by Tracy Sumner
“I’d never have stood by while she married Ridley, Tris. I’d only heard about the arrangement myself. The chit made an impulsive decision, the bills at Longleat piling up even worse than I’d imagined. My fault completely. Love took my eye off the ball, my race to the altar being about as tricky as yours is proving to be. I would have found a way to prop the estate up. I will. I’m not expecting you to step in.”
“Longleat is as much my home as hers, in my heart anyway. I want to save it. You can’t help what your father did. His gambling ruined the family. You were a boy, nothing you could have done to stop him.” He cut a sharp glance from the corner of his eye. “However, I’m not the only prideful one, although Camille tops me by miles. I don’t want her to marry me for the Mercer fortune, which is substantial, I admit. Even if she turns me down, you and I will figure this out. My solicitors are researching a new business venture, which will mean going into trade, a blasphemy to the ton, I know. You’d be cut because of it, marquess or no, but you’ll never have to worry about blunt again.” Coughing lightly to cover his discomfiture, Tristan shrugged. “We’re partners is what I’m trying to say, even if Camille breaks my bloody heart.”
Edward peeled out of his slouch, brandy flecking his crisp, white cuff. “You haven’t asked her yet? Oh, this is a fine fiddle. I assumed a graceless proposal was the problem.”
Tristan released an affronted snort. “Not to divulge too much about private matters, but she ran away before I could.”
Edward’s mouth opened, advice Tristan didn’t want to hear set to tumble out when they were fortuitously interrupted.
“Rutherford, about your sister—” The man, a corpulent baron who imagined himself an academic, stumbled to a halt in the doorway. Tristan had met him on two occasions and had come away from both unimpressed. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t know you were entertaining. Evening, Your Grace.”
Tristan tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Quigley.”
The baron shifted from one foot to the other. Tristan had been told he had an unnerving way of staring at people, which he often used to his advantage. “Let me leave you two to your talk. I’ll send a note around, arrange a time. What say you, Rutherford?”
Tristan shot an exploratory glance at Edward, catching his startled expression, the fingers tapping a jumpy rhythm on his knee, and decided to play the game. After all, his friend had wanted a spot of fun, hadn’t he? “Oh, my no, Quigley. I’m a family acquaintance of long-standing. You can speak in front of me.” Rising to his feet, Tristan strode to the sideboard, poured a liberal measure, and offered it to the baron. No one in society would turn down a drink from a duke.
Not when the duke rarely offered.
“Now that you ask, I think I will sink in for a little chinwag,” Quigley said and dragged a threadbare chair Tristan hoped would hold him into their circle.
Tristan reclaimed his seat and gestured to Quigley. “You were saying, about Lady Bellington…” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Edward deflate like a balloon pricked by a barb, sliding low in his chair as he drained his glass.
“I can’t allow her to speak at the botanical society meeting, Rutherford, I simply can’t. You understand I’m sure.” Quigley misinterpreted Edward’s groan as directed at him when it was likely meant to describe the general situation the marquess found himself in. “She’s been writing to us for two years as this C.E. Bellington fellow. Lots of marvelous information on ways to fertilize azaleas and calm acute oak decline. This latest variety of plum is news the entire botanical world must hear. But, and this is the kicker, who’d imagine an intelligent bloke like that to be…to be a woman?”
Tristan sipped slowly, the fury that had frequently bitten him on the battlefield nipping at the base of his spine. “A female botanist. Quite remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Absurd is what it is,” Quigley said around a smacking swallow.
Edward whispered an oath and hung his hands between his legs, staring at them rather than joining the conversation.
Tristan let the mantel clock tick off ten seconds before speaking. “I think it’s fascinating. Charming. Courageous. Like the lady.”
Quigley paused, the tense undercurrent in the room finally piercing his awareness. “What’s it to you, Mercer?”
“Ah, well”—Tristan balanced his glass on his belly and steepled his fingers atop the crystal—“it means quite a lot to me actually. The world, as it were.”
Quigley’s blotchy cheeks expanded with his breath. “Fancy bluestockings? No idea. Thought you were into actresses.”
Tristan clenched his jaw and listened to the clock tick, half a minute this time. “I’m a benefactor of the National History Museum, Quigley, did you know? The events we’ve attended there over the years ring a bell? Your society, my funds. Botanical prints are rather expensive, as I recall. When most in the ton aren’t able to afford the expense. To put it tastelessly, I would hate for your group to lose the opportunity to acquire them.”
Quigley blustered and rocked forward in his chair. It squeaked and swayed but held steady. “The botanical illustration collection? But we’ve found a new print by an artist in Wales that is easily the best rendition of an ophrys apifera you’ve ever seen.”
“I do not doubt as I’ve seen none.” Tristan pulled a thread from his sleeve and flicked it to the floor. “Is this spectacular Welsh artist willing to donate his work, by any chance?”
Quigley swallowed, his jaw clenching as he started to get the picture. “Well, in fact, no.”
“Excellent! A fine businessman your artiste in addition to being a creative genius. We’re agreed then.” Tristan sat up and held out his hand to seal the deal, an American tradition he planned to start regularly employing because his countrymen disliked it so much.
Quigley set his glass on the table with a click but kept his hand in his lap like Tristan had threatened to sever it at the wrist. “Agreed to what exactly?”
“You let C. E. Bellington speak at your esteemed society meetings any time she feels the need, and I continue to underwrite paintings of carrot roots and sunflowers and the like.” Tristan experienced the strangest surge of happiness as the next words rolled from his lips, proving he was, indeed, desperately in love. “Your venerated society certainly wouldn’t take part in rebuffing a duchess. My duchess.”
“She’s going to kill you,” Edward muttered behind the fist he dragged across his mouth.
Quigley collapsed in his chair, astonishment evident in face and form. “What is England coming to when a duke chooses an intellectual? A woman who reads actual books. Not novels, mind you, but science texts. And writes articles fit for an Oxford professor. Society is crumbling, frankly decaying around us. They’re going to take over. This is what you’re setting in motion, Mercer. Women ruling the world.” He reclaimed his glass and knocked it back, a crimson drop running down his chin and bleeding into his crumpled collar. “My God, her needlework is probably horrific. You’ll have no uplifting quoted cushions scattered about, that’s my verdict.”
Tristan looked to Edward, who shook his head sadly.
“Cheer up, Quigley. She can’t sew a stitch, play the pianoforte or paint adequate landscapes, true.” Tristan’s smile was swift and sharp. “But those plums are the bloody best you’ve ever tasted in your life.”
Chapter 8
Where a besotted duke gets an earful.
Camille shifted the note she’d received an hour prior into the murky light cast from Edward’s carriage lamp and read it for the hundredth time.
…the society would be delighted to discuss the new species of plum tree…please contact us to arrange a time at your earliest convenience…
And the closing line, one seizing her insides until she struggled for lucidity.
Congratulations on your engagement to the Duke of Mercer.
Camille forced the air trapped in her lungs into the frigid London evening and rapped on the trap to tell the coachman to pick up the pace.
&nbs
p; Murder would not be good enough when she got her hands on him.
And once she was done with Tristan, she was going after her brother. He’d commented, very subtly over kippers and toast, about running into Tristan at White’s.
Oh, both the men she loved were going to pay.
The streets were a catastrophe, filled with hordes preparing for a holiday a mere five days away. The scent of cinnamon and gingerbread wafting from the shops drifted through a crack in the carriage’s window, overriding the stink of burning coal and river blight, a careless delight Camille would have otherwise taken great pleasure in. As it was, keeping the furious crimson haze from spilling out of her soul and staining the city’s cobblestones was taking every fiber of her being.
She scrambled from the carriage when it halted before Tierney House, ignoring the coachman’s offer of assistance, splattering the hem of her gown and ruining her slippers as she landed in an icy puddle. She cursed and took the front stairs like a madwoman, snow coloring the night in a wistful, white mist. Then she did something she’d never done or considered doing and rushed into a private residence without knocking.
Tristan’s majordomo caught her before she’d made it three steps, his startled gasp echoing off the exquisite walnut lining the vestibule. “Not another one,” he huffed and reached for her arm, the ring of keys in his hand jangling.
Camille pulled to a stop, wrenching out of his hold. “Another one?” she said in horror. Oh, oh, Tristan Fitzhugh Tierney was a dead duke. “Where is he?”
“Madam, please, I realize as an actress you must emote but calm yourself.” He smoothed his hand down a severely tailored lapel and pulled himself to his full height, which brought him eye-level with Camille. “My name is Brixworth, and whatever Your Grace has done, we can correct. If you’ll only retire to the parlor to your right, I’ll bring—”
“I’m not giving your employer one additional ducal second to prepare for this meeting, Brixworth,” Camille returned and marched down the hallway. Paintings of the Tierney ancestors lined the walls, aristocratic disdain shadowing her step as the scent of woodsmoke and sandalwood guided her.
The study door was open. A cozy space bathed in amber housing floor-to-ceiling bookcases and exceptional works of art. And Tristan. Sprawled in a leather armchair perfectly suited to his long, lean body, a stack of letters and a glass on the table beside him, his legs crossed at the ankle and going on for miles. He appeared every inch a formidable aristocrat at his leisure, clothing rumpled but first-rate, hair mussed, jaw shadowed just enough to make him look dangerous.
His gaze lifted to hers and the flash of absolute joy on his face pierced her like a splinter.
Stomping forward, she balled up the botanical society’s letter and tossed the crumpled parchment in his face. “The botanical society is congratulating me on my engagement!”
He didn’t pretend to miss her meaning, a lazy smile drifting across his face. His emerald eyes glowed as he stared up at her, damn him. “You saved me a trip to Edward’s. How fortuitous.”
“You arrogant boor, you controlling beast!”
“Damn, did I miss you,” Tristan said, and before she could blink, yanked her into his lap. For one weak instant, she sank into his hard body, then she stiffened and wrenched back.
“Your Grace,” Brixworth sputtered in dismay from the doorway. “I warned you about the dramatic ones. Much cannot be left on the stage.”
“Let me up,” Camille breathed, struggling to gain her footing, “and I’ll show him dramatic.”
Sliding his hand around her neck, Tristan closed the scant distance between them, pressing his lips to hers as Brixworth coughed and shuffled behind them. A gentle touch but one with enough persuasion to bring her thrashing to an abrupt halt. “I love you,” he whispered for her alone. “I would have told you, bathed you in adoration, if you hadn’t run away from me after what was the most magical night of my life.”
Abruptly, and uncharacteristically, Camille dropped her face to his shoulder and burst into tears. She hadn’t slept more than two hours in days, and this muddle was the last straw. His body shifted beneath her as he waved Brixworth away, the door closing behind the majordomo. With a sigh, Tristan gave up any pretense of propriety and pulled her against his broad chest.
“What is this,” he murmured into her hair. “Botanists don’t cry. Upsets the plants, don’t you know.”
She sniffled. “Well, apparently actresses do. Your…”—she swallowed back a sob and dug her cheek into his fine woolen coat—“favorite.”
He exhaled, the sound pained. “There was one, long ago, as you and the rest of England know. Before the war, before I knew what I wanted, what I needed. It’s so trite a comment to make, and a typically masculine one, I realize, but it meant nothing, means nothing.” His arms tensed around her, his passionate speech stealing in and nicking her ire. “There isn’t anyone else in my mind or my heart. You’re the only woman, no matter what you decide, I will ever ask to be my duchess. I swear this to you. C.E. Bellington, botanist and swan tormentor, you are my life. I want you, every part of you. I want a family, a future. I think I always have. I just had to find the courage to admit it.”
She lifted her head, her watery gaze finding his. “You forced the society’s hand. When maybe I needed to do this on my own. When I wanted to do it on my own.” Bracing her arm on his chest, his scattered heartbeat flowed through her fingertips and up her arm. “How can I stay mad at you when you say all these lovely things and you know I’ve loved you forever? Wanted you even longer.”
His smile was bashful, and he ducked his head with a short, sharp shrug to hide it. “I did force their hand, the imbeciles. I’m a scoundrel, but it felt wonderful. Isn’t this damned title worth anything? Am I not allowed to barter it to buy what I want from time to time? Consider it my ham-fisted wedding present to you. A thousand future discussions with the oh-so-tedious botanical society delegate. They’ll love you because decision-making over where our funds go now rests in your capable hands. Quigley won’t argue, not when he wants a new drawing of some bloody plant.”
She closed her eyes, unable to look in the face of the man she’d cherished her entire life and reasonably puzzle this out. He was placing societal power, power she’d never considered having, in her lap.
“You could be pregnant,” he whispered after a charged silence.
“So that’s it,” she said with a sinking heart, another round of tears stinging the back of her eyes. Perhaps she was, although it was too soon to know. She’d been overly emotional since their night of lovemaking. Probably just what love did to twist one’s sanity in a knot.
“No, that’s not it.” Tristan cursed and gave her a shake. “I love you. That’s it. Isn’t love more than enough? I’m sorry you can’t have what you deserve, Princess. Respect for your intelligence, the highest regard for your knowledge, a place in the botanical world you are given because you’ve earned it, because you’re gifted. Society doesn’t, as yet, allow this for women. You’ll have to settle for the love of a man who can move mountains, willingly, for you.” He whisked his thumb over her cheek, her lips, following the caress with his mouth. “Invite me into your life, because I so want to be there.”
The kiss was molten, rich, permeating to her bones. His hand traveled a now-familiar path, awakening each part of her body he touched. The sound of ice pinging the windowpane and the crackle of the hearthfire receded until they were alone, the world no bigger than this small space in a Mayfair townhouse. His body reacted, his sex lengthening beneath her bottom. Unable to arrest the impulse, she wriggled against him with a ragged sigh.
“Maybe you don’t need me,” he breathed against her lips, “ but maybe you want me. Even if you shouldn’t. Let’s start there, because I want you. Which I definitely should.”
Camille dropped her brow to his and felt love tear down the walls she’d placed around her heart.
For one rushed second, before the deal was done, she imagined a futur
e without Tristan. The decision—yes—was simple when she registered the dreadful feeling engulfing her.
She couldn’t live without him.
“You can keep yourself and have me, too. I’m not asking you to fade into me and lose what makes you you.” Tristan trailed his finger down her cheek, her jaw, and into the neckline of her bodice. Her nipples strained, begging for release. He wasn’t fighting fairly, but then again, she didn’t want him to. “No more chasing a duke is required. Unless you’d like to catch him.”
Camille smiled and seized his lips beneath hers, deciding that was a promise she meant to make her devilish duke keep.
Epilogue
Where a duke and duchess get a happy ending.
Tierney Hall, North Yorkshire
Three years later
Camille tiptoed into the darkened bedchamber, her breath suspended. The room was bathed in milky light and was, remarkably, divinely silent. Dusting potting soil from her fingertips, she approached the bed, and her heart, as it often did, dropped to her knees.
The duke and his heir were fast asleep. Lying on their sides facing each other, chests rising and falling in an exhausted tempo. Tristan’s arm was secured solidly around their son’s tiny waist to keep him from rolling off the bed. They’d managed to wear each other out if the books and toys scattered across the space were any indication.
She perched on the edge of the mattress and brushed a lock of hair the exact color of Tristan’s, right down to the amber tips, from her son’s cheek. Except for the nose he’d inherited from her, and possibly his stubborn little chin, he looked exactly, astoundingly, like his father.
Oh, Tris, she thought in gratitude and love.
She’d not known a man could be such a carefree father, could cherish a child with such intensity. When they’d found out she was pregnant a month after their wedding, she hadn’t expected Tristan to be so engaged. So elated. In the ton, it simply wasn’t done. Her father had barely paid attention to her or her brother—and he’d never seemed happy about having children. Yet, Tristan was so involved she’d found time to research a stouter species of English rose, record data on the growth of her Sussex plum and consult on the construction of a new conservatory at Tierney Hall. They had help, obviously, a large staff, but Tristan preferred to do much with and for Ethan himself.
