“Thank goodness you saw me,” Tristan said finally.
“I became worried when you didn’t come back,” Dawson said.
“Help me get her upstairs.”
Dawson hesitated. “To your room?”
“There’s not another room prepared.”
“Naturally, my lord,” Dawson said deferentially, moving away from the sudden awkwardness.
Tristan was certain that Dawson didn’t believe he was truly married to Irene.
Footsteps padded in the corridor, and the prince appeared. “Lord Burley? I heard your voice. What happened? We were wondering what ...” His gaze fell to Irene. “Did Lady Burley have a mishap?”
Tristan nodded. “I am afraid I’ll have to cut the dinner short. Forgive me.”
“Of course. If there’s any way I can help...”
He shook his head, clutched Irene in his arms, and headed up the stairs. “She’ll be fine.”
He wished he believed the statement.
Tristan carried Irene up the stairs, Dawson at his feet.
He brushed his fingers against Irene’s hands. They were cold, and he cursed himself for not noticing earlier. Gloves were supposed to warm one, weren’t they? But Irene’s gloves were thin and made of a lace fabric that suited her gown, but was otherwise devoid of practicality. Simply retaining the whiteness of the color must be a challenge. His heart thudded, and he hoped she would warm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IRENE LAY ON TRISTAN’S bed. This pillow was where he put his head, and this blanket was where he placed his body.
She shivered, as servants filed in with blankets. A maid set to work on the fire, and soon flames blazed merrily in the hearth.
Tristan had found her.
She’d been in trouble, and Tristan had rescued her.
Warmth glowed through her, until she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t truly Tristan’s wife, even if the servants treated her as such.
Once the servants disappeared from the room, she raised her torso, struggling against the pleasant pile of covers.
Tristan rushed to her side at once. “Sweetheart.”
Her heart thudded at the pet phrase. “The prince and princess are not here.”
Confusion, then something like hurt, drifted onto his face. Perhaps he’d misunderstood her.
“You can call me Irene,” she explained.
Somehow the hurt did not ease from his face.
She frowned, conscious she must be overlooking something.
He sighed. “You could have hurt yourself.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
Tristan nodded. “And I’m sorry you were here.”
His expression did seem strangely formal.
And then she realized it.
If she spent the night, she would officially be compromised. No doubt Tristan was aware he would need to marry her.
The urge to preserve her reputation had compelled her to leave, despite the intensity of the snowstorm. The knowledge that he would be expected to tie himself forever to her must be causing his face to twist in such a manner.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I can go.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I just need skis,” she said. “I-I thought perhaps you kept them in the stables, but perhaps they’re somewhere else. If I have skis, I can make it. It was silly for me to attempt the journey myself, given the size of the snowdrifts.
Tristan’s face hardened. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“But this is your room.”
They couldn’t sleep in the same room.
She glanced toward the window. “Perhaps the snow will let up soon. I’ll just wait.”
“You can leave in the morning,” Tristan said. “I’ll take you in the sleigh. You can’t spend hours staring out the window.”
Irene nodded, seeing the validity of his statement.
“And meanwhile I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I’m sorry,” her voice trembled. “You saved my life. Your reward shouldn’t be a hard floor.”
“I am unbelievably happy that I found you, that you are safe. And now you must sleep. I couldn’t abide it if something happened to you.”
She looked at him skeptically, and then he grinned and flashed her that smile that made butterflies spring to life inside her stomach.
“Besides, it will be a novel experience,” Tristan said. “I’ve been horribly inefficient before and not made proper use of the space in my room. To think I’ve never once slept on the floor.”
Her heart filled, and she felt herself drifting toward sleep.
THE WINDS HAD HALTED their incessant howling when Tristan woke. The floorboards poked his back in an uncomfortable manner, but Tristan did not mind. Irene had been lost, and he’d found her.
He darted his gaze in her direction. Irene was in his bed. The thought shouldn’t make his heart thrum. After all, she was the younger sister of one of his dearest friends. He certainly wasn’t supposed to rake his eyes over her, no matter what his reputation was. And she was Irene. It seemed to take considerable effort for him not to linger his gaze on her. Because heavens, she was beautiful, and he’d almost lost her.
Her hair was down. She must have removed the pins from it sometime in the night. Her long locks curled slightly, perhaps because of the lingering effects of the wet snow. Her cheeks were a pleasant rosy color, and he was grateful at the maids’ efforts to warm the room.
Tristan rose from the floor and removed the blankets. The maid was due to arrive soon, and there would be no valid excuse for why he was lying on the floor.
Tristan inched into a chair, slowly, carefully, conscious of Irene’s delightful presence on the bed. Just because Tristan had a beautiful woman beside him in his room, did not mean he would do anything forward. That was the old Tristan, the one who spent far too much time with actresses and opera singers.
“Tristan?” Irene’s voice sounded beside him.
He glanced at her.
She was so beautiful.
He wanted to pull her closer to him. He craved her. He longed to taste her lips again, and he longed to unclothe her.
Instead, he smiled. “Sleep, sweetheart. You are the most wonderful woman in the world.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m being romantic.”
Her eyes widened, and he clutched her hand.
“I don’t want this to end when the prince and princess leave. I thought I’d lost you forever in the blizzard. I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You can’t mean that,” she said, but her eyes shimmered.
“Of course, I do.”
She continued to gaze at him in wonderment, and he knew that everything would be fine.
And so he kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SNOWSTORM HAD HALTED in the night, and when Tristan drew open the curtains, the world was beautiful. Snow piled over the grounds, transforming austere bushes and trees. The servants shoveled outside under a cerulean sky, forming massive mounds that glittered in the sunlight, as if nothing terrible had happened, at all.
He glanced at Irene. She was in his bed.
“I should return,” Irene said.
“You are staying here.”
“My family will worry.”
“I’ll inform the groom to prepare the sleigh,” Tristan promised. “I’ll go downstairs now.”
“Thank you.” Irene glanced in the direction of her still wet clothes. “I’ll change.”
“Nonsense. I’ll—er—ask Mrs. Hutton if she has something you might borrow. Wait here.”
Tristan exited the room before Irene might tell him some nonsense about how the servants would become suspicious. Everyone would know soon enough that Irene and he weren’t married, when they wed, this time for real. People would know about their ploy, but that shouldn’t matter. Irene wasn’t focused on preserving her reputation above all things, and this involved their fu
ture happiness.
Dawson greeted him in the corridor, moving his head soberly, resisting any temptation to barrage Tristan with questions.
“Please see that a sleigh is prepared. Lady Burley and I are going out.”
“Very well, my lord. Will there be anything else?”
“No, no. I just need to find Mrs. Hutton.”
Dawson nodded gravely, and Tristan proceeded to the kitchen. This time he didn’t quell his instinct to whistle, no matter how odd the prince and princess might think him. The kitchen maids still widened their eyes when he entered the room, though the intensity of their unease had evidently dispelled. No doubt they viewed him as an unlikely potential murderer.
“My dear boy.” Mrs. Hutton rushed toward him. “We heard how you saved your wife. You must have been so worried.”
“I was.”
“I am most proud of you, my dear.” Mrs. Hutton’s eyes remained warm, even though she must suspect that Irene was not truly his bride. “Now how I can help you?”
“Lady Burley requires warm clothes,” Tristan said.
“Ah, yes. Her trunk has still not arrived.”
“The snow will not help things,” Tristan said.
“I’ll see if I can scrounge something up for her.”
“Thank you,” he said, and he wasn’t simply thanking her for that.
Tristan moved up the steps. Voices sounded from the breakfast room, and he entered to greet his guests. He would just get in the way while Irene dressed.
“I trust Lady Burley has recovered from her adventure?” the prince asked.
“Yes.” Tristan beamed. She’d recovered, and the world was good.
“She was trying to go a walk?” The princess appeared puzzled.
“She went outside for some air and fell into a snowdrift,” Tristan said, and the princess nodded.
It wasn’t precisely the truth, but he’d told worse lies.
Tristan sat down at the table and reached for the bread. Bells sounded outside. The sleigh must be here, and Tristan made a note to compliment the groom for adding such festivity to the sleigh.
The butler entered and cleared his throat. Normally, Dawson was the epitome of grace and decorum, as if he saw it as his life’s goal to achieve the ability to blend into his surroundings with the same efficiency as a column. This time though, his cheeks were an unusual ruddy color, his hair was wild, as if he’d just raked his hands through it, and he moved his hand to his cravat.
“Dawson?” Tristan asked. “Is everything...fine?”
Dawson grimaced at the last word. He inhaled deeply, as if preparing to dive into the icy water that lapped against Yorkshire’s shore. “I am afraid, my lord, that you—er—?”
“You can tell me,” Tristan said.
Dawson’s cheeks adopted a darker shade of red, a change to his habit of clothing himself in dark colors, even on his afternoons off, though Tristan doubted it was a beneficial one.
“I didn’t see you, Your Highnesses,” Dawson said to the prince and princess.
“Well, here we are.” Prince Radoslav had evidently not forgotten how to be irritable. “Can’t be that shocking.”
“Of course not, Your Highness.” Dawson hesitated, as if hoping that the prince and princess might be apparitions that might vanish, but they remained resolutely present. Finally, Dawson exhaled. “I merely wanted to inform Lord Burley that he has a visitor in the drawing room.”
“Oh!” Tristan blinked.
Given Dawson’s obvious discomfort, Tristan had begun to imagine that something truly dreadful had occurred. Perhaps Irene had grown ill or met with some accident: a falling shelf or a staircase descent mishap.
Though guests were hardly on Tristan’s mind, he didn’t mind guests. In fact, he tended to quite enjoy company. That’s why he’d desired to purchase Hades’ Lair. He didn’t aspire to a life of the mind: normal life, one spent in one’s body, seemed pleasant enough.
Of course... It wouldn’t do for anyone to discover Irene. Did Dawson know her true identity?
And then it struck him. Irene’s mother might have discovered that Irene was missing. Was she here? Or one of Irene’s brothers?
Tristan shuddered. “I’ll see my guest. Who is it by the way?”
“Why it’s me, darling!” An elegant alto voice swept over the furniture.
Tristan stiffened.
He knew that voice.
Many people knew that voice.
They’d heard it soar through the West End often enough.
His wife had arrived. His other, equally, faux wife.
Francesca stepped into the room. The hem of her scarlet dress swept against the furniture, and her thick perfume barreled toward him and swathed him in a familiar embrace.
Francesca beamed.
Oh, no.
Tristan hastily strode toward Francesca, shaking his head. Once he reached her, he could usher her from the room, give her coin for the journey back and her time, and continue to pretend that Irene was his wife and that everything was right in the world.
“I’m so sorry I was late,” Francesca cooed, clutching him in her arms. She pressed her bosom against him. “Are you angry with me?”
He stepped away.
Francesca fluttered her heavy dark lashes. Her face was beautiful, enhanced with all manner of expensive French powder, and she readjusted her fur stole. The soft mink should have been enticing, as should her dress. The turquoise color suited Francesca.
But she wasn’t Irene.
Every curl might be exquisite, as if she’d forced her carriage driver to pull over in the cold so she might do her hair before she entered, but she wasn’t Irene. How had he never noticed the artifice in her? Or the manner she laughed cruelly?
She wasn’t anything like Irene.
“You have to go,” Tristan said.
Francesca’s eyes widened. “But I am helping you, darling.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your guest?” Prince Radoslav’s voice was behind him, and Tristan’s shoulder sank.
I’m too late.
Francesca beamed, perhaps happy to talk to someone else.
She stepped out of Tristan’s arms. “I am Lady Burley, the mistress of this house.”
There was silence, and Tristan’s heart squeezed.
He didn’t want to turn around and see the prince’s expression.
But he did so anyway, even though his feet had turned to lead.
“I am afraid I do not understand,” the prince said.
“This lady jests. I do apologize. Humor is so subjective.” Tristan laughed, but the laughter sounded harsh and forced to his ears.
Prince Radoslav’s air of bemusement vanished, replaced with something that seemed far too similar to suspicion.
Well, he should be suspicious.
Most men didn’t have women announce they were married to them.
In fact, in all of Tristan’s nearly three decades of life with his considerable time spent at parties and mingling with a variety of people, he had not once even heard of someone having someone falsely declare herself a wife.
It was simply something that didn’t occur.
His heart thumped madly. Irene might see Francesca. Irene would see just how little Tristan deserved her.
VOICES SOUNDED FROM downstairs, and Irene left the comforts of Tristan’s bed. She dressed languidly, remembering the feel of Tristan’s body.
Then, she strode down the stairs, toward the drawing room. She stepped into the room, then stopped.
Irene blinked.
There was another woman in the manor house.
This one stood closely beside Tristan, as if they were at a crowded ball. There were no musicians, no footmen carrying silver platters piled with delicacies, and no men in jeweled colored waistcoats swirling about women in ballgowns. This woman may as well have stepped from Almack’s. She appeared elegant, attired in expensive clothes. Even her coiffure was exquisite.
Irene froze.
> The woman was touching Tristan, patting his shoulder and talking about journeying here from London.
Tristan didn’t have a sister. There should be no reason a woman of his age should have arrived alone at the manor house to be with him.
Irene resisted the temptation to flee to Tristan’s bedroom. Tristan had told her he loved her. She stepped into the room, and Prince Radoslav’s lips curled.
Tristan’s face reddened, as if Irene’s mere presence brought him discomfort, and Irene’s legs wobbled. She stared at the woman. Was this the actress Tristan had intended to play his wife? She was beautiful, more beautiful than Irene might ever aspire to be. Tristan had said that he’d hired an actress, but this woman had a definite familiarity with him. She clung to Tristan’s arm, even though Tristan seemed to be pushing it away and had a strange expression on his face.
This woman had met Tristan before.
Tristan should be with a woman like her. That’s what the prince and princess had expected. They hadn’t expected a woman wearing pince-nez with a propensity to quote old books.
“Who are you?” Irene squeaked.
“I am Lady Burley, naturally.” The strange woman kissed Tristan’s cheek, even though he attempted to shrug her away. “Lord Burley’s wife.”
“Wife?” Irene’s voice squeaked.
Perhaps she hadn’t known him as well as she’d imagined. He’d seemed kind and charming to her, but perhaps he’d simply been devoted to making their pretend marriage seem convincing. Hadn’t he kissed her on the balcony, after he’d learned that her family had arrived for the ball?
“Not my real wife,” Tristan said hastily, stepping toward Irene. “You know that, darling.”
“You’re an actress?” Irene’s voice trembled.
“This is abominable!” the prince shook his head. “An actress? You hired an actress to play your wife? Was your real one not available?”
“Oh, Lord Burley isn’t married,” the actress said.
“He most certainly is,” the prince declared, gesturing at Irene.
There was an awkward silence.
A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble Book 6) Page 11