A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble Book 6)

by Bianca Blythe

  The prince widened his eyes.

  “You mean to say,” the prince asked Irene finally, “that you were hired to play his wife too?”

  The actress turned to Irene, then giggled. Curly ringlets swayed gently, propelled by the force of her laughter. “But surely no one believed Lord Burley had anything to do with her?”

  The prince’s face reddened. “You’ve been lying to me, Lord Burley?”

  “I—er—” Tristan shifted his legs. The man seemed appalled.

  The actress continued to giggle. “Why, she has pince-nez! And that nose! And what sort of clothes are those?”

  Irene smoothed her attire. Her heart raced.

  She’d known better.

  She should have continued to read her scholarly articles and do her research. She shouldn’t have attempted to play a countess.

  Tristan must have been laughing at her the whole time. Tristan cavorted with beautiful actresses, not people like her.

  The actress halted her laughter. “Poor girl. Please tell me you did not spend the night with Lord Burley. Because I assure you, that man is a rake. He would have had to have been drunk or emotionally distraught to do the deed.”

  Irene stilled.

  Had that been what had happened? Had Lord Burley simply been emotionally distracted? Had his declarations of adoration been merely to assuage his guilt? Had he simply been happy he wouldn’t have to explain why her frozen-to-death body had been discovered at his barn?

  “You shouldn’t speak to her like that,” Tristan said.

  “Oh, darling, don’t be upset at me,” the actress said, moving toward Tristan.

  “This is frankly unbelievable,” the prince said. “You have lied to me and to my dear, lovely wife this entire time.”

  “I know,” Tristan breathed. “I’m sorry.”

  “And for what? To prove you have some business expertise?”

  “You weren’t even going to consider me unless I was married,” Tristan said.

  “I know that, because married people act with a great deal more stability, in my experience, and you have not proven the contrary.”

  “I know.” Tristan’s shoulders slumped.

  “That’s hardly a good enough answer.”

  “This is an experience I will never forget,” the princess said. “I must say, England is not nearly as tiresome as I thought.”

  “Hmm,” her husband snorted. “That does not make it a good experience. Come. Let’s find our servants.”

  The princess’s eyes were wide, and her mouth agape. No doubt Irene had shocked her. Princess Natalia must be wondering why Irene had risked her reputation to play Tristan’s wife. The man had wanted to open a gaming hell, the definition of vice.

  Irene wanted to shout. She wanted to recoil. Her wrists tightened together, and her heart seemed to be consumed with twisting itself into all sorts of athletic knots, like some rainstorm about to burst. She was frozen and clutched hold of the sideboard. It creaked next to her.

  “Oh, what was that?” Francesca turned. “Oh, it’s that woman. She’s still there. Can you believe?”

  “Francesca, stop touching me,” Tristan said.

  “Oh, but darling, I can make you feel better. I’m excellent at it. That’s what you always say.”

  “Francesca,” he said again. “Please.”

  It didn’t matter that Tristan pushed her away. Irene had seen the intimacy between them. She’d used his given name, even though Tristan was an earl. And he’d used her given name. They’d been intimate.

  Tristan had spent the night in the same room as Irene and had not once been anything less than a gentleman. Perhaps it was easy for him to be a gentleman around Irene. She didn’t have the same curves that the actress had. If he married her, it would be out of politeness.

  She didn’t want that sort of marriage.

  Somehow Irene had imagined that she could really be his wife, but she’d simply been an appalling replacement. He’d begged her to do the role, because there wasn’t anyone else. Anyone with any sense would have refused.

  Had she just been lonely? He’d entered her balcony like some sort of medieval knight, and even though she had never once succumbed to romanticism, she had then.

  She’d destroyed her reputation.

  The prince and princess would share the story, as would the servants.

  Francesca was correct. She should never have imagined that Tristan might ever love her.

  Hot tears burned Irene’s eyes. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Francesca’s voice sailed toward her.

  Irene stilled.

  “Oh, you think I can’t hear you? Honey, I may have performed at music halls most of my life, but my ears aren’t broken yet.”

  “Francesca, you need to leave,” Tristan said, his voice cold and solemn.

  “You wouldn’t thrust me into the snow!” Francesca giggled. “I’m here for you!”

  “You abandoned him when he needed you,” Irene blurted.

  “Don’t you worry your pince-nez-wearing head,” Francesca said. “Someone like him wants to be with someone like me. Look at me. Look at you. It’s obvious, dearie. You’re wasting your time and my time being in this hallway. Run off to whichever hamlet you come from.”

  “She deserves more respect from you,” Tristan said.

  “Truly? She doesn’t appear it.” Francesca swirled around and marched back into the living room. Her hands touched the sideboards, and Irene sighed.

  “Look!” Tristan neared her. “Whatever she said—”

  Irene’s mouth dried. “I should go.”

  “Irene!” Tristan called out behind her. “Stop.”

  Irene didn’t stop.

  She ran.

  She ran through the corridor and she ran out the door.

  Two sleighs were parked at the entrance, and the groom rose up. “Lady Burley? Please get inside.”

  Irene blinked, wondering when exactly Tristan had arranged the carriage before Francesca had arrived or after her.

  The day was not optimal for sleigh rides. Wind slammed against her face, and snow pierced her clothing.

  But it didn’t matter.

  She only needed to leave.

  I’ve been a fool.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  She was gone.

  TRISTAN WAS ALONE ONCE again.

  Well, not entirely alone. He still hadn’t convinced Francesca to leave on her own, though he suspected that had more to do with resistance to travel on her part.

  How had he thought he could convince the prince and princess he had a wife when he did not? Now his lies were exposed. A week ago, he would have thought he’d be devastated by that knowledge, but now he simply needed to get Irene back. He’d destroyed the one woman he’d ever loved.

  Love.

  The word soared through his mind. They’d been together this morning, and yet, now she was gone.

  He just had to go after her and then ask her hand in marriage, and then everything would be back to normal, and Irene and he would be able to laugh about Francesca’s arrival, and the horrified, bemused expressions on the prince and princess.

  Yes, Tristan had a plan. He threw on his greatcoat, then marched from the house. Irene, it seemed had taken the sleigh.

  He sprinted toward Salisbury Castle. Normally his sprints were considerably quicker. His trousers became caked with snow, and he stepped unevenly. His heart felt stiff as if it hadn’t quite found its rhythm again, even though it had practiced beating his entire life.

  He should never have asked her to be his wife. Nothing was as important as her reputation. Certainly not a gaming hell.

  Hopefully soon they would be engaged properly, and they could get a special license and then they could marry here or even jaunt off to Gretna Green. He strove to keep that image before him, because the other image, of a life without Irene, of a life alone, was horrifying to contemplate.

  Finally, he reache
d the castle. Irene’s mother saw him first.

  “Lord Burley,” Irene’s mother gave him a confused look. “I am so happy you are calling on us. I will let the duchess and duke know immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Tristan said. “But I would actually like to see your family.”

  “Me? Oh, you are a sweet man.” Irene’s mother clasped her hands together. “Now, why would you want to call on me?”

  “I would like to speak with Irene. And then, perhaps after, I might speak with you.”

  Confusion flickered in her eyes once again. “Oh, you were at the ball the other night. Please don’t tell me that Irene dropped something. She’s most clumsy. Was it a glove? Truly, it doesn’t matter. That poor girl has no taste. I blame my late husband. He lacked any sense of style. Why is it that so many aristocrats are flummoxed by fashion? Not that you are, of course. You’re quite dapper. You spend much time in London, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Tristan said. It seemed that was the one thing that everyone knew about him. He had been proud of the fact before, but now he felt foolish. “It’s vital that I speak with your daughter.”

  “And me,” Irene’s mother chirped.

  “And you.”

  Hopefully.

  “So I suppose it’s not about a missing glove?” she pressed.

  “No.”

  “Is it an invitation?” Irene’s mother’s eyes shone. “Your manor house is close by.”

  “It is an invitation of a sort. One could call it a proposal.”

  For a moment, Irene’s mother’s eyes widened, and he thought that she had understood everything, but then she giggled. “Oh my dear Lord Burley, you make it sound... I mean when you say proposal... You can’t use such words when you’re talking to a mother of an unmarried daughter. It’s very naughty of you. But do come to the drawing room. The architects of these castles devoted all their attention on how to avoid attackers and didn’t concentrate on the far more important topic of how to avoid drafts. There’s a fire in the drawing room. Fires make everything better.”

  “Thank you.” Tristan followed Irene’s mother into the house.

  “You really don’t want to see the duke and duchess now?”

  “Perhaps later.”

  For a moment, Tristan allowed himself to imagine that Irene would immediately say yes to his proposal and she would not mind marrying him at all, even after knowing that he had cavorted in London with actresses. She had managed to be so embarrassed because of a situation that he had caused that had been entirely within his control, and he had made it horrible for everyone involved.

  “I’ll fetch Arthur too,” Irene’s mother said.

  “He’s here?” Tristan’s heart pounded. Normally he would be happy if Arthur was here. Arthur had been one of his best friends during school and the war, but Arthur knew just how little he deserved Irene.

  Tristan’s shoulders slumped further. He had the impression this was not going to go well at all. “What I have to say is of a serious nature.”

  “Well, of course it is. That’s why your face appears so sober.”

  Irene’s mother opened the door to the drawing room. “Now go inside. I’ll ring for tea.”

  Tristan inhaled. “Could you please fetch Irene?”

  “So soon?”

  Tristan gritted his teeth. The amble to the drawing room could not have been long, but it had felt as if he’d walked the entire Lake District. “It is terribly important.”

  “Well.” Irene’s mother blinked, then exited the room.

  Tristan was alone. Unfortunately the state was not a long-lasting one. The door opened and Arthur strolled in.

  Tristan rushed to his feet.

  “Ah, now what a joy to see you!” Arthur exclaimed. “I was shocked when my mother said that. I’m delighted to see you again, old boy.”

  “I haven’t come to see you,” Tristan said.

  Arthur blinked. “Oh. You must have come to see Salisbury. I hadn’t realized you were friends with him now. He’s quite nice, he and his wife. His wife certainly brings out the best side of him.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Tristan said weakly. He glanced at the door, wondering when Irene would arrive.

  “Well, I can’t catch you up with any news on my end. How are you?”

  Tristan knew the correct answer was, “Fine.” That’s what Arthur expected him to say. But things weren’t fine. Tristan’s heart was breaking. He might lose the woman he loved, and that woman had been Arthur’s youngest sister.

  Arthur would be furious at him, and he wouldn’t blame him. Everyone knew people were not supposed to marry their best friends’ sisters. Not unless one were in the middle ages and people were dying left and right and one had to marry someone for protection.

  Irene didn’t need protection. If anyone needed protection, it was Tristan. He needed her wisdom, her guidance. He needed her presence. He needed to be able to draw her into his arms. He needed her.

  “Oh my! You do look most glum,” Arthur said. “Do tell me what is going on? It’s all quite mysterious. Mother was quite bemused and she is never bemused. She is the most confident woman in the world.”

  “I had that impression,” Tristan said, unsure whether he should confess everything to Arthur right now or not.

  Footsteps padded around the door and Arthur and Tristan jumped up. It would be Irene. It must be Irene, and then he could tell her how much he loved her, how much he adored her and how very, very sorry he was that everything had happened. But unfortunately Irene’s mother entered the drawing room.

  “I can’t find Irene,” she said. “I searched her room, her balcony, her wardrobe...”

  “She’s gone?” Tristan’s voice was hoarse, and Arthur shot him a strange look.

  Blast it.

  Arthur had realized.

  “Perhaps we should start a search party for her,” Tristan said. “She could have hurt herself outside.”

  “Now why on earth would she be outside? There was a horrendous snowstorm last night. That would be most foolish of her.”

  Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any information about my sister?”

  “She was leaving my place,” Tristan said softly. “She should have been home by now.”

  “She was at your place?” Irene’s mother stared. “With the duchess? They didn’t mention... I thought I heard the duchess upstairs.”

  “No,” Tristan said. “She was alone.”

  “At your place?” Irene’s mother widened her eyes.

  Arthur rose. “If you laid even a little finger on my little sister, I won’t care that you saved my life in the war. I’ll still tear you limb by limb.”

  Tristan’s face warmed further. “I intend to propose to her.”

  “I’m glad you have some modicum of sense.” Irene’s mother pressed her hand against her chest. “To think the agony I have been through! To find that my daughter has been compromised!”

  THE SLEIGH FINALLY pulled up at the castle, and Irene exited and strode toward the entrance.

  “Irene! Dearest!” Irene’s mother exited the castle and rushed toward her.

  “Mama?”

  Irene’s mother enveloped her in an embrace. “You have been most wonderful. To think, you’ve landed an earl. I’m so proud of you, my dear.”

  Irene chilled. “What?”

  “He’s searching for you with Arthur, but I’m sure they’ll be back soon. He intends to marry you, Irene. I don’t know how you did it, but you found an earl to propose to you. I could just sing.”

  “Please don’t,” Irene said, “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not necessary,” Irene’s mother replied, “Of course it’s not necessary, I just feel so happy.”

  And this time she really did squeal.

  “Mother,” Irene said sternly, “this is not a time for happiness.”

  “What? You’re going to be a countess. That is definitely a time for happiness.”

  Irene
allowed her mother to drag her to the drawing room, even though all she wanted to do was to return to her room and lock the door firmly. She did not want to see Tristan. She’d seen him before. She still followed her mother, even though her heart tightened with every step and her legs trembled.

  Irene’s mother placed her on the chaise. Tristan and Arthur arrived shortly after. No doubt they’d met the driver on his way back to Highedge Hall.

  “You’re here!” Tristan exclaimed.

  Irene was silent.

  Tristan approached her warily, then knelt before her. The sight normally would have made tears come to Irene’s eyes, and the sight did manage to make tears come to her eyes now, but it was not out of happiness. Just sadness.

  “Rise,” she said, “now.”

  He didn’t rise.

  “Irene Carmichael,” he said in a wobbly voice, “I would like to offer my hand in marriage to you.”

  “Well, I reject it,” she said.

  “Darling,” Irene’s mother squealed, “The correct answer is yes. No, is not an option. He is an earl and friends with your brother.”

  “He would make a poor husband to me,” Irene said. “Besides, I am not the type of wife he would seek for himself.”

  This time, Irene did rise, and she marched from the room.

  TRISTAN RETURNED HOME. Irene had rejected him multiple times, and though he’d waited for her to return, and though her mother and her brother had begged her to return downstairs, eventually they had admitted she would not.

  And with that, Tristan’s heart was broken.

  The prince and princess’s carriage was outside. He cringed. He’d hoped they would have left by now. Were they having problems with the carriage or horses? He quickened his pace to see if he could assist them.

  “It’s you,” the prince sighed, “My dear wife is inside. I see you did not manage to convince your wife—well, whoever that woman truly is—to accompany you?”

  Tristan shook his head, “I’m alone.”

  The prince gave him an odd sympathetic glance.

  “Is everything in order with your transportation?” Tristan asked. “I must confess I didn’t expect to see you now.”