He felt small. Yet, to be connected with something that grand, that important appealed to him.
Richard strode down the steps between the Duke of Suttenberg and Lord Bradbury, their expressions light. Richard’s laugh rang out and he shook his head. Tristan grinned at the contagious sound. Since his marriage, Richard smiled and laughed more often. He gave all the credit to Elizabeth.
The moment Richard caught sight of Tristan, his posture changed—not tense, but…what? Wary? Expectant?
“Tristan,” he called. “Come to White’s?”
Tristan nodded and waited for them to approach. They exchanged greetings, the other two lords declining an invitation to accompany them, and Tristan joined his brother in Richard’s waiting coach.
Seated across from Tristan, Richard eyed him. “What is on your mind?”
Tristan clasped his hands together. “Don’t laugh. And don’t faint. But I am here to ask you if I can help with the estate. Or anything.”
Richard’s eyebrows shot up.
Tristan added, “I could take over some small detail. Perhaps manage one of the properties, or help with a specific aspect that affects all of them. I don’t know much about crops, but I have a passing knowledge of structures, bridges…” He shrugged. It had all sounded better in his head. Now that he had voiced it, it seemed paltry.
Richard cocked his head to one side. “You want to help? Why?”
“I want to do something to pay you back for all the times you’ve been there for me. I’d like to try to ease your burdens. To be honest, I don’t know what to suggest, except…” an idea came to him as he spoke. “I could visit some of the properties, inspect the house and the tenants. Speak with the stewards. You wouldn’t have to travel as much. You could spend more time with your wife.”
Richard’s disbelief transformed to speculation and then serious consideration. “I could have you view the property in Northumbria—I haven’t been there in years. And I have never visited the property in Cornwall that came as part of Mama’s dowry. It’s fallen into a fair state of disrepair with only an aged caretaker.”
Tristan nodded. “I’d be happy to see what it needs. I could go to both places.”
Richard studied him. “What’s on your mind?”
Spreading his hands out, Tristan searched for an answer. He shook his head, rejecting every poetic phrase that entered his mind. Richard hated when Tristan waxed poetic. Finally, he settled with, “I owe you much, so I thought you were the one I should try to help first.”
A pause. A long one. Richard went still, a sign of deep thought. At last, he shifted and gave a loose wave. “Very well, I welcome the assistance. Cornwall is a higher priority. It will take you at least a week to get there, and this time of year, the roads could be bad. Perhaps visit this summer, but in the meantime, open a correspondence with the caretaker?”
A week. If he left town to oversee that property, he’d be gone two and a half to three weeks, which would take him away from Leticia for far too long. But if that’s what Richard needed, Tristan would see to it.
He nodded. “I’ll begin at once.”
Richard’s mouth quirked to one side. “You’re serious about this.”
“I am.” Tristan looked him straight in the eye.
As if realizing the reason for Tristan’s change in behavior, Richard sobered. “You don’t have to do this as penance, you know.”
Tristan studied his hands before spreading them wide. “I want to do more. I want to be more.”
Richard leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then let’s help you find more.”
“Thank you.”
For the first time in who knew how long, Tristan had goals; learn all he could about the possibility of running in the next election for the House of Commons, ease some of Richard’s burdens, help Elizabeth and Leticia with their school, and become a man who could hold up his head in polite company, the kind of man Leticia deserved.
If he were to crowd out Kensington and Bradbury, he must get more creative. No matter. He excelled at creativity. He looked forward to the challenge of winning the heart and hand of his dearest friend, whom he could never let out of his life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Leticia fastened the frog closures of her plumb-colored pelisse, and donned a bonnet before she went to the morning room to await Tristan. She sank into a striped armchair and put on her kid gloves.
Why on earth had Tristan been so insistent on taking her somewhere? And why did he seem so crushed when she explained her plans wi
th Lord Bradbury and Captain Kensington? The idea that Tristan would be jealous…no, a ludicrous thought.
What would it be like to be pursued by a man like Tristan, though? She almost sighed at the thought. Memory edged into her mind of her lips accidentally brushing his. The shock of that contact had sent alternating hot and cold chills straight down to her toes. Then he’d kissed her a second time and…oh my…
Instinct must have prompted that second kiss—nothing more. Heaven help her if he ever kissed her on purpose!
Perhaps all kisses were so exhilarating. She tried to imagine sharing such a moment with Lord Bradbury, a remarkably handsome man, as well as kind and attentive, with a wry sense of humor. She’d enjoyed viewing the Bridgewater Collection at Cleveland House with him. How would his kiss affect her? Somehow the idea fell flat. Perhaps she would not know until she shared such a moment with him.
Or Captain Kensington? He had not actively courted her, but he’d sought her out on occasion. Also handsome and kind, with a lively, albeit dark humor, the captain would make a desirable husband. In moments, she detected an underlying sorrow, the source of which she had yet to learn. He was mysterious. What would it be like to kiss him? That thought also failed to invite any excitement.
The idea of kissing Tristan—a real, purposeful kiss, left her breathless.
No. No. No. She must not think of a notorious roué in such a way. She remained safe as long as he stayed in the realm of her friend. Anything more would be a dangerous, foolhardy risk to her heart and peace of mind.
The front door knocker echoed through the foyer, and Leticia rose to greet Tristan. His smile met her. Stylish as usual but wearing grays and blues instead of his usual, more vibrant colors, he stood, tall and lean. His eyes, clearer than she’d seen in years, sparkled.
“Good afternoon, Tish.” His grin warmed her all over.
“Good afternoon, yourself. The weather appears to have bent to your will.”
“Because I asked for your sake, I am sure.” He affected a bow. “Are you prepared for a balloon ride?”
The nervous quiver in her stomach increased to that of a small cyclone. Still, it would not do to appear as frightened as a kitten in a den of wolves; Tristan would surely tease her for years.
She lifted her chin and gave a negligent wave of her hand. “Oh, certainly. I always do such things. They’re hardly exciting any more. Perhaps I’ll go on safari next.”
Grinning, he offered his arm. “I hope elephants and tigers don’t bore you. You might want to bring a warm cloak—it’s much cooler up there.”
Up there. Heaven help her.
Tristan smiled, so handsome and steady, that she squared her shoulders and grabbed a cloak.
Tossing the cloak over her arm, she said with false courage, “Lead on, good sir.”
Outside, an elegant barouche bearing his family coat of arms awaited them, complete with a driver and four horses. Battling back her nervous anticipation, she forced cheer into her voice.
“A barouche. How stylish.”
“It’s Richard’s. I know it’s ostentatious but my curricle was irreparable.” He drew a breath, his expression grim. The knot of his cravat moved as he swallowed. “I’ve ordered a phaeton and am having it built lower than the usual style so it would be more stable, and not require a ladder.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Still fashionable, but safer with four wheels instead of two like his curricle, a phaeton would be much steadier, especially if he had it lowered. The accident appeared to have instilled a sense of Tristan’s own mortality.
He glanced at her as if searching for a meaning behind her words. “I will never race again.”
His earnest, sorrowful expression tugged at her heart. A pity he must cast off a pastime that he clearly loved. Still, his recognizing the folly of engaging in such danger meant he’d be less likely to repeat it.
She touched his arm. “I look forward to seeing your new phaeton.”
His grim expression softened. “I’ll take you for a drive as soon as it’s completed.”
“I’ve never ridden in one.”
“Good. Then I look forward to being your first.”
A glint touched his eyes as he handed her into the luxurious conveyance and she sank into seat cushions softer than a feather bed. The folded down hoods made the vehicle perfect for seeing the sights of London. Being seen with Tristan made her want to sit up a little taller.
“Have you purchased a new team of horses?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I didn’t see any I liked at Tattersalls, but I’ll go again next week. My phaeton won’t be ready for another two weeks at least; I have time.” His dark eyes carried a luster in them she had not seen in years, and his steadiness gave him a new maturity.
She gazed at him, amazed at his transformation. “I’ve never seen you so bright-eyed. At least, not in years.”
He quirked a brow.
She searched for an explanation. “The more dissipated you grew, the more your eyes dulled. And then when you were hurt… Well, I’m glad to see you looking so well.”
His expression took on a far-away look that reminded her of the poetic romantic he’d been as a youth. “Too much drink has lost its appeal. I rather like having a clear head.”
She touched his hand where it rested on the seat between them. “I like it, too.”
The coachman turned into the park entrance. As they went deeper inside the haven of green, the noises of the city faded. The balloon rose above the trees like a giant, silver sun.
A quiver of excitement raced through her. “I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Our schedule is busy. Besides, my aunt thinks they are dangerous.” She finally admitted, “I’m a bit frightened at the thought.”
“It’s very safe, I promise.” Tristan looked ahead. “We’re here.”
In a wide expanse of grass, a small crowd formed a circle underneath an airborne balloon tethered by ropes. A shimmer of silver wrapped up in an elongated ball soared overhead. The coachman drove them closer, revealing the balloon’s immensity, though it floated perhaps a hundred feet above the lawn.
Awed, Leticia craned her neck. “It’s huge.”
As Tristan helped her down from the barouche, she could hardly keep her eyes off the magical-looking craft.
“I’m happy to have impressed you.” A chuckle touched his rich voice.
Dragging her gaze away, she eyed Tristan who stood half a head taller than she. His hand, still on her arm, warmed through the fabric of her clothes to her skin. His scent, familiar but somehow more masculine-than-ever, burrowed deep inside her.
His eyes danced over her face, an odd combination of intensity and joy. “Your eyes look very green today, Tish.” The intensity vanished and her childhood playmate returned. He tapped her underneath the chin, snapping her out of whatever madness had seized her. “Shall we ride your balloon?”
She pushed back the quiver in her stomach and wound her arm around his. “Have you ever ridden one?”
“A few times as a child.”
She nodded and swallowed, but the nervousness only grew. Tristan paid their fare and led her toward the balloon. As they approached the send-off point, several men pulled on ropes as thick as their wrists to bring the balloon back to its starting place. The balloon sank to the earth, bringing a large basket filled with passengers. Workers tied the ropes while others attached large bags of sand to keep the balloon down. Starry-eyed adults and a few wide-eyed children climbed out of the large wicker basket using stepladders. Excited chatter filled the air as the passengers related their experiences. None of them looked terrified. She gulped.
A couple in line in front of them got in next, and the balloon rose, soaring effortlessly above them. Her nerves eased at the awe-inspiring sight.
“Amazing.” Leticia breathed.
Tristan stood next to her, letting her experience it without interruption. Strange how he alway
s seemed to know what she wanted. Richard had never been in such harmony as she was with Tristan. Her love for Richard must have muddied her connection to Tristan.
What if the feeling she had always harbored for Richard had, in fact, been some form of hero worship instead of a healthy love between potential man and wife? She would have to give that further thought. It might help her identify her feelings with regard to Lord Bradbury and Captain Kensington.
Several minutes later, men with arms the size of pugilists hauled the air craft down using its ropes.
“The balloon stays tethered the whole time?” Leticia asked.
“It does,” Tristan said. “We can’t go flying all over London looking in people’s windows, you know.”
She tried to give him an answering smile but it probably came out wobbly.
“Almost our turn,” Tristan said.
Leticia donned her heavy cloak. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the frog closures.
Tristan’s sure hand held her steady as she mounted the stepladders on either side of the wicker basket. Her legs shook so badly she had to grasp the other pair of hands outstretched to help her. As Tristan climbed in after her, she peered around tanks and handles and gazed up at the balloon over her head. Harnesses connecting to ropes attached the basket to the ornate balloon, covered by some kind of netting, created an intricate network.
“Welcome,” the balloon operator said. “I’m your pilot. It’s a clear, still day—perfect for a balloon ride.” He grinned, his craggy face and missing teeth reminding her of an old sea captain.
“Excellent,” Tristan said.
“Release the ballasts,” the pilot called out.
As he opened a valve and pulled on a lever, workers removed the sand bags. They lifted off in a smooth, effortless rise. The ground fell away. Trees and people and buildings shrank below her. Fear arose and cut off her breath. Nothing seemed connected to her. What if she fell out of the basket? What if the balloon caught fire? What if the tethers broke and they floated away and never came back down? Her breath came in harsh bursts.