She assessed him, but Tristan did not seem to mind, and he merely smiled blandly at her. He shouldn’t be smiling. He should be worried at the gravity of the situation.
“What are we going to do?” Irene asked. “I can’t be introduced as both Lady Burley and as Miss Irene Carmichael.”
“You’re correct.” Tristan paced the library, and the thuds of his boots striking the floor seemed to hammer her heart.
Tension swept through Irene.
There’s no solution.
Finally, Tristan’s face brightened, and he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! We’ll just pretend you’re sick. After all, you don’t like dancing anyway.”
“Staying in bed for the ball does sound heavenly,” Irene agreed, “especially if I can have a nice candle by my bedside, and my favorite book. There’s a new one I’m reading that I quite enjoy.”
“Do tell. Murders? Spies?”
“Oh no. It’s about the weather.”
He grinned. “I thought so.”
“Weather patterns are fascinating. Did you know that in Norway, even though it’s so far north, one can go swimming outside? Only in the summer, but still... The water must be fairly warm.”
“You’re quite adorable,” Tristan said, and then he stiffened, perhaps remembering he wasn’t actually supposed to be making such statements. Not when the prince and princess weren’t in hearing distance, and they didn’t need to be pretending to be husband and wife.
“I would gladly ensconce myself in my bedroom, but there’s a problem. And, in fact, I’m afraid it affects the whole rest of this day.”
“Oh?”
“My mother arrived,” Irene moaned. “She arrived early. Even though the Duchess of Salisbury is not very stringent, my mother does not share her nonchalance.”
“Really? And why is the Duchess of Salisbury a lax chaperone?”
“I think she has romantic plans between us. Completely ridiculous,” Irene hastened to say. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Tristan said, and laughed.
Irene went to look at him. Was it her imagination or had his laugh sounded forced? It was probably her imagination.
Fiddle-faddle.
This was harder than she’d anticipated. Perhaps she would follow her mother’s wishes and marry, after all. Anything to distract herself from thoughts of Tristan.
“I suppose,” Tristan said, “that your mother would be less amiable to spending time in your bed during the ball.”
“She’d drag me to the ballroom even if I have a fever. The whole ballroom is filled with eligible men,” she explained. “Quite ridiculous, but—”
“I understand,” Tristan said.
“Do you think the Prince and Princess can be persuaded not to come?” Irene asked hopefully.
Tristan shook his head. “They are very excited about it, particularly Princess Natalia, and since she is the prince’s much beloved wife as he says so often—”
“Right. He wants to keep her happy.” Irene wondered what it would be like to have a husband who would always defend her interests.
Finally, Irene sighed. “I suppose it will be a large ball. I will try to avoid seeing them as much as possible, and you have to make sure they do not talk about your wife.”
“I will explain to them that it was a new marriage and not everyone has been informed.”
“Good,” Irene said. “I will tell them I will meet them there, since I will be helping the Duchess, and then we can simply hope that I can spend most of my time with my mother and whichever men she presents to me. I’ll try to get a headache or something.”
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Well, obviously it won’t be a real headache,” she said.
“Naturally.” Tristan blinked. “Of course. I understand.”
Irene almost rolled her eyes. Men could be quite ridiculous sometimes. It was almost as if Tristan hadn’t been paying attention. But what else here was there to distract him? It was only her.
“I suppose we’ll have to join the others,” Irene said.
“Yes,” Tristan said, but he didn’t move. He seemed, for some reason, to assess her. Perhaps he still regretted that there hadn’t been anyone else in the district whom he could convince to be his faux wife. He did seem to be gazing at her often.
She schooled her features to be calm. Perhaps she wasn’t the ideal wife for him, but she was going to try to be the best that she could. Hopefully the prince would invest, and Tristan would be able to own the gaming hell.
She only wished her mother had been tardy, as was her normal practice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT EVENING, IRENE smoothed the folds of her dress and stared in the mirror. She wore an emerald-colored dress. It wasn’t a color she’d worn before, but it suited her. Her auburn hair appeared vibrant.
Mama stared at her. “You look beautiful.”
Compliments were not customary, and Irene blinked. She turned toward the mirror. “Do you think it’s too much? I mean, it is quite noticeable.”
Noticeable was certainly not her desire tonight.
“Nonsense,” Mama exclaimed. “You’ll find a husband when you wear that.”
Irene sighed. “I’m not looking for a husband, Mother.”
“Your sister is very happy with her husband.”
“But she’s also happy sailing around the ocean with him. I wouldn’t want a husband to put me on a narrow ship and do the same.”
“Well, find one who likes the land. Most people prefer it.”
Mama always saw the bright side of everything, and Irene smiled.
“Your siblings will be here,” Mama said.
“Truly?”
Mama nodded. “You’ll have time to chat with them later. In fact, you’ll have plenty of time to chat with Arthur and his wife. They’ll be staying on a few days.”
Irene nodded, but her heart thumped. Arthur and Tristan were friends. Would Arthur try to call on Tristan? She swallowed hard.
“But don’t socialize with them too much. That’s what childhood was for, and I want you to have a suitor at the end of this.”
Irene gave her mother a tight smile and stepped into the hallway. Music wafted from the stairs.
Irene’s mother followed her from the room. “There are already guests. I didn’t think you should be the first person in the ballroom. Early arrivals are hardly sophisticated.”
“You merely don’t desire that I get a good seat near the wallflowers.”
“Oh, you are correct. You do know me.” Mama beamed. “Yes, you do always go for the best seat and then you don’t want to abandon it.”
“Comfort is important,” Irene said.
Irene’s stepfather appeared from another room, and she nodded a greeting. She realized she was the only unmarried person in a group of married couples.
If only Irene might enter the ballroom, holding a nice book in her hand. With the exception of Tristan, the book would provide better conversation than any dance partner.
But Tristan will be here.
Perhaps he was even here now. Her heartbeat quickened, and she forced herself to breathe.
Her mother peered at her. “Are you quite well, dear?”
“I don’t feel well,” Irene lied, conscious she’d promised Tristan she would attempt to leave the ball early.
Her mother frowned. “You’re going to have a good time. You’ll see.”
Irene had been having a good time.
It hadn’t been at a ball, it had been when having dinner, and it had been when sitting in a drawing room and being with Tristan.
Irene entered the ballroom.
Garlands decorated the ceiling, accompanied by glittering red and gold ornaments. The world sparkled, and she inhaled the lovely pine scent. Musicians played a joyful holiday tune, and dancers bobbed up and down expertly, forming geometrical shapes. The Yule log burned, emitting a pleasant scent as it crackled.
“It’s lovely,”
Irene murmured.
“Isn’t it?” Mama exclaimed. “The Duchess of Salisbury will be pleased.”
Irene spotted Celia in the throng of people. “I will tell her.”
She headed toward Celia, moving through the crowd.
“Celia,” Irene said, “You’ve done such a marvelous job. It’s so beautiful.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll be organizing balls like this yourself.” Celia’s eyes glimmered, and the tips of her lips were at entirely too high a perch.
“Oh, I won’t. You know that.” Irene looked behind her shoulder. “And you needn’t say that so loudly, lest my mother overhear. She’s already determined to find men to introduce me to.”
“Perhaps.” Celia leaned toward her. “Lord Burley has arrived.”
“Indeed?” Irene smoothed her dress hastily. “Where?”
Celia giggled. “He’s not here yet, but you are clearly anticipating his arrival with an unusual degree of eagerness.”
Irene narrowed her eyes, but she wasn’t truly angry. Perhaps Celia had a point.
“Irene, darling.” Her mother’s voice sailed through the air, the strength of her voice not halted by the punch table and flurry of guests.
Irene stiffened and drew away from her friend. “I’m sorry. I’m going to be very busy now.”
Celia’s eyes sparkled. “Enjoy.”
Irene found herself glancing toward the door to see if Lord Burley had entered yet. He hadn’t.
No matter. This was a good thing. Most likely he was being tardy on purpose, so he would have less chance to interact with her.
Irene’s stomach gnawed her body, and she told herself it wasn’t at the thought of Tristan purposely avoiding her.
“Irene!” Her mother waved, and her feather turban wagged like a warning symbol. Beside her was a young man. She’d evidently managed to catch a prospect, and Irene’s stomach sank.
Irene’s mother pointed in her direction, speaking to the man beside her.
Irene was used to having her mother introduce her to men. After all, the ton seemed to enjoy holding balls and dancing, and finding the requisite number of dance partners seemed to be an occupation they found enthralling, even if Irene found it most uncomfortable.
Irene knew what would happen next. The man’s skin would pale, and he would do a series of rapid head motions as if in wonder that yes, her mother was truly pointing at her. Once he confirmed her identity, he would rapidly find any excuse to leave. He would consider it immediately vital that he speak with his sister, cousin, or elderly relative, even if he’d hitherto been quite content abandoning the person in a chair, to determine whether their health may have deteriorated. But this time, the man’s skin remained resolutely rosy, and for some odd reason his eyes even sparkled.
It was possible the servants had made the Christmas punch, stronger than it needed to be. They didn’t make Christmas punch with great frequency, so it was possible they might get their proportions wrong. It was unfortunate, but those things happened. Perhaps she should tell Celia.
She gazed around the room, trying to find her friend in the midst of the ever growing number of guests.
And then she saw him: Tristan.
Irene had thought Tristan had looked nice when he’d been wearing buckskin breeches and come to meet her, and she’d also thought he looked nice at the dinner parties this past week, but now he was in all his glory. He wore an ebony tailcoat and trousers, a green waistcoat, and a white, starched cravat.
It seemed impossible she’d truly spent so much time with him. He was perfection itself, and not simply because he was flanked by a prince and princess. She turned around hastily, lest the prince and princess spot her. Instead, Irene turned to greet her mother and her mother’s new companion, trusting Tristan would steer the prince and princess elsewhere.
Her mother beamed. “My dear daughter. I am delighted to present to you Mr. Rivers.” Mama turned to the young man beside her. “That was your name, wasn’t it?”
Mr. Rivers nodded and scrutinized Irene. He didn’t speak, as if staring at her consumed all of his energy.
Irene smoothed her dress, wondering if she had spilled something on herself. Sometimes her clothes caused people amusement.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear Miss Carmichael.” Mr. Rivers swooped down into an elegant bow. It was the sort of bow one might make to a royal.
Most people gave her curt bows, as if her presence reminded them only of a tedious errand. Mr. Rivers’s bow was filled with flourish, though perhaps his technique could be explained by the fact that this was Yorkshire, not London, and people simply had more time. People could maintain a higher level of elegance, even if elegance wasn’t a word she’d associated with Yorkshire before.
“May I have this dance?” Mr. Rivers asked.
Irene blinked. “Yes.”
Mr. Rivers glanced at Irene’s mother. “I do hope you don’t mind that I’m stealing your daughter away from you with such haste. She looks so ravishing.” His voice dropped an octave, and Irene withheld a giggle.
Her mother sighed blissfully. “Oh, do dance.”
Irene followed Mr. Rivers reluctantly to the dance floor.
“I’m not a good dancer,” she warned him.
“My dear, I do not care. To be in your presence is enough. That dress is lovely, and those jewels and what they do to your face...” His voice trailed off, but he kept an odd smile on his face, and his eyes goggled. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar expression, but she was accustomed to men directing it at other women.
“Thank you,” she said primly, unused to the attention. “You’re very kind.”
“Nobody calls me kind, but I am honest.”
Everyone seemed to be smiling when they saw her or murmuring to their neighbor, not in a poor way, not to say, “Heavens, I can’t believe she wore that,” but simply out of admiration or curiosity for who she was. It was a strange sensation, and perhaps it was one she could even enjoy. She frowned, musing upon this fact.
Mr. Rivers didn’t seem to mind that Irene was an abominable dancer, even though she landed on his slippers and his valet would no doubt give him a stern talking to later that evening. The ball glimmered, and Irene waved as she recognized people. She only wished she were dancing with Tristan. Mr. Rivers could hardly replace him, no matter how valiantly he tried to compliment her mother to gain her interest.
Then she saw Prince Radoslav.
Irene jerked her gaze away, as if averting her eyes might be protection, but he’d seen her. She’d seen the recognition on his face. Though Irene would gladly make conversation with him, it occurred to her there was a high possibility he would address her as Lady Burley before either Mr. Rivers, or worse, her mother. The music ended, and Irene stiffened.
“Shall I accompany you to your lovely mother?” Mr. Rivers asked.
Irene hesitated. Prince Radoslav stood perilously near Mama.
In the next moment, Tristan was beside her. “Shall we take a walk around the ball?”
Mr. Rivers cleared his throat.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Rivers.” Irene turned to Tristan. “A walk would be lovely, Lord Burley.”
Irritation flickered on Mr. Rivers’ face, but soon Irene and Tristan were strolling away.
“I think my mother spotted us,” Irene said. “She might have questions.”
“Perhaps we should adopt a quicker pace,” he suggested.
Irene grinned. “An excellent plan.”
They moved through the ballroom, but Irene was not distracted by even Celia’s brilliant decorating accomplishments.
“There is a balcony we could go to,” she said.
“Very well. Take me there,” Tristan said, and a thrill ran through Irene at the sound of his voice.
They hurried toward the balcony, and her heart glowed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRISTAN RESISTED THE temptation to take Irene into his arms.
Her family was here, a
nd they might be shocked if they saw him put his arm around her. They would be appalled if he brushed his lips against hers and would be calling for an immediate special license and lamenting that the Archbishop of York Minister did not possess the special license capabilities of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Her face had pinkened, and her ringlets lay flat against her face, aided by a sheen of sparkling sweat. Tristan followed her onto the balcony. The snow brightened. Her laugh was louder than he expected. Most women laughed demurely, some even covering their mouths, as if a sudden show of teeth might shock any nearby men. Other women rarely laughed at all, unless at the inability of others to follow the standards of etiquette and beauty to the rigor demanded by the ton.
Irene was different. Irene found things amusing, and when she laughed, she threw her whole body into the action.
The prince and princess had thought he was meeting his wife at the ball, and even though Irene was merely his pretend wife, and after the prince and princess left, she wouldn’t even be that, he’d felt the same relief at seeing her as if he had met his true wife.
Arthur was at the ball, but it had been Irene he’d sought out.
Just like a real wife.
A strange happiness grasped hold of him, as if he were a mouse who’d been suddenly lifted into the air by a falcon who was dragging him to see new vistas, new perspectives. Unlike the unfortunate mouse, whose fate would be no doubt violent, Tristan had a strange feeling this could be a new life for him to enjoy.
He longed to hold her in his arms. She’d saved him and thought nothing of it. He wanted to place his hand on her waist and draw her closer to him. His chest shouldn’t squeeze, as if his valet had made a tying mishap and had succeeded in winding the coarse linen about his heart instead of his neck.
The ballroom was filled with people. Murmurings wafted toward him, but right now, he was alone: with Irene.
He kissed her.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He recognized that at once.
Perhaps he was simply accustomed to kissing beautiful women on balconies, but he felt that he’d never been drawn to any of them more than her.
A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble Book 6) Page 9