by Hatch, Donna
“If Lord Bradbury offers for you this season, will you accept him?”
Leticia hesitated. “I do not know. As I told you before, I do not fancy myself in love with him. He’s all that is charming and good and…I should be madly in love with him. But…”
She pictured herself kissing him, but the memory of kissing Tristan leaped into her mind. So gentle, so passionate, his kiss introduced her to a whole new realm of pleasure. The idea of sharing such a moment with Lord Bradbury felt flat and colorless. Yes, she wanted to be kissed again, but not by Bradbury—by Tristan. Her body ached to be back in his arms again, to press her lips against his, to bask in the warm smoothness of his voice, to laugh with him, to tease him, too see him smile at her in that slow, heart-melting manner of his.
She didn’t dare, did she?
Her eyes burned. Why couldn’t she have remained mere friends with Tristan? Why did she start seeing him as a desirable man?
When she’d thrown her parting words at him, he’d stepped back as if she’d slapped him, and for a moment, his carefree, flirty exterior crumbled, leaving a wounded child in his place. The pain in his expression—pain she caused—nearly broke her heart. She’d hurt him. She, who used to comfort him when he’d needed solace as a child, and when Richard’s disappointment had stung him, she’d always offered him healing without censure.
How ironic that the moment she began seeing him as a mature man who created grown up stirrings in her, that her affection became conditional, judgmental.
Isabella put an arm around her. “Tish, what is it?”
She let out a weighted sigh. “I’m so confused. I should love Lord Bradbury for the honorable, virtuous man that he is. Instead, I can’t stop thinking about Tristan. But that’s absurd; he has always sworn he’d never marry, and besides, he’d make a terrible husband. Probably half the widows of the ton under the age of forty have seduced him. How could I be so foolish as to think of him as anything other than a shameless rake?”
“Because he’s changed.”
“So he claims, but has he really?”
“It’s all over London. Everywhere I go, people are whispering about how respectable he’s become.”
“They are?”
Isabella nodded. “Some matrons say it often happens when young men grow up and begin thinking of their future. I heard Lady Tarrington say most young gentlemen don’t do that until about the time they reach their thirtieth year. It seems Lord Tarrington was something of a rake in his youth, too. Tristan seems to be changing rather younger than normal.”
Leticia gaped at her. “Isabella, no young lady such as you should be hearing those things, and you should not know what that all means.”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “I have eyes and ears and a brain.”
Leticia groaned. When did her innocent little sister grow up?
Looking around as if about to divulge a secret, Isabella lowered her voice. “When our maid went away because she was in a family way, I asked Mama for details of how that happens, and she explained—enough that I understand when people talk behind their fans, now.” She grabbed Leticia’s arm, her eyes wide. “Oh, don’t worry, it hasn’t incited my imagination. I’m no more interested in any of that than before. In fact, I was so disgusted that I could barely look at men for weeks and weeks.”
Aunt Alice peered in. “Ladies, the carriage is here.”
“Be right there, Aunt.” Leticia stood and picked up her dancing slippers.
Rising, Isabella looked Leticia in the eyes. “You should give him a chance. Tristan has changed, and he is in love with you.” With that, she marched away, leaving Leticia standing, awestruck, in the room.
Tristan in love with her?
She stood grappling with the possibilities until Aunt Alice summoned her. Almost dizzy with conflicting memories both old and new, she picked up her reticule and shawl, and joined the others. When they arrived at the home of their host, they removed their wraps and changed from carriage shoes to dancing slippers. After greeting the hosts in the ballroom, Leticia stood with Isabella and Aunt Alice. Moments before the first set began, almost simultaneously, two gentlemen approached and asked Isabella for a dance.
Isabella smiled at the contenders. “Oh dear. I would be pleased to stand up with each of you fine gentlemen. Perhaps one of you might be willing to reserve the next set for me?”
The gentlemen eyed each other. One said, “I would be delighted to await your charming presence for the next set, Miss Isabella.” He bowed, cast a meaningful glance at the other, and strode away.
The victor inclined his head, looking rather too smug for Leticia’s preference, and held out a hand. Isabella glanced at Leticia before taking his hand, amusement dancing in her eyes and left with her dance partner.
Leticia cast a glance around, admiring the finely tailored suits and pretty ball gowns of the assembly. Tristan’s familiar form caught her eye. He stood conversing with none other than the incomparable Duke of Suttenberg and a gentleman Leticia did not know. Though society hailed the duke as one of the most handsome bachelors in all of London, and the other man a distinguished older gentleman, neither compared to Tristan’s stunning perfection. Her heart began a rapid acceleration, building with every beat. How handsome he was! And how dear he’d become to her—more than ever.
Nearby, a sultry, feminine laugh caught Leticia’s attention, as well as Tristan’s. A beautiful lady about Leticia’s age with golden curls held her fan in front of her, looking in his direction. Leticia searched her memory for the lady’s name but could only recall that she’d been widowed during the war. The widow shifted her hold and tapped the edge of her fan with her finger. Leticia almost gaped. Using the language of fans, the woman invited Tristan to come speak with her.
Tristan’s mouth froze, as if he’d stopped mid-sentence. Leticia held her breath. Tristan returned his gaze to his companions and resumed his dialogue. He hadn’t approached the beauty despite her invitation.
“Shall we take a seat, my dear?” Aunt Alice’s voice drew Leticia’s attention.
“Of course.” No need to stand so close to the dance floor looking desperate while a set had already begun. Nor would it do to keep watching Tristan.
They moved toward the edge of the ballroom and found a settee. Leticia sat and spoke with everyone who stopped to chat.
Lord Bradbury arrived. “Mrs. Tallier.” He bowed. “Miss Wentworth, how splendid to see you again. Please do me the honor of standing up with me.”
Lord Bradbury failed to have the slightest effect on her heart beat. Still, she always found dancing a pleasant diversion, and one did not refuse an earl.
As he led her to the dance floor for the next set, complimenting her on her gown, she glanced again at Tristan. He stood alone, staring out the French doors as if he were lost in thought, his expression pensive. The blonde widow stood nearer him, but he failed to even glance in her direction. What had him blue-deviled this evening? Did he regret the kiss? Did rakes ever regret kisses? She almost let out a sigh. She’d never imagined that act could be so singularly beautiful or devastating.
“Miss Wentworth, have you already promised the supper dance to someone?” Lord Bradbury asked.
“Er, no, not yet. But I’m not certain we ought to dance a second time in one evening.”
He cocked his head. “No? Why ever not? It isn’t as if I’ve asked you for a third. That would be scandalous.” His eyes twinkled.
Three other couples joined them to make up a square for the quadrille, so Leticia lowered her voice. “No, of course not, but…I don’t want people to draw conclusions. The opera a few nights ago, two dances tonight…it might imply a relationship we do not have.”
“Are you concerned people might view that as us showing a preference for one another?”
“Aren’t you?”
The quadrille started and she curtsied to him as he bowed to her.
“No. I want people to know.” He looked her in the eyes.
A bold declaration. Leticia flushed and looked down. She turned to take the hand of the gentleman next to her and circled. She and the other ladies changed partners, taking her away from Lord Bradbury.
If Lord Bradbury’s heart were truly involved, she needed to give serious thought to a future with him. As she circled, holding hands with the gentlemen on either side of her, she glanced up at Lord Bradbury across the circle from her. He stared at her rather too intensely.
He deserved a truthful response. A second dance would not qualify as a true declaration of her devotion to Lord Bradbury, but somehow, it felt too intimate, considering her tepid feelings toward the gentleman. Still, such a fine man would make an exceptional husband. Perhaps she should let her head, rather than her heart, rule her decisions. If she discouraged Lord Bradbury, she may not get any offer. Without the means of having another London Season, this may be her last chance for a home and family of her own. Going back to the country would leave her without prospects. She faced a life of being a burden to her parents and continuing to help various relations with their health needs or their children for the rest of her life.
Of course, she had the school. But loving and helping those children would not give her a home of her own, nor fill her home with children. Nor would it fill her heart with the love of a husband—but that sweet dream faded away.
She continued circling and twirling in the dance pattern as she made her way through successive partners until she came back around to Lord Bradbury. She admired his lean figure and his handsome face. More importantly, he was kind, attentive, and had a reputation for being every bit as upstanding as the Duke of Suttenberg, the paragon of gentlemanly behavior. Did Bradbury offer her the happy companionship of a good man, or a life of dissatisfaction?
His earlier question lingered in his eye as he took her hand and they circled. She would be happy with him, surely.
Making up her mind, she said, “If you aren’t reluctant, then neither am I.”
Still he waited as if he had not received the confirmation he sought.
“I would be honored to save you the supper dance, Lord Bradbury.”
He smiled, his eyes lighting up—not the blast of cheer that Tristan’s eyes did, but still a charming expression. The rest of the intricate dance passed in a blur, as did the following dance in the set. Leticia, breathless from the vigorous exercise, and her promise to Lord Bradbury, returned to her aunt who sat with the Countess of Tarrington.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the countess said with a wave of her hand. “I’m tired, nothing more.” Lady Tarrington, though of an age similar to Leticia’s mother, bore the beauty of a much younger lady.
Aunt Alice turned to Leticia and gestured to her. “Lady Tarrington, may I introduce my niece, Leticia Wentworth?”
Leticia curtsied. “I believe we were introduced at the subscription ball, Aunt.”
“Ah yes, Miss Wentworth,” the elegant older woman said. “You drew a rather flattering sum for the privilege of a supper dance.”
“All in the name of charity,” Leticia said.
The countess looked her over. “My, you are lovely. I must introduce you to my son, Cole. A few months ago, he returned from the sea where he served as a lieutenant in His Majesty’s navy.”
Leticia smiled. “You must be very proud.”
“Of course, but I’m happier that he returned home. He was gravely wounded, but at least he’s back and well again.”
The distinguished older gentleman Leticia had spotted speaking with Tristan earlier appeared. He took the countess’s hand and kissed it, all the while his eyes fixed on her face.
Lady Tarrington smiled. “I’m quite well, never fear, my love.”
She introduced him as Lord Tarrington who greeted them all with a nod. He bowed, kissed his wife’s hand again, offered her an affectionate smile, and left.
What a loving and devoted husband. Oh, what Leticia wouldn’t give for someone to look at her like that. She sighed.
Lady Tarrington gazed after her husband. “He does worry over me so. But if the doctor can’t find anything wrong, it’s probably nothing.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Aunt Alice replied.
Leticia glanced back at the place where she’d last seen Tristan but he had moved on somewhere, hopefully not into the arms of the widow trying to attract his notice. Near the doorway, a movement caught her eye.
Tristan stood near the blonde, their heads close together, their postures intimate. It appeared Tristan the Rake had returned. Clearly, he had not changed so much. Her eyes stung and her vision blurred.
Leticia bit her lip and squared her shoulders. Lord Bradbury caught her gaze from a few feet away. As he led another lady out to the dance floor, he smiled at Leticia, a slow, private smile.
Lord Bradbury. Kind. Attentive. Well behaved. A respected peer of the realm. She would have him if he asked her. And she’d be happy about it. Lord Bradbury would not break her heart. In time, she would learn to love him.
She gave him her most brilliant smile before lowering her gaze, the picture of a demure lady. Let Tristan have his loose women. She would have a home of her own and a family with a man who understood the meaning of constancy.
Chapter Thirty
Tristan swore under his breath. How did he get himself into such entanglements? He looked down into Henrietta’s enchanting face. He must not weaken. Yes, she was beautiful, and yes, he was lonely, but he no longer sought such empty pleasure. He ached for meaningful, lasting pleasure. Joy. Love. With Leticia.
He edged back. “I’m sorry, Henrietta.”
The blonde widow smiled coyly at him and wound her finger around a long curl skimming her collarbone, a provocative motion he once found irresistible. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Tristan. Now that I’m back in England, we can resume where we left off…”
“No, we can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Her blue eyes searched his, her expression sobering. “I never asked you to wait for me when we last parted, you know. If there’s been someone else, well, I’m not so maudlin as to expect any sort of fidelity. You know that, don’t you?”
He looked away. “I’ve changed. I want something…permanent.”
She laughed. “Oh, Tristan. You aren’t thinking of asking me to marry you? You know how I feel about that.”
This was not going well. “No, I mean to ask someone else to marry me.”
There, he’d said it. Of course, he still had a great deal of work ahead, but he would not give up.
Her smile faded. “You’re in earnest.”
“I am.”
That irrepressible spirit, born of supreme confidence returned, but her tone took on a mocking edge. “Are you doing this to satisfy your brother? Oh, wait, I know, you’ve met an heiress.”
Tristan shook his head. “I’m courting her because I love her.”
She folded her arms and gave him a disbelieving frown. “I don’t believe you. Not you, of all people.”
“It’s true. I love her and I plan to marry her as soon as I’ve convinced her I’ve changed. Being seen with you won’t help that endeavor. This is goodbye, Henrietta.” He offered an apologetic smile and walked away from the passionate beauty from his former life who now tempted him no more than Mrs. Hunter had at the house party.
He glanced at his pocket watch. He’d been certain Leticia would be here tonight but he had yet to have spotted her. Of course, in this crush of humanity, he might never find her.
A footman appeared with a tray of drinks, but Tristan declined. Having a clear head made it easier to read people, outwit opponents, appreciate a subtle joke, and resist women best left in the past.
Winding his way through the crowd, Tristan found his sister-in-law conversing with Miss Seton. “Elizabeth. Delightful as always.”
Turning, Elizabeth smiled. “Tristan. I didn’t know you were here tonight.”
They made all the correct pleasantries before he asked the question burning hi
m. “Have you seen Leticia?”
“Why, yes. She’s dancing.” Elizabeth gestured to the dance floor.
At the far end of the room, a radiant, smiling Leticia danced with—Tristan ground his teeth—the Duke of Suttenberg. Perfect. Another paragon for competition. In the same circle danced Lord Bradbury and Captain Kensington. Tristan almost cursed. Hours after telling Tristan he was an unforgivable rake, Leticia danced with his main competitors, none of whom had behaved in a rakish manner in their entire lives.
Of course, Kensington hadn’t been a saint in his younger years, but his exploits never labeled him a rake. He’d come home from the war decidedly subdued, so of course the ton viewed him as a mysterious and well-mannered war hero. At least Tristan didn’t have to compete with him any longer. Practically tapping his toes in impatience, he waited until the set ended. Before Suttenberg returned Leticia to her aunt, Tristan stepped up. He gave Suttenberg a polite if curt nod and focused on Leticia.
Tristan held out a hand and gave her his most disarming smile. “Dance with me, I beg you, or I might expire on the spot.”
Suttenberg chuckled and faded into the background.
Leticia’s expression turned from startled to amused. “You needn’t be so theatrical, you know.”
He grinned. “Sometimes I cannot help myself.”
Returning his smile, she looked into his eyes. “It pains me to tell you this, but the next one is the supper dance, and I’ve promised it to Lord Bradbury.”
Bradbury! Tristan faltered. If he’d found her sooner, but no, he’d been walking the streets of London, almost succumbing to the lure of his old ways before he came to his senses. Then he’d had to change into his evening attire and dancing shoes before he dared appear at the ball. To top it off, he’d had difficulty finding her in this crush.
“I see,” he managed.
The image of Leticia waltzing with Bradbury, in such an intimate position, and then bathing him with her smiles and favoring him with her company and her rich laughter all through dinner made him want to hunt down Bradbury and challenge the man for a fisticuffs match. As satisfying as that sounded, such measures would not win Leticia’s favor. A more subtle approach, then.