My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One

by Amy Rose Bennett

  He held his breath, waiting for Minerva to respond. But when she didn’t, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. Glancing down, he could see her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady. Fanning gently across his chest, it was a novel sensation. He’d never fallen asleep with a lover in his arms before. It was... unexpectedly pleasant.

  Heartwarming...

  As far as he knew, they’d only planned on spending this one night together, but did Minerva now want more from him? Did she want to take him as a lover? Perhaps she even viewed him as a potential husband.

  His chest tightened. The question was, did he want more? He’d determined long ago that the carefree life of a bachelor suited him very well. He’d certainly never wanted to take a young, silly debutante to wife. But Minerva was so very different. So much more than that.

  He sighed and wound one of her silky auburn curls around his finger. He wasn’t sure about anything. He cared for Minerva. He desired her. They were firm friends. But he needed time to sort through his feelings about all this.

  He didn’t want to promise this very special woman the world if he wasn’t capable of giving it to her. She’d already endured one less than satisfying marriage. And while this night of shared passion had been outstanding, it would be arrogant of him to think it meant something more than ‘sport’ to Minerva. He had no right to lay claim to her, to tell her what to do with her life. She could have sexual intercourse with whomever she wanted to.

  She could give her heart to whomever she wanted.

  He shouldn’t presume too much.

  Chapter 8

  Fellows House, Russell Square, London

  13th February, 1819

  * * *

  “My brother is an ass,” declared Julia as she passed Minerva a cup of steaming tea. “The king of asses actually.” Her blues eyes, so like Tristan’s, flashed with indignation. “And the pun is intended.”

  They were sitting in the drawing room of Fellows House before a crackling fire. As it was a bitterly cold February day, Minerva was also grateful for the warmth of the porcelain teacup as it penetrated her icy fingers.

  Though it was a pity a cheerful fire, a lovely cup of tea, and her friend’s dig at her own brother couldn’t penetrate her somber mood.

  Minerva sipped her tea before placing it carefully on the mahogany table. “I won’t disagree,” she said softly. It had been almost six weeks since she’d last seen Tristan and she’d been in an agonizing state of limbo ever since. Of course, she was partly to blame too.

  On Twelfth Night, when Tristan had hinted that perhaps she might like to explore sexual congress with other people, her heart had almost split in two. She’d feigned sleep, pretending she hadn’t heard because her throat had been tight with tears and she hadn’t trusted herself to speak. But the implication of his words had been abundantly clear—he’d been pushing her away because he didn’t want to give up his rakish ways. He didn’t want to be tied to one lover. They’d had their fun but now they were done.

  She’d known Tristan for so long, it shouldn’t have surprised her. But that didn’t mean his rejection hadn’t hurt.

  In fact, it still did. She hadn’t been able to hide her melancholia from Julia. As soon as Tristan’s sister had seen her after Twelfth Night, she’d cornered Minerva, demanding to know what was wrong. When Minerva had refused to say why—she didn’t feel confortable telling Julia all about her amorous carriage encounter with Tristan, or how wicked they’d been on Twelfth Night—Julia had admitted she’d observed their passionate kiss beneath the mistletoe on Christmas Eve. So it was no wonder Minerva was upset by Tristan’s neglect.

  “My brother should be courting you, not ignoring you,” Julia asserted. “And I intend to give him a push in the right direction when he returns to Town.”

  After their night at Emberfield House, Tristan had arranged a carriage to take Minerva back to the White Swan Inn before dawn. “So your servants won’t remark upon your absence,” he’d explained. He hadn’t mentioned his plans for the coming days or weeks, or asked Minerva about her plans as he’d escorted her to the waiting coach. And she hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic either. Everything had been awkward and wretched. And then, when Julia had informed her that he’d quit Town for his country estate, Ashwood Park, Minerva had secretly despaired their brief affair had destroyed their friendship for good.

  Julia offered her a plate of delicate biscuits, but Minerva politely declined.

  “My poor friend,” said Julia as she chose a ginger biscuit for herself. “I’ve never seen you without an appetite before. Blast Tristan and his ghastly behavior.” She nibbled at her biscuit but then pulled a face and discarded it. “Though hopefully tomorrow night he’ll come to his senses. Is your new ball gown ready?”

  “Yes. The modiste had it delivered yesterday.”

  Julia was throwing a Saint Valentine’s soirée with the sole intention of matchmaking. Tristan, as well as several other eligible ton bachelors, had been invited. Men who would give Tristan a good run for his money, and with any luck, make him jealous—at least that was Julia’s plan anyway. Of course, Minerva didn’t think that was very likely and she really didn’t feel like going. It was bound to be an uncomfortable, strained evening in which she wouldn’t know what to do or say in Tristan’s presence. But nevertheless, she would attend to please her friend.

  “Oh, Min.” Julia reached out and squeezed Minerva’s hand. “I hate seeing you so glum. Tristan does care for you. I know he does. He’s just being a cloth-headed clodpole who’s too set in his ways. But we’ll give him a good nudge, you mark my words. After all, he’s thirty-four years old and it’s about time he settled down and started a family with someone as wonderful as you.”

  Minerva smiled at that. “I think you’re a tad biased.”

  “Perhaps I am. But I’m not wrong.” Julia picked up her biscuit again but then her countenance visibly paled. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, placing a hand over her belly.

  Alarm spiked through Minerva. “Are you all right?”

  Julia placed her fingers against her lips and nodded. Color suffused her cheeks and her blue gaze shimmered with tears. Tears of happiness.

  “Are you... are you with child, Julia?” Minerva whispered.

  Julia nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am. I’ve been dying to tell you. For several weeks now, but I wanted to make absolutely certain before I shared the good news.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Minerva joined Julia on the settee and threw her arms around her friend in a warm hug. “I’m so happy for you. Edward must be overjoyed.”

  “He is.”

  “Does... does Tristan know?”

  Pushing a dark curl away from her flushed cheek, Julia smiled softly. “I’m telling him later today. He’s dropping by to see Edward about some boring business matter. I’m hoping the news will make him start thinking about marriage and becoming a father himself.”

  Minerva forced a smile even as sadness squeezed her heart. She’d been married to David for five years and to her great disappointment, had never fallen pregnant. Perhaps that was part of the reason Tristan was reluctant to take things further with her. She suspected she was barren and Tristan probably thought that too. They’d hadn’t discussed taking measures to prevent conception on Twelfth Night. And her courses—which had always been as regular as clockwork—had arrived at the end of January.

  If Tristan wanted to wed and become a father one day, she clearly wasn’t the woman he needed. Perhaps she should at least try to flirt with some of the other bachelors Julia had invited to the soirée. There really was no reason at all to prevent her from taking another lover... except for one very inconvenient fact: she only wanted Sir Tristan King.

  Fellows House, Russell Square, London

  Saint Valentine’s Day, 1819

  * * *

  “I can’t believe we haven’t met before tonight, Lady Harlow. And I have an excellent memory for faces, especially when a lady possesses
a countenance as beautiful as yours.”

  When Minerva smiled back at Lord Skene and offered a murmured thanks, Tristan had to suppress the deranged impulse to plant a punch in the middle of the Scottish earl’s smug visage. Skene might be his friend, but the man was one of the dirtiest dogs he knew and he had no idea why Edward and Julia had invited him to this Saint Valentine’s soirée.

  Of course, bloody Skene’s assessment was perfectly accurate. And Tristan well knew that flirting with just about any member of the fairer sex was second nature to the brutishly good-looking, flame-haired Scot. But tonight he was flirting with Minerva. And Tristan didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  The party of around thirty guests was currently assembled in the crowded drawing room of Fellows House, waiting for dinner to be announced. Despite the crush, Tristan hadn’t missed the moment Skene had aimed a blatantly appreciative glance at Minerva’s splendid bosom. It was true her low-cut bodice of amber satin displayed the full, creamy mounds to perfection. And a fat, glossy-as-mahogany sausage curl fell over her shoulder, drawing further attention to her cleavage. But that didn’t mean Skene had the right to ogle her.

  Tristan sighed heavily and tossed back his glass of brandy. He didn’t have the right to look at her that way either. They’d had their dalliance and now it was over. He’d come to that conclusion during his time away. Yes, it was all for the best if they ended things sooner rather than later. Before emotions intensified. Before he somehow failed to meet Minerva’s expectations because he wasn’t the marrying kind. Before whatever was left of their friendship was completely ruined.

  He’d told himself on Twelfth Night, and in the weeks since, that Minerva should be free to invite whomever she wanted into her bed. Or seek another husband if she so desired. So why did he feel so chagrined that she was now openly exploring her options? He wanted her to find happiness. To be fulfilled in every way imaginable.

  Didn’t he?

  He accepted another glass of brandy from a passing footman and turned away from Skene and Minerva. It wasn’t like him to be this territorial about a woman. Clearly, their brief Christmastide affair had affected him more than he’d thought.

  Which was a bloody understatement. If he were honest with himself, it had affected him a great deal but he’d been too blind and stupid to acknowledge it until now. He’d thought of Minerva every hour of every single day since he’d bid her farewell in the cold gray dawn at Emberfield House. He’d missed her. No, it was more than that, he’d been pining for her. And when he’d arrived here tonight, his heart had leapt at the glorious sight of her.

  However, he’d barely said two words to Minerva before Julia had whisked her away to introduce her to Skene. He frowned into his brandy. Was his sister up to something?

  He didn’t think Minerva had told her about their trysts. If she had, Julia would have hauled him over the coals for it by now.

  The dinner bell rang and he scowled as Skene offered Minerva his arm to escort her into dinner. It was entirely appropriate. After all, Skene was an earl and she was a countess. But that didn’t mean he, Tristan, had to be happy about it.

  Julia touched his arm. “Tristan, will you escort Edward’s sister in? Mary’s waiting by the fireplace.”

  Tristan discarded his brandy glass and tugged at the cuffs of his black evening jacket. “What are you playing at Julia?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” She blinked at him, her face a picture of innocence.

  He thrust his chin Skene’s way. “You know very well. You’re trying to matchmake. Find someone for Minerva. Don’t think I haven’t noticed at least half a dozen other bachelors here. Or the particular attention Lord Skene is paying to her.”

  Julia arched a dark brow. “And so what if I am playing matchmaker, Tristan? You haven’t any claim on Minerva. Why shouldn’t she find another husband?” She lowered her voice as she continued, “Or even take a lover? It’s been two years since David passed away.”

  “I know that Julia,” fired back Tristan. “But Skene is entirely unsuitable.”

  Julia touched his arm. Her blue eyes softened. “Let her have some fun, Tristan. She’s been utterly miserable for weeks. Ever since you left Town after Twelfth Night. It’s wonderful to see a gentleman paying her court. And to see her smiling.”

  Minerva had been miserable? Tristan frowned. After I left Town ... He wanted to quiz his sister further, but her husband claimed her to lead the guests into the dining room. Sliding a charming smile into place, he approached Lady Mary Fellows and offered his arm, which she readily accepted with a shy smile.

  Dinner proved to be an interminable affair. While Lady Mary and his other neighbor, a widow by the name of Mrs. Ellis, both proved to be pleasant company, Tristan’s attention kept straying to Minerva and Skene on the opposite side of the table. Suffering a bout of jealousy—he now recognized the toxic emotion roiling though his guts like acid—was not conducive to eating, drinking, or enjoying oneself in the slightest.

  Even though Minerva appeared to be having a good time, Tristan thought he detected a certain brittleness about her too. Her smiles seemed forced rather natural and there were shadows of fatigue beneath her brown eyes. Her countenance was pale and drawn; he suspected she might have lost weight.

  She’s been utterly miserable for weeks. Guilt sharper than a bayonet’s blade sliced through Tristan’s heart. He hated to think he might have caused Minerva’s unhappiness.

  But what if he had? What if... what if she’d wanted him to pursue her and all this time he’d been completely ignoring her for pathetic, misguided reasons which no longer made any sense to him. He’d been hopelessly rudderless and prevaricating about his feelings—no hiding from his feelings like a base coward—for far too long. Seeing Minerva with Skene tonight had suddenly made everything crystal clear. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being with anyone else.

  He wanted her, and her alone, in his bed, forever. The question was, did Minerva feel the same way?

  He would damn well find out before this night was through.

  “Minerva, I need to speak with you. In private. It can’t wait.”

  Putting down her hand of cards, Minerva glanced at her partner, Lord Skene before looking up into Tristan’s tense features. His manner was urgent and the growl lacing his voice called to mind the distant rumble of thunder. Indeed, he’d been hovering about the edges of the room like a dark storm cloud—sending glowering looks at her and the Scottish earl—all night.

  Was Julia’s plan working? Was Tristan jealous? She’d never seen him in this mood before.

  She gave Lord Skene an apologetic smile. “Would you mind terribly if we ended our game prematurely?”

  Skene’s wide mouth tipped into a roguish smile. “Not at all, my lady. I’m a terrible piquet player—I haven’t an inkling of the strategy involved—and Sir Tristan here knows it. I suspect he’s saving me from a right-royal trouncing.”

  Minerva bit back a smile. Lord Skene was a charming character and ruggedly handsome, but she didn’t feel comfortable flirting with him, right under Tristan’s nose. Instead, she tilted her head and said, “Thank you for your understanding, my lord.”

  Tristan’s grip on her elbow was firm and uncompromising as he escorted her from the card parlor adjoining the drawing room. Julia, who was seated by the fire with some of the other ladies of the party, shot her a curious look then a knowing smile as they rushed by. But Tristan didn’t seem to notice.

  Breathless with nerves, excitement, and the rapid pace Tristan had set, she stammered, “Where... where are we going?” as they traversed the entry hall. Garlands of bright crimson roses now hung from the chandelier instead of mistletoe. Minerva caught their heady scent—made stronger by the heat of the candles—as they passed beneath.

  “In here.” Tristan ushered her into Julia’s small parlor-cum-music room, which was adjacent to the library at the back of the house. It was quiet here. The hubbub of the soirée was but a distant murmur and the only other sou
nd—apart from the wild beating of Minerva’s heart—was the crackle of the fire.

  She crossed the thick Turkish carpet to take up a position between Julia’s pianoforte and the hearth; she was too unsettled to sit. Her curiosity burned brighter than the orange-gold flames leaping in the grate. “Is something wrong?” she asked as Tristan turned the key to lock the door. “You seem so serious. Not like yourself.”

  Tristan turned to face her. He didn’t look as ferocious as he had before in the card room, and some of the tension left Minerva’s body. Nevertheless, he was studying her with an intentness which suggested he wasn’t in the mood for games.

  “I could ask you the same question,” he said as he moved to the other side of the fireplace and rested his arm upon the mantel. “And make the same observation.”

  “I...” Minerva had no idea what to say. She dropped her gaze to the toes of his black leather shoes to avoid his penetrating gaze. To hide the tears suddenly brimming in her eyes.

  How could she possibly put into words how much she’d missed him? That she’d cried herself to sleep night after night for at least a month. That she was angry with him for ignoring her for so long after their magnificent night together.

  That her heart ached for him, her friend, and the only lover she’d ever want.

  That she loved him and wanted to tell him.

  But she was afraid...

  Swallowing hard against the lump of emotion jamming her throat, she murmured, “It’s true I’ve been a little out of sorts lately. Though I’ve been having a lovely time this evening.” She hazarded a glance at his face. “Have you?”