Leslie Lafoy (13 page)

“I swear that I’ll take the wonder of your passion and willingness to my grave.”

She nodded and smiled up at him. “That’s nice. And as long as we’re reassuring here … Just so you know, Tristan … If you
don’t
take it to your grave, I’ll put you there.”

Well, that was a first, a woman threatening him with violence. By her own hand. Sweetly, calmly said, earnestly meant. What a delightfully refreshing change from the usual, from the viciously unspoken
I’ll tell my father and then you’ll be sorry
.

“Duly noted, my lady,” he said, lifting his cup in salute. “In fact, it’s carved forever on my heart.”

She arched a brow and took another sip of her coffee. “Let’s leave our hearts out of this, all right? Keep things as simple and straightforward as we can?”

He lifted his cup in salute again, this time with a pang of regret. To have the most perfect woman in the entire world for a lover and not be able to tell anyone about it, much less shout his triumphant achievement from the rooftops of London … Damn. He couldn’t think of all that many sacrifices he’d ever made for a female, and that this one should be so big … Of course, there had never been a woman more worth it, so all in all …

Emmaline chose that moment to return with her smock in hand and saved him from straining his brain and his conscience any further. Bless her little unartistic heart.

*   *   *

Simone followed Caroline into the parlor thinking that dinner had gone more smoothly than any she could remember. Drayton and Haywood had been preoccupied with upcoming Parliament business. Fiona had begged off to bottle-feed a litter of orphaned kittens someone had brought her late that afternoon. And Caroline … Poor Caroline was so terribly pregnant that breathing was a chore and eating required conscious effort.

Hovering close enough to help if she needed to, Simone held her breath and watched Carrie lower herself into a chair beside the hearth. The task accomplished without mishap, Simone sighed in relief and headed for the drink cart. She’d already poured herself a sherry and was adding lemon to Carrie’s nightly cup of chamomile tea when her sister broke the pleasant silence.

“You’re being rather quiet this evening, Simone. Is something troubling you?”

Uh-oh.
“No,” she answered brightly, carrying the drinks over to the hearth. “I just don’t have much to say. Nothing interesting, anyway.”

Carrie nodded slowly and picked up her knitting. Looking down at it and threading the yarn through her fingers, she said, “Haywood tells us that you’ve met someone.”

Here we go.
“I’m sure Haywood said a great deal more than that,” Simone countered, dropping into the facing chair and then turning about so that her legs dangled over the arm.

Carrie laughed softly and looked up from her knitting. “Well, of course he did. I was just leaving the conversation open for you to supply your side of the story.”

“He’s Lady Emmaline Townsend’s brother,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “He’s a marquis. He’s been in America for the last twelve years and he owns a shipping company. We met escaping the fire. And that’s all there is to tell.”

“Does he have a name?”

Well, at least it was Caroline asking the questions and not Drayton or Haywood. Carrie was a lot more understanding. “Tristan. Tristan Townsend, the Marquis of Lockwood.”

“Haywood thinks his interest in you is improper.”

Simone snorted. “That’s because Haywood’s interests in women are improper. He thinks all men are like him.”

“They are,” Carrie countered, going back to her knitting. “And you know that better than most young women.”

“Even Drayton has improper interests?” she asked, thinking it was one of the smoothest changes in conversational direction she’d ever executed.

Carrie smiled as a pretty pink blush colored her cheeks. “They most definitely were at one time. Even now he’s a bit single-minded.”

Well, this was interesting. Her sister
never
talked about her physical relationship with Drayton. “I can’t believe you’re actually admitting it.”

Carrie sighed, laid the knitting on her belly, and looked at her. “With three babies in six years, it would be rather hard to deny it, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes,” Simone allowed with a chuckle, liking this uncommon frankness. She took a sip of her sherry and asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Fat.”

Simone grinned. “Aside from that.”

“And ugly.”

Simone laughed. “You’re not fat and you’re not ugly. Although I must say that you’re not making motherhood look all that attractive.”

“There are parts of it that are rewarding,” Carrie allowed, between sips of her tea. She sighed and looked down at her stomach. “But getting to them is something of a trial.”

And not without its dangers, too. Simone lifted the glass of sherry and studied the firelight through it. “Is this your roundabout way of reminding me of the consequences of cavorting with rutting men?”

“Yes.”

Roundabout but utterly honest. Always. Simone smiled and took a sip of the sherry. “To be really effective, you should probably tell me stories about young women who were caught being less than virtuous. You know, reputations destroyed, their families scarred forever by the embarrassment of the scandal, and all of that.”

At Carrie’s half smile and arched brow she added, “Oh, and don’t forget the horrible marriages that had to be made and then endured because a girl couldn’t remember how to say no to a man who didn’t have a farthing to his name and even fewer strands of moral fiber. You need to tell me about those, too. In great gory detail.”

“I would if I thought it would make one bit of difference in your thinking.” Carrie set aside her cup and picked up the knitting again. “But it wouldn’t, so I’m not going to waste the effort.”

Well, as long as they were being honest … “Your own past having nothing to do with that decision, of course,” Simone pointed out, thinking that she’d managed to resist Tristan for a good forty-eight hours longer than Carrie had resisted Drayton.

“There is a difference,” Carrie said very carefully, “between having an affair with a guardian your own age and having one with a complete and—considerably older—stranger.”

“A very small difference.”

“But an important one.”

“Not that it matters, since I’m not having an affair with Tristan Townsend.”

“Yet.”

Out of sisterly love, and a good bit of prudence, Simone ignored the bait. “And even if I were, he’s not considerably older.”
I think. I’ll have to ask him.

“Simone…”

Oh, no. Not a lecture. Please, Carrie.

“Being married isn’t the prison you think it is.” The needles clicked, punctuating her advice. “Honestly. Please don’t do anything that might jeopardize your chance to choose that path, to be happy with life.”

“I am happy with life,” Simone countered, determined to keep the conversation from sliding into a gloom. “Well, aside from being forced into enduring a Season. That part’s wretchedly awful and I hate it.”

“There’s more to life and being happy than horses and swords and the satisfaction of making people gasp and tsk.”

“True.” She lifted her sherry glass in salute and grinned. “There’s making them faint.”

Carrie glanced up to give her a censoring look that fell a bit short of the mark and then went back to knitting. “So what is it about Lord Lockwood that appeals to you?”

Always persistent Carrie.
“I didn’t say that he does.”

“Is he handsome?”

Simone shrugged. “Passably so, I guess.”

“Is he tall? Broad shouldered?”

Time to turn the conversation again.
“Are you thinking about replacing Drayton?”

Carrie laughed. “Of course not. I’m simply trying to see if our taste in men is a shared, sisterly characteristic.”

It clearly was, but Simone wasn’t going to admit it. There was honest and then there was
honest
. “I suppose so,” she allowed. “But then, maybe not. I haven’t looked that closely at him.”

Once again the knitting was laid down. “Simone,” her sister said earnestly on a tiny sigh, “please be honest with me. Talk to me. I’m not clueless when it comes to matters of the heart.”

That
honest she could be. “If my heart ever becomes involved with a man, you’ll be the first to know, Carrie. I promise.”

“I’m not clueless in matters of attraction, either. I understand temptation and how instant and irresistible it can be.”

“Yes, I know. And it’s obvious,” Simone quipped, grinning and pointedly looking at Carrie’s belly.

Carrie chuckled. “You’re deliberately muddying the waters.”

“Of course I am. You’d be disappointed if I didn’t.”

“And would society be disappointed,” she asked, her brow aching, “if you didn’t have a torrid, illicit affair?”

“Oh, please, Carrie,” she countered with a snort. “They’d be disappointed in me if I gave them anything less than a fully public, broad-daylight, buck-naked performance on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

“You’re not going to do that, are you?”

Oh, God. The look on her sister’s face. Part horror, part delight. Simone laughed outright. “I do have some standards,” she assured her. And then, just because she couldn’t resist, she added, “Although I must say, given what Haywood was telling me about the Lunatic Lockwoods, that it might be something Tristan would seriously consider. I’ll have to ask him the next time I see him.”

“And when would that be?”

Ah, the crux of the entire conversation. And arrived at so smoothly and casually. Carrie really was good at this sort of thing. “Whenever he happens to attend the same party I do and we cross paths somewhere in the course of the evening,” Simone answered just as smoothly. “With all the parties there are to choose among every night, who knows when that might be? It can’t possibly happen until the week after next at the earliest, though. Everyone’s making a show of being respectful of the dead for the next fortnight.”

“I’ll remind you that for some it will be a genuine expression of grief and regret. You need to leave your natural irreverence at home.”

Yes, she did. And she would. “You’re such a nice person, Carrie,” she offered sincerely. “And a far better soul than I can ever hope to be.”

“What I am is a very tired soul,” Carrie countered, placing the knitting on the side table. “I think I’ll say good night and lumber upstairs to bed.”

Simone vaulted out of the chair and quickly set her sherry aside to offer her hands. Carrie took them with a smile of gratitude and allowed her to pull her to her feet.

“Sleep well and easy,” Simone said as Carrie moved toward the parlor door.

Her sister stopped and turned back. “You are a good person, Simone. You’re just very young and highly spirited. All that I ask is that you behave yourself for the next few weeks. Until this baby comes, I haven’t the energy to stand between you and Drayton if something goes wrong.”

Simone crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Carrie’s shoulders. “Nothing’s going to go wrong,” she assured her with a hug. “I promise.”

With a soft laugh, Carrie let go of her and, shaking her head, headed for the stairs, saying, “Napoleon said the same thing at Waterloo, you know.”

“Except in French.”

“Behave yourself!”

Yes, well … Simone went back to the side table, picked up the glass of sherry, and drained it. Returning it and Carrie’s almost full teacup to the beverage cart, she considered her dilemma and how she might deal with it. Not meeting Tristan simply wasn’t possible. She couldn’t hide in the house like a mouse. But considering the promise she’d just made Caroline …

Hopefully Tristan would understand. But if he didn’t … It would have been nice to be able to say that there were plenty of other interesting men in the world, but she’d seen the possibilities already and knew precisely how dismal they were. If Tristan decided to be ugly about her hesitation tonight, then it was going to be the longest, most torturously boring Season any woman had ever had.

If he did understand, though … If he was a real gentleman about it all … Of course a true gentleman didn’t ask a lady to meet him in a garden at midnight. And a true lady didn’t even entertain the idea. She most certainly didn’t let her blood run hot at the possibility.

Chapter 8

He was insane. Certifiably insane. Tristan shook his head but kept his gaze firmly fixed on the darkened windows at the back of the Ryland town house. Not that the Duke of Ryland was likely to come out any of the rear doors. That would give his quarry a sporting chance of getting away. No, the odds were the duke would go out the front and circle around from behind. At least that’s what
he’d
do if he knew there was a bastard waiting in the gardens, hoping to seduce his ward.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder. The horse was still tethered to the ring just outside the open gate. His calm assured Tristan that—for the moment, anyway—no one was on their way to see virtue defended and justice done.

Expelling a long, silent breath, he went back to watching the house and questioning his judgment. How pathetic it was to be sitting in the dark, waiting for a young woman. Actually, it was well beyond pathetic. It wasn’t as though she was the only woman who would meet him. There were plenty of other beautiful women in London, and the vast majority could be had for an evening without all the risks that went with dallying with Lady Simone Turnbridge.

Of course, in that vast sea of available females there weren’t any that intrigued him the way Simone did. Obvious beauty, apparent intelligence, a refreshingly direct honesty, a bold sense of daring, a willingness to be just as open about desire as he was … The characteristics of all accomplished courtesans. But with Simone—unlike courtesans—there was no underlying expectation of a businesslike exchange. There was no “if I do this for you, you’ll do this for me” sort of thing—spoken or unspoken—in her acceptance of his advances. Which made Simone unique in his experience. She was carnal delight and wicked possibility wrapped up in a wondrously sultry innocence, a combination that he found not only fascinating but also irresistible.