The Skilled Seduction

by Tracy Goodwin

  Tristan guffawed.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, have you no artistic abilities?” Victoria grabbed the sketchpad from him then tilted it at an angle. “See?” She pointed to a section of the drawing. “That is a beak.”

  “Upon which species?” he teased.

  Victoria noticed that his dimples deepened when he was teasing her. She had never before observed such a response and the realization made her knees weak.

  “It is our niece’s interpretation,” she countered. “Emma told me so herself.”

  “Ah,” Tristan snapped his fingers. “Now it makes sense. The artist helped you decipher her drawing. Have you no artistic abilities, Lady Victoria?” he added with a wink.

  Tori dared not move, nor speak. How could she when Tristan was flirting with her, his smoky gaze now dark with desire? She’d seen that expression before, each time he had kissed her.

  Did he want to kiss her again?

  Tori’s inner voice warned that it was her overactive imagination. Just when she had convinced herself of it, Tristan reached for her cheek, her skin prickling under his warm caress.

  “You have a smudge,” Tristan murmured. “Charcoal, I believe.”

  Not the words she hoped to hear.

  Deliberately avoiding eye contact with him, Victoria instead accepted his handkerchief and concentrated on wiping her hands in an attempt to rid herself of the substance before she further marred her features.

  Though she expected him to distance himself from her, he did not. Instead, Tristan’s hand stilled, his palm flattening against her cheek. His hands were softer than she remembered, his touch more gentle.

  “How is it you can look captivating even when you are smudged with charcoal?” his baritone was smooth and seductive, rich with emotion.

  Victoria studied the chiseled visage that she loved to distraction. She hadn’t done so in a long time for fear of being too obvious but now, at this moment, Victoria indulged.

  God, he was perfection. He exuded strength, yet there was a vulnerability to him. His jaw was firm, yet softened by his full lips, the corners of which curved into the slightest hint of a smile causing his dimples to become more pronounced.

  Tristan was also tanned, she noted, remembering her comment to him about Oliver being more bronzed from his time outdoors. Not anymore. The change made Tristan’s features appear more chiseled, more hardened, with the exception of his eyes.

  Perhaps it was because of his bronzed skin or the bright sunshine but Tristan’s eyes were no longer his usual mahogany. They were more of a dark topaz, exuding warmth and …

  Desire.

  Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. He wanted to kiss her! She could see it in his eyes. They reflected his happiness, sadness, his passion and were now ablaze with desire.

  Within the depths of his hooded expression, she suspected that Tristan was going to kiss her.

  He leaned closer, his lips parted ever so slightly. His mouth was so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath against her own.

  Happiness surged through her core as Victoria closed her eyes, prepared for his mouth to capture hers in a soul-joining kiss, having waited for what seemed like forever for this very moment.

  “Auntie Tori, Uncle Tristy,” Nicholas called to them, pride emanating from every syllable.

  Tristan released her so quickly that one might have suspected that his flesh had been seared with a branding iron. Victoria thought she would die of disappointment, right then and there, as she searched his eyes for a spark of what had almost happened between them. There was no such sign, his expression now aloof.

  Her heart, sated mere moments before, threatened to break. Tristan was gone, out of her reach in a matter of seconds.

  Inhaling deeply, Victoria made a valiant attempt not to lose hope. After all, Tristan was attracted to her and he did almost kiss her. Unquestionably, she was closer to her goal this day than last week, or even last year.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  She just needed to encourage him that she wanted the same thing, more than anything else in the world.

  “We named pony,” Emma tugged at her aunt’s skirts and Victoria welcomed the distraction, scooping the child into her arms.

  “What is the magnificent pony’s name?” Victoria asked, her voice light and cheerful as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  It grated on Tristan’s frayed nerves.

  Had she no idea what almost happened? He vowed long ago never to allow himself to be vulnerable, to be hurt ever again, and there he stood about to jump head first into a situation that could best be described as complicated.

  Tristan couldn’t kiss her again. If he were to do so, what would happen next? Since he couldn’t allow Victoria to get close enough to uncover the secrets he took great pains to keep unearthed, Tristan would break her heart – the one thing he refused to abide.

  Nicholas giggled, stirring Tristan from his inner battle. He turned, granting his nephew undivided attention.

  “I’m sorry, you named him what?” he asked the young man.

  “Errol,” Nicholas answered, his chest puffed with pride.

  Errol. Not the name Tristan had expected. He tilted his head to the side. “How did you decide upon that name?”

  Nicholas shrugged as his sister’s laughter floated in the light breeze. Tristan turned towards Emma and, the instant he did so, wished he had not. She was in Tori’s arms, looking cute as can be and Victoria – well, she took his breath away. She looked radiant, but then again she always did. However, it was more than that. She looked blissful, as if she were born to be a mother.

  Since Victoria seemed oblivious to his attention, Tristan continued to study her as she leaned her forehead against Emma’s, whispering something only the little girl could hear. Emma pealed with laughter and a tight knot constricted in Tristan’s abdomen.

  What in bloody hell was wrong with him?

  There was no place in his life for him to behave like a lovesick fool. No, he longed for safety and that meant steering clear of romantic nonsense.

  Tori placed Emma on the ground and Tristan’s attention followed the little girl as she skipped over to a bush and began plucking fistfuls of leaves.

  It wasn’t until his pulse began to slow that he studied Victoria’s profile one last time.

  Once again, he wanted to kiss her. In truth, he wanted to do so much more. Christ, here he stood with his niece and nephew in close proximity, visualizing the many ways he could defile their aunt! Tristan had no idea what was causing this surge of romanticism, however, he was desperate to escape it.

  He marched towards Nicholas’s pony. Yes, that was his excuse. He’d take Earl back to the stables. Or was it Erwin?

  “Nicholas loves Errol,” Victoria interrupted his silent torment.

  Errol! Yes, that was it. Tristan’s initial happiness at knowing the animal’s name was replaced by trepidation because Victoria was staring at him, her eyes all but searing his weary spirit.

  Did she sense what he was feeling?

  Choosing not to uncover the truth, Tristan decided to take the coward’s way out. “I’ll return Errol to the stables,” he said as he untied the animal’s reins. “You continue with your art lesson. I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”

  Her forehead creased with lines of concern. “Must you leave?

  Yes, he must.

  Tristan bowed his head, leading the horse back to the stables, his stride brisk. What was happening to him? He wracked his brain for an answer but found none. Victoria was affecting him, weakening his resolve, and he couldn’t allow it.

  Love leads to humiliation. No one is faithful. Not his father, not his mother, not even his former betrothed. He wanted to believe that Victoria was different but his battered and broken essence remained incredulous.

  No, never again would he be anyone’s fool.

  God help the next person who humiliates him, who dares to manipulate him, because Tristan would destroy them.
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  Somewhere in hell, Lachlan MacAlistair may finally be proud of his youngest son.

  Chapter 4

  Tristan grimaced, awaking the next morning with a piercing pain in his neck. His eyes flickered open to discover a pair of glossy, black orbs staring back at him.

  Blinking to focus, it took him several seconds to discern that they belonged to a large, chocolate-colored teddy bear lying beside him. The bright pink ribbon tied around the animal’s neck, in addition to the ruffled pink and yellow satin quilt, confirmed that he was indeed atop his niece’s bed.

  With a grunt, he pushed himself to a sitting position, leaning against the frilly pillows. His eyes then scanned the room as he rubbed the stiff, sore muscles in his neck and shoulder blades. The curtains, he noted, were open and the position of the sun assured him it was mid-morning.

  With his niece nowhere in sight, Tristan set off in search of her.

  “Good morning,” Gwen’s cheery voice greeted him at once as he stepped out into the hallway. “I was just about to wake you. Apparently reading to Emma exhausted you.”

  Tristan stretched, still trying to loosen the kink in his neck. “The last thing I remember is beginning a fourth bedtime story.”

  “From what Emma told me, you fell asleep halfway through it,” Gwen grinned.

  “That explains the crick in my neck.” Tristan managed a feeble smile as Gwen placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging the tense muscles.

  “I should have awakened you earlier,” she paused long enough to concentrate on a particularly tight knot then continued, “but you seemed to be so comfortable.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he drawled.

  His sister patted him on the back. “Why don’t you head to your suite? As we discussed yesterday, it has been prepared for you. Just ring for your valet then meet me downstairs for breakfast when you’re ready.”

  He returned to the sanctuary of his suite of rooms. Situated on the opposite side of the main residence, the suite was, in fact, his own private wing, which was reserved for him alone.

  Tristan could have resided in his ancestral home not five miles away, but he chose not to because that was the last place he wanted to be. It wasn’t because of the locale, for it neighbored his sister’s residence. Rather, it was because the manor held too many unhappy memories and harbored numerous family secrets.

  He’d grown accustomed to hiding from them, which came as no surprise to his family. After all, these secrets were the reason that Colin, who had inherited the property, gave it to Tristan in the first place.

  Colin had offered his share of excuses at the time. He wanted to live with his wife’s grandmother, he wasn’t Lachlan’s child by blood and felt uncomfortable keeping the estate, and the list lengthened from there.

  Tristan understood the truth, though.

  Colin didn’t want the damned estate any more than Tristan did. If Tristan had the choice he, too, would have pawned it off on someone else.

  He washed, choosing not to call for his valet instead reveling in the silence that now engulfed him. His niece and nephew were a whirlwind of incessant chatter and an abundance of energy. Tristan found entertaining them to be difficult work.

  Or perhaps it was entertaining the adults – his sister and brother-in-law? Add to that the toll Victoria’s presence was taking on him. Then there were the moments where he had no choice but to play nicely with Colin and Eve, on those rare occasions when he couldn’t avoid them.

  Yes, Tristan went to great lengths, pretending that it didn’t bother him to see Colin and Eve together with their daughter. He expected that time would dull the pain.

  It hadn’t.

  To the contrary, his grief had worsened with the knowledge that he was far from the life he wanted, and stuck with the life he’d chosen. Make no mistake, Tristan had elected this life he now lived.

  Initially, Tristan thought he would master his mistrust of women, his loathing for the institution of marriage. But he couldn’t. Marriage was an institution, after all, and most who ventured forth deserved to be institutionalized, in his opinion. At times like this, when he witnessed his sister and brother-in-law happily married, Tristan missed what he could have had … the family, the love, the happiness.

  In spite of his assertions to the contrary, Tristan failed to convince himself that the life he had chosen for himself, the poor reputation he had carefully crafted, was enough. Far from it, he found his life to be lonely, though he would never admit it to anyone, not even Gwen.

  Regardless of his charade, coming home was still incredibly painful because, hidden deep within the crevices of his very being, Tristan wanted nothing more than for time to move backwards, allowing him to relive his choice to love Eve above anyone else. But that was impossible and the ugly truth remained that the events that followed were his way to ensure that he would never entrust his heart to anyone.

  His choices rendered falling in love impossible. Through them, he had erected walls that couldn’t be eradicated.

  So the happiness his siblings enjoyed, complete with their families and children, their puppies and teddy bears, bedtime stories and wide smiles, was smothering him. Tristan despised himself for it, knowing all the while that he should be happy for Gwen and Colin. A part of him was, though the jealous monster within him reared its ugly head more often than he would like.

  Tristan tossed his towel against the marble sink, disgusted by his most recent excursion to the land of never. Never will he do this, never will he have that.

  For God’s sake man, toughen up! You survived much worse. You survived your father.

  Yes, he survived his father. There was only one person who knew a portion of the price Tristan had paid and what the man had done to him – his brother, Colin. No one else would ever know as Tristan planned to take that secret to his grave. True to MacAlistair family history, Tristan hid many secrets.

  Once dressed, Tristan exited his suite reminding himself that this, too, shall pass though the anxiety and restlessness warring within his veins forced him to question his assertion.

  Not a promising way to begin his morning.

  When he reached the breakfast room, Tristan found Gwen standing by the sideboard, dishing eggs onto two plates.

  “Feeling better?” she asked as she piled bacon onto one of the plates, then some fruit.

  “I’m fine, dearest sister, and you?” he feigned nonchalance as he kissed her on the cheek.

  Gwen handed him a plate then carried hers to the table, set with two place settings. “That flippant answer would work if I believed you,” she said softly, picking up her fork. “We both know that you are far from happy, Tristan.”

  “Had I known that I would be subjected to an inquisition this early in the morning, I would have taken my meal with the teddy bear upstairs.” Though he tried to keep his tone light, his impatience was evident.

  The crisp scent of fresh air drifted through an open bank of windows, drawing his attention to the grounds that lay behind them. He found it much easier to lie to his sister when he wasn’t facing her. “I am fine, Gwen. You needn’t worry.”

  “Look at me,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument.

  He complied at once, meeting her concerned gaze.

  “You have always been my best friend and I am worried about you,” Gwen placed her fork on her plate with a soft clink before reaching for his hand. “You never write me, rarely come home to visit and you barely speak to me when you do. I don’t know how to help you.”

  Nice speech. Even he had to give his sister credit for her attempt. “I don’t need your help,” Tristan managed, surprised at how calm his voice sounded when inside he was ready to scream.

  “Yes, you most certainly do. Just because one woman lied to you—”

  “It was more than one woman, Gwen,” he reminded her. “It was also more than enough to convince me not to trust another ever again.”

  “Tristan, this life that you have fashioned for yourself doesn
’t suit you,” she continued, stubborn to a fault.

  Gwen never gave up, not even on lost causes and he most definitely qualified as such.

  “Don’t talk to me about who you believe me to be, Gwen,” he pulled his hand free of her grasp. “Don’t fool yourself. I am not the same man I once was.”

  She stared at him, “Then tell me that you are happy.”

  Her eyes bore into the depths of being and Tristan knew lying would be fruitless. His sister already sensed the truth, it was part of their bond as twins. She knew him far better than he would have liked.

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that perhaps I was never meant to be happy?” Tristan shoved his plate to the side.

  “You mustn’t say such—”

  “Honestly, Gwen, be realistic.” He folded his linen napkin in an attempt to control of his mounting temper. “You have your fairy tale, so does Colin. Don’t you think three joyful siblings are too much to ask for one family, especially when that clan’s history is rich with MacAlistair machinations?”

  “You deserve your own happiness,” Gwen whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

  Please don’t cry, he silently pleaded. The last thing Tristan wished to contend with at present was his sister’s heartbreak.

  “You have always protected me and put my needs above your own,” she continued. “I know the amount of pain and disappointment you underwent when Eve chose Colin over you.”

  “You needn’t remind me, Gwen. I lived it, remember?” He turned again towards the luminous day beaming on the other side of the windows, in stark contrast to his blackened heart.

  Although Gwen remained silent, he suspected she was studying him intently. He refused to make eye contact with her, instead concentrating on the gauzy curtains that swayed back and forth from the gentle breeze.

  Peals of laughter floated throughout the air in a whimsical refrain causing Tristan to squint, his eyes scanning the scene until he found his nephew sprinting towards the house chasing a bright red ball. To Tristan’s great surprise, Victoria sprinted after him dressed in breeches, a crisp white shirt, and her hair tied back with what appeared to be a thick red ribbon. She looked youthful, vibrant, and more alluring than he’d ever seen her.