The Rake (10 page)

Cursing under her breath, she plunked herself down on the small stone bench beneath a bending elm tree.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

"What do you tell people, when they ask why we seem to hate each other so much?"

Tristan's quiet voice came from the shadows at the front of the garden. He approached slowly, stopping beside the tree to lean against the worn trunk.

"What do
you
tell them?" she countered.

"That I only got as far as a kiss when you found out I was after your stocking for a wager, and that you weren't happy about being the object of any kind of wagering."

"That's close to what I tell them, except I add the part about me punching you in the face when you tried to lie to me about it."

He nodded, his gaze wandering the garden in the moonlit darkness. "That was six years ago, Georgiana. What are the odds you'll ever forgive me?"

"Very low, if you keep mentioning odds and wagering in my presence," she returned, her voice sharp. "I just don't understand, Tristan, how you could be that... unfeeling.
To anyone.
Not just to me."

His eyes met hers for a moment, dark and unreadable. Then he straightened. "Come inside. It's cold out tonight."

She swallowed. The air did bite at her flesh through her thin evening gown, but something had happened this evening. Something aside from the first civil, honest discussion she and Tristan had shared in six years. Something that made her look at his lean profile as he stepped closer and offered her his arm.

Folding her hands in front of her so she wouldn't be tempted to touch him, she stood and led the way back to
the house. This absence of anger unsettled her, and she wasn't certain what to say next.

"Would it make any difference," he said quietly from behind her, "if I apologized again?"

Georgiana faced him. "Apologized for what? For making me think you cared for me, or for getting caught at lying?"

Anger touched his gaze for a moment. Good. He was easier to deal with when he wasn't being sensitive and considerate.

"I'll take that as a no, then," he said, motioning her to continue along the walkway. "If it makes a difference, though, on that night... hurting you was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn't mean to do that, and that's what I'm sorry for."

"That's a good start," she said, her voice not quite steady as she climbed the steps to the front door. "Or it would be, if I believed you."

Another letter arrived for Georgiana the next day. Tristan took a reluctant sniff, but whoever perfumed them had apparently used the entire bottle of cologne on the first few missives.

Glancing up at the door, he slit the wax seal and opened it.
" 'My
dear lady,' " he read," 'I have debated the contents of this letter for several days now. Despite
your
—"

"My lord?"

Tristan jumped. "What is it, Dawkins?" he asked, lowering the letter to his lap.

"The picnic basket is ready, my lord, and the curricle is in the drive just as you requested."

"I'll be out in a moment. Close the door, please."

"Yes, my lord."

Lifting the letter again, he skipped his eyes to the bottom. Westbrook—so she
was
receiving correspondence from male acquaintances. He'd half thought she'd been sending letters to herself. Well, he'd opened it, so he might as well finish reading it.
" 'Despite
your kind acceptance of my apology for my poor behavior at Regent's Park, I feel I owe you a further explanation. I have long known of your animosity toward Lord Dare, and I fear I sprang too quickly to your defense when I overheard his cutting remarks to you.' "

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the letter.
"Cutting remarks?
I was being nice, you swine," he muttered.
" 'Please
know that I only interceded because I hold you in the highest regard, and will continue to do so.
Your servant, John Blair, Lord Westbrook."

So Georgiana had a suitor who wasn't interested in her money. Tristan didn't know the marquis well, though he'd seen him at White's and the Society a few times. Westbrook's wagering was far more conservative than his own, and other than a passing encounter or two, their paths rarely crossed. Neither did they share the same politics. They did seem to have one thing in common, however.

Tristan looked at the letter for a long moment,
then
folded it again. Rising, he put one corner against his desk lamp, under the glass. The missive smoked and
curled into flame. Once it was well engulfed he tossed it into his trash and dumped the contents of the nearest vase in after it.

Tristan gave a grim smile. Whatever was going on, he wasn't about to let
Georgie
win. All was fair in love and war—and this was definitely one or the other.

Tristan stood at the near wheel of his curricle as he handed Amelia Johns to the ground. It had taken better than a week of halfhearted attempts, and some unexpected maneuvering around Georgiana, but he'd managed to make it to Johns House and arranged for a picnic with Amelia.

"Oh, it's so lovely here," Amelia cooed, swishing her yellow muslin skirt over the ankle-high grass. "Did you choose this spot in particular for us?"

He lifted the basket down from the back of the vehicle while his groom led the curricle and the horses a short distance away. "Of course I did. I know you like daisies."

She looked at the patches of flowers grouped at the edges of the small clearing. "Yes, they're lovely. And they match my dress, don't they?" Amelia giggled. "I'm so glad I didn't wear my pink gown, because then the effect would have been less."

"I would have taken you to a rose garden, then," Tristan answered, snapping the blanket out flat and letting it settle onto the grass. "Have a seat."

Gracefully she sank down, her skirt billowing out
around her so artfully he wondered whether she practiced the motion.
Probably.
He hadn't noticed that she did anything poorly.

"I hope you like roast pheasant and peaches," he said, opening the basket and pulling out glasses and Madeira.

"I would like anything you chose, Tristan."

She agreed with everything he said, which was a nice change from Georgiana. He could say the sky was blue and
Georgie
would inform him that the color was some sort of illusion caused by refracted sunlight. Yes, an afternoon with Amelia was a definite change for the better.

"Mama let me arrange all of the flowers downstairs today," she said, accepting a napkin and a glass from him. "She says I have quite the talent for flower arranging."

"I'm sure you do."

"Who arranges your flowers?"

"My flowers?"
He thought about it for a moment. "I have no idea. One of the maids, I suppose, or Mrs. Goodwin, the housekeeper."

She looked dismayed. "Oh, you should always have someone very skilled do your arranging. It's very important."

Tristan took a sip of wine. "And why is that?"

"A well-done flower arrangement is the sign of a well-managed household. Mama always says that."

"That makes sense." It also explained why he really
didn't care who arranged his posies, and why he didn't think twice about dumping them into wastebaskets to put out fires he'd started. "Well-managed" and "
Carroway
" weren't precisely synonyms.

"Do you use roses, or irises, or daisies as your main theme?"

Blinking, Tristan took another swallow,
then
realized that he'd emptied his glass. "Lilies," he said absently, refilling it. Georgiana had once told him she preferred lilies over any other bloom. Her taste and sense of fashion were impeccable, so it seemed a safe answer.

Amelia pouted, probably to bring his attention to her mouth. He'd learned about that trick during his trip to Emma
Brakenridge's
girls' school last year, and he had no difficulty deciphering what she was up to.

"Not daisies?" she said, fluttering her lashes at him.

Another trick, well-done, but obvious.
"Well, you did ask."

"Do you want to kiss me?"

That caught his attention. "Beg pardon?" he asked, trying not to choke. Another glassful of the sweet wine had vanished.

"I would let you, if you wanted to kiss me."

Surprisingly enough, he hadn't ever thought about kissing her. Once they were married, he would have to do it on occasion, he supposed, along with other, more intimate acts, but... He looked at her for a long moment. Sex had always been a pleasurable act, with whomever he chose to indulge. Lately, however, he'd
been craving a particular, rare dish—one he'd tasted only once before. And it wasn't Amelia. "Kissing you wouldn't be proper."

"But I want you to like me, Tristan."

"I do like you, Amelia. Kissing isn't necessary. Just enjoy your pheasant."

"But I would if you wanted me to. You're very handsome, you know, and a viscount."

Good God, Georgiana had never been this naive, even at eighteen. If he wanted to secure a marriage with Amelia, he could probably topple her over and lift her skirts right there in the middle of Regent's Park, and she wouldn't even complain. Georgiana would gut him with the carving knife and pitch his remains into the duck pond.

He chuckled,
then
cleared his throat when Amelia looked at him.
"Apologies.
And thank you. You're exceptionally lovely, my dear."

"I always try to look my best."

"And why is that?"

"To attract a husband, of course.
That's what women are for. The ones who take the most care to look their best are the ones who make a match."

That was interesting, in a horrifying sort of way. "So the women who aren't married are
.. ."

"Not trying hard enough, or are of inferior quality."

"What if a female chooses not to marry?" Despite the insult to his happily
spinstered
aunties, he was actually thinking of Georgiana. She certainly wasn't of inferior quality, and the idea that she would attempt to
attract a husband because that's what women were for—well, that was laughable.

"Chooses
not to marry? That's absurd."

"My aunts are unmarried, you know."

"Well, they are very old," she said, biting into her peach.

"I suppose they are," he agreed, mostly because the idea of attempting an argument with her was absurd. He would have more luck disagreeing with a turnip.

He hadn't used to find her this dull and simpering. And the reason for the change was obvious.
Georgiana.
He hadn't been able to get her out of his thoughts in days, and now he was comparing every bit of inane conversation he had with poor Amelia to the stimulating t
ê
te
-
à
-t
ê
tes
he engaged in with
Georgie
.

The problem, though, remained the same. He needed to marry an heiress, before fall harvest. If he didn't, he would have to begin selling off
unentailed
bits of his land, and he refused to finance his present with his descendants' futures. Georgiana was an heiress, and definitely more interesting than any of the other wealthy chits he'd cultivated. She, however, hated him.

The idea remained intriguing, nonetheless. He didn't hate
her;
in fact, the heated desire that ran through him every time he set eyes on her was becoming difficult to hide. She had softened a little toward him, but he couldn't afford to wait more than another three or four months.

"Tristan?"

He shook himself. "Yes?"

"I didn't mean to say that your aunts are inferior. I'm sure they're very nice."

"Yes, they are."

"Sometimes, I think that maybe I should be cross with you, you know."