Kindred Hearts (7 page)

“So I see,” Tristan said dryly. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Bayes. Oh, and I would like to invite you to continue as my wife’s companion after our marriage. I… am often away, and it will be good for her to have your friendship.”

“Yes, I understand.” The eyes that met his had none of Charlotte’s vagueness, and none of her naiveté. “Good day, Mr. Northwood.”

“Good day, Mrs. Bayes.”

The
stone of the balustrade under Tristan’s bare feet was cold, but at least not icy. His toes curled around the edge as he balanced, hands tucked under his arms to keep his fingers warm. Behind him, the light and warmth and laughter of the party spilled out onto the balcony, forming almost a solid presence at his back.

“By Gad, it’s cold out here!” Gibson complained. “How can you stand it, Tris?”

“It’s a bloody dare,” someone else said. “Someone dared him, so he’s got to stand it, don’t you, Northwood?”

“No one,” Tristan said, “shall call me a coward without proof—and shall get none from me.”

“Nobody called you a coward, old boy,” Gibson said.

“They said I wouldn’t do it,” Tristan said. “I must prove them wrong.” He hiccoughed gently, careful not to lose his balance.

“You’re completely mad,” Gibson said.

“No, he’s completely naked,” Berkeley said. “Needs his hat. Everyone needs a hat. Where is it?”

Someone passed Tristan his hat. Balancing carefully, he set the hat on his head and looked out at the still-dark sky. The sky in the east was definitely lightening—
turning into a fine spring day
, he thought absently.
A perfect day for a wedding
. Right now, though, it was a little cold, and he was naked, and he really wished the sun would hurry up and rise so he could do the crowing-like-a-rooster bit and get down and get a tot of something warm and alcoholic in him. He was sobering up too quickly, although the very fact that he was on a balcony four stories above a cobblestoned London street and the wind was picking up and his balance was not of the best because of all the very warm and alcoholic beverages he’d been drinking all night—well, all of that was rather exciting. Despite the shock of cold that had shriveled it moments ago, his cock started to wake and he laughed wildly.
On the edge of forever
, he thought through the laughter; one step and he’d be suet on the cobblestones below, freed of obligations, freed of expectations, freed of the necessity of marriage, freed of his father, freed of
decisions
…. He laughed again, and the sun edged up over the buildings on the horizon, and his laugh turned into a triumphant
ark-aroooo!
as he flapped his elbows, arched his back and crowed.

And overbalanced forward, hanging for a split second over the cobblestones far below, and a warm wash of peace, of acceptance, flowed through him—until hands on his elbows yanked him backward, and he did indeed fall, but into a half-dozen pairs of arms that bore him back into the brightly lit salon. Someone threw a coat over him, and his bearers dropped him on a sofa, and a girl he’d met earlier but didn’t remember the name of knelt at his side and gave him a smacking kiss. “Lor’ luv ye, ducks! I can’t say if ye’re brave or foolish, but ye’re no coward!”

“Oh, I am,” he assured her. “I am the greatest of cowards, but I’ll hear it from no man—nor woman, either.”

She giggled, and her hand drifted south beneath the coat to curl around his rising cock. “Well, what have we ’ere, ducks?”

“Madam,” he said somberly, “if you do not know, I must not as a gentleman educate you.” Then he hiccoughed again.

The girl pushed the coat up onto his chest and climbed on the couch, straddling him, the warmth of her body finishing the work his exhilaration had begun; but the exhilaration was gone, faded into his usual emptiness, and he sat up, pushing her gently away. “Not now, love,” he said. “Gibs!”

Gibson pushed through the chattering crowd. “What the hell was that about, Northwood? Bloody thought you were goin’ t’ end up takin’ a dive. Don’t do that to me again, boyo.”

Tristan shrugged. “No great matter if I had. Where’s my hat?” It had fallen off when he’d tumbled back off the balustrade.

Berkeley dumped a pile of clothing into his lap, the hat perched on top. Under the cover of the coat, Tristan squirmed into his drawers and trousers, then pulled his shirt over his head. Berkeley observed him in puzzlement. “You’ve been standing on a balcony with your pizzle in the wind for a quarter hour, but you can’t put your breeches on in public?”

“Shut up,” Tristan said, and he pulled his own greatcoat on. “Whose coat is this?”

“Mine,” someone said.

Tristan tossed it in the general direction of the voice. “I must away,” he said dramatically, and swept a bow, then set his hat on his head. “I have a wedding to attend. In”—he took his watch from his coat pocket and glanced at it—“four and a half hours. Just enough time to sober up. Ladies…. Gentlemen….” He bowed again and sailed from the room—in his own mind. In reality, he staggered a bit, tripped over the doorsill, and only avoided falling because Gibson and Berkeley were following him and caught him before he measured himself out on the shabby carpeting of the hallway.

He was
stone sober several hours later as he stood in the echoing nave of St. George’s, watching his bride walk down the aisle toward him. Her hand was on her father’s arm, but her figure, in lavender silk appropriate for the spring day, was upright and confident. He was relieved that she was so calm about the whole thing; it would have been impossible if he’d been expected to take on a fragile, weeping flower. One of her bridesmaids was already that, sniffling into a fine lawn handkerchief.

Beside him, Gibson shifted uncomfortably. “Buck up,” Tristan said in an undertone, “it’ll soon be over and then you can have a drink.”

“I’m supposed to be the one reassuring you,” Gibson hissed back. “Aren’t you
nervous
?”

Tristan considered it. “No,” he said finally. “She’s only a woman. I know how to deal with women.”

“That’s true enough….”

“Shh!” That was Berks, behind Gibson. Charlotte and her father were arriving at the altar.

Tristan shook the Earl’s hand politely, then turned to his bride. She smiled up at him with that serene, unflappable expression. “Hullo,” she said.

“Hullo,” Tristan said back.

And
they were married.

The
manager bowed them into the drawing room of their suite. “Grillon’s finest,” he said, “just as the baron required. I trust you will enjoy your stay. Will you take dinner in your suite tonight?” His eyes twinkled at them.

Tristan glanced at Charlotte, who looked enquiringly back at him. “My dear?” he asked.

“May we eat in the dining room?” she asked. “I’ve yet to dine here, although I understand the food is quite good.”

“As you wish. I’ve tickets for the theater this evening, so would you prefer to eat before or after?”

“After, I think. The wedding breakfast did go on quite long. Perhaps tea?”

The manager bowed. “I will have tea sent up, and reserve a table for you for after the theater.”

“Thank you,” Tristan said, and dismissed him.

Charlotte wandered around the room, picking up bibelots and setting them back down again. “It was quite nice of your papa to choose such a nice suite. It must be expensive.”

“It’s the most expensive suite in the hotel,” Tristan said. “Nothing must be spared to show the world what a patient and generous man Baron Ware is.”

She turned and looked at him. “You don’t care for him at all, do you?” she said thoughtfully. “You barely spoke at the breakfast.”

“No,” Tristan said with a tight smile. “I don’t care for him at all.”

“Hmm,” she said, but she didn’t pursue it, just giving him a vague smile. “We’re going to the theater, not the opera?”

“No. You said you didn’t care for opera. I don’t recall if you told me what type of theater you did like, so I chose something light.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ve never seen real theater. It will be interesting.”

“Did you have a pleasant time at the wedding breakfast?” Good lord, was he really asking such a banal question?

“Oh, quite pleasant. All my friends were there, which was quite nice. Your friends seem amiable.”

“Yes. Quite.” Oh, God. Now he was starting to sound like her.

“I wish my brother Charlie had been able to make it. I shall write him this evening, of course. Do you wish to read the letter before I send it?”

“Of course not! Does your father read your correspondence?”

“Oh, good heavens, no. He couldn’t care less about that.”

“Well, I see no reason to either.”

“Very well. I was not sure if you would prefer it. I would like to begin as we intend to go on, you know.”

“I have no interest in anything you may write your brother.”

She cocked her head in that birdlike fashion and said, “I shan’t write anything detrimental. I’m curious as to what Charles will make of you when you meet. I think he will quite like you. I don’t say that you will like him—that is understood. Everyone likes Charlie. He doesn’t necessarily like everyone. But I think he will like you.”

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure I will be quite fond of your brother,” he lied through his still-clenched teeth.

He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I meant to tell you—it was kind of your companion to take on the project of organizing the household. I haven’t seen the townhouse yet.” Tristan was getting desperate. What else could he possibly talk to her about? Was this to be the rest of his life, this stilted small talk? “Sherry?” he asked, sighting in relief the pier table holding the decanters of spirits.

“No, thank you. I don’t take stimulants.”

“Well,” he said, in an attempt to be jocular, “that makes us almost complete opposites, then, does it not?”

“My papa and my brothers drink, of course. It’s not that I disapprove, although in my opinion far too many people drink spirits far too much. I just don’t care for the taste. But, please, do not let me stay your hand. Thank you for inviting me to the theater, by the way. I am quite excited to go. Because Papa’s funds did not often stretch to frivolous entertainments, and I am so rarely in town, I have not had the opportunity. Will we be going to Drury Lane?”