Rachel had said he was a hot-tempered sort, prone to short, violent explosions of wrath. Putting all her eggs in one basket at the dinner table in hopes of having the man lose his composure, and therefore some of the esteem in which it seemed the rest of the company held him, had been the second reason for her outburst, but Rule had failed to perform according to his reputation, so that the affair had concluded with Mary being the one who now sat in the corner of the Ruffton carriage in disgrace.
“Really, Mary, that was very poor-spirited of you,” Rachel Gladwin was saying, for at least the third time in as many minutes. It took a lot to discompose Rachel—considering she had served as Lucy’s companion during that trying time when the girl was so obviously pursuing an obviously fleeing Lord Thorpe—but Mary’s inelegant observations at the dinner party had done it.
“I know, Aunt,” Mary agreed sadly. “I promise to apologize to Lucy and Julian again when we reach the ball. I’ll even send round a written apology tomorrow. But I was sorely tried, I tell you. If you have any idea what that odious nephew of yours had the nerve to intimate to me—”
Rachel could see Mary’s blush even in the dim light cast by the flambeaux hung outside the carriage. “I’m listening,” she nudged, remembering the smug look Tristan had been wearing as he and Dexter took their leave.
Mary gave a weak chuckle. “You may listen all you want, Aunt. His words were unrepeatable. I won’t so de-mean myself as to quote the scoundrel.”
Now it was Rachel’s turn to smile. “Bested you, did he, little girl? I begin to scent a romance here myself. Won’t Sir Henry be pleased?”
From the corner of the carriage came the unmistakable sound of fragile ivory fan sticks being snapped neatly in two.
MARY HAD JUST BEGUN TO RELAX when Tristan Rule and his ever-present shadow, Dexter, entered the Salerton ballroom and took up positions at the edge of the dance floor. He’s playing me like a fish on a line, Mary fumed silently as she went down the dance with her latest partner. Ever since he first sank his hook into me he’s been feeding me more and more line, making me believe I’m about to gain my freedom, and then, just when I’m feeling secure, yanking hard on the pole again.
As she whirled and dipped, flirting outrageously with the hapless young swain who had nearly tripped into a potted palm at the edge of the floor when Mary flashed him her brightest smile, she kept one eye firmly on the black-clad figure who looked as if he was about to spring on her even as he relaxed one well-defined shoulder against a marble pillar.
She never remembered what she said to her partner as he escorted her back to her aunt at the conclusion of the set, but if the youth’s bemused expression was to be believed, her vague response to his parting question just might have gained Sir Henry yet another application for her hand on the morrow. Mary frowned, for she was not really heartless and had certainly not meant to lead Lord Hawlsey on, but then, as the musicians struck up the new, daring waltz, all thoughts of Lord Hawlsey fled as her spine automatically stiffened when she felt rather than heard Lord Rule’s approach.
Bowing in front of Rachel for her permission—a curiously tunnel-sighted Rachel who seemed not to see her charge’s frantic signal in the negative—Tristan availed himself of Mary’s small hand and led her firmly onto the floor.
Lord Petersham always wore brown, Mary thought spitefully, and only succeeded in looking dashed dull. Then there was that silly man who wore nothing but green, like some sort of living plant. It stood to reason that Tristan Rule, who dressed only in funereal black, should look dull, or silly, or boringly unimaginative, or, at the very least, depressing. So why did he look none of these? Why did he look like his muscular torso had been carefully poured into his formfitting coat, his, in this instance, black satin breeches lovingly painted on? Why did his black-on-black embroidered waistcoat call such unladylike attention to his flat abdomen, his snowy cravat show to such advantage against his deeply tanned features, his equally white stockings delineate muscular calves that owed nothing to the sawdust stuffing so many men felt forced to use to supplement what nature and a sybaritic life had left lacking?
“I’m waiting, Miss Lawrence.”
The sound of Lord Rule’s low, husky voice jolted Mary from her musings and surprised her into looking directly into a pair of the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen. “W-waiting, my lord?” she stammered, irritated for allowing a tremor to slip into her voice. “Whatever for?”
Tristan cocked his dark head slightly to one side. “Why, for you to commence flirting with me, what else? You flirt with every man you dance with—every man save me, that is. After weeks of standing up with you only to have to propel you woodenly, and silently, round yet another endless ballroom, I have decided to take the initiative. Please, feel free to bat those outrageous eyelashes at me. I’m stronger than I look, I can take it.”
Mary nearly tripped over her own feet as she stood stock-still for a moment, in mingled shock and outrage, while Tristan kept on dancing without missing a beat. “Me? Talk to you—the Great Sphinx? Flirt with you—the Great Stone Man? Why should I so lower myself as to try to converse with you when you’ve never so much as asked me if I thought the weather was tolerably fine? Besides, I’d rather flirt with portly old Prinny than waste even a moment’s time searching my brain for anything civil I’d wish to say to you.” Believing she had succeeded in making her position crystal clear, Mary lowered her head and went back to staring a hole in his cravat.
“You can’t flirt with pudgy old Prinny, Miss Lawrence,” Tristan returned conversationally, “unless, of course, you wish to incur the wrath of the pudgy old Marchioness of Hertford, who is our Royal Highness’s current favorite. In any event, the Regent is otherwise engaged these days, with he and his brother, the Duke of York, indulging once more in their favorite pastime, drinking each other under the table. Pity, though,” he ended facetiously, “as I do believe it would be a sight not to be missed.”
Feeling the heat of his left hand through her gloved fingers while sensing the steel in the hand that held her waist so firmly, Mary fought the urge to break away from the man, knowing that he was just obstinate enough to refuse to let her go—causing a scene of no mean proportions right in the middle of the ball. “Why, my lord,” she settled for saying, “I do believe your cousins to be entirely wrong about you. They have hinted on more than one occasion that you were a secret, valuable tool of England’s war effort. Wouldn’t they be crushed to learn that in reality you are nothing more than a spiteful, gossipy old woman?”
A slight tick appeared along one side of Lord Rule’s finely chiseled square chin, but he refused to allow this infuriating chit to bait him into unleashing his legendary temper. Let her continue to believe he was harmless, it would be easier to learn what he had set himself to discover if she continued to underestimate him. “Ah, Miss Lawrence,” he returned, smiling, “you have found me out. But then, what else is there to do now that peace is here but tear up our contemporaries behind their backs? It is a prerequisite of anyone claiming to be of the British upper class.”
“Bah? You British—” Mary began, then just as quickly ended. “You British men are all alike. You make a vocation out of refusing to take anything seriously. Why, Sir Henry has even said that English lords go to war with much the same enthusiasm as they approach grouse hunting, except that they don’t tend to regard war quite so seriously.”
The waltz ended, and Tristan put a hand under Mary’s elbow and steered her toward a door to the first-floor balcony without her ever realizing their destination. “Sir Henry is absolutely correct, Miss Lawrence,” he supplied smoothly as he helped her over the raised threshold and out onto the flagstones. “I’ve heard it more than once that we English believe all foreigners to be deucedly poor shots. Yet, be that as it may, we vain, arrogant English have succeeded in winning the war.”
“Have we?” Mary countered, seating herself on a low stone bench and watching as Tristan eased himself down beside her. “My uncle m
utters that the only change thus far in Paris is that the newspapers and pats of butter are now imprinted with fleur-de-lis.”
Tristan berated himself for noticing how intriguingly Mary’s clear complexion captured the moonlight and added, “But that is not the worst that is being said, Miss Lawrence. Although I cannot claim to know anything about it, I have heard that it was English money used to bribe Napoleon’s generals that won us this war, just as it has done down through history, and that, in truth, Napoleon is very much Wellington’s superior.”
“As they have not faced each other across a battlefield, I believe that last to be a moot point, my lord,” Mary replied, wondering why her answer had brought a thoughtful frown to Lord Rule’s face.
“Then you have no preference between Napoleon and the duke? Surely you must have an opinion?” Tristan pressed.
“I must?” Mary shot back, suddenly realizing that she had somehow allowed herself to be isolated with a man she thoroughly detested. “Why? Surely a woman is not expected to have a head for war or politics. All that concerns me is that we are now free to visit Paris and investigate all the latest fashions.”
“And yet you are still here in London,” he pointed out, much to her chagrin. “I find it hard to believe you were not off to the Continent the minute Napoleon’s abdication was declared.”
This subject was close enough to Mary’s heart to cloud her earlier suspicions. “And I would have been, if not for Sir Henry’s summons,” she blurted before getting a belated hold on her tongue. Why was she feeling like a butterfly pinned down to a table for examination? Why did this seemingly innocent conversation seem so contrived, so full of probing questions? Why was she sitting here in the moonlight with a man she thoroughly abhorred in the first place? Rising to her feet with more haste than grace, she told Tristan that she had been absent too long from the ballroom and must return.
Tristan rose with her, once more taking firm possession of her elbow. “We wouldn’t want the tongues to wag, now would we, Miss Lawrence?” he agreed, just as if she had voiced the notion that the two of them were becoming thought of as a couple. “Besides, I do believe I heard another waltz beginning. I should be pleased to partner you.”
That stopped Mary in her tracks. Wheeling to face him, she gritted, “Are you mad? Two waltzes? Add that to our disappearance from the room and the whole world will have us betrothed.”
Tristan, who had decided to intensify his campaign with Mary by sticking as close as a barnacle to her side until he made up his mind about her once and for all, only smiled—causing Mary’s hand to itch to slap his handsome face. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? Ah well, I daresay Sir Henry won’t mind—he’s always seemed to like me a bit. Do you wish a long engagement?”
CHAPTER THREE
LISTENING TO TRISTAN’S WORDS, then whirling about to look into his disgustingly handsome, smiling face, caused Mary to spend the last coin of her self-control. “Marry you!” she shrieked, causing more than one interested head to turn in her direction. “Why, I’d rather be the sole woman on an island inhabited by shipwrecked sailors!”
Rule barely stifled an appreciative smile, which only served to incense Mary all the more, and bowed deeply from his waist. “And here I thought we were getting along so well,” he said, making a poor attempt at looking crushed by her words. “I stand corrected, madam.”
“Only until I knock you down, sirrah!” Mary retorted, trying to disengage her elbow, which he had maddeningly taken in his grasp. “Which I promise you I shall do shortly, if you do not release me.”
Any lingering trace of humor left Lord Rule’s face as he, by the simple means of closing his strong fingers around Mary’s tender elbow, steered her over to a secluded corner of the balcony and lowered his head to within scant inches of hers. “What kind of woman are you?” he demanded harshly, giving her abused arm a shake. “I try to be civil to you, even flatter you by indulging in a bit of mild flirtation such as you females demand of us men, and you repay me time after time with cutting words, insults, and now threats of violence.”
“Flirt with me! You call your outrageous suggestion flirting? And what do you mean by lumping me in with a bunch of chits with more hair than wit who giggle and simper as some ridiculous fop or other compares their crossed eyes to brightly shining stars?” Mary was so angry now that she either could not or would not take notice of his lordship’s set jaw and narrowed eyes. Raising her chin just a bit more, she sniffed dismissingly. “If you are going to ape your betters, I suggest you choose your models with more care.”
She was going to drive him straight out of his mind! His short-lived idea of insinuating himself into her good graces (all the better to keep a close watch on her) died an undignified death as his quick temper overrode his seldom-exercised discretion. Tristan stepped further back into the shadows, pulling Mary along with him willy-nilly, and took the back of her neck in his firm grip. “I am done playing games with you, Miss Lawrence. You tell me I am no gentleman, yet I have only your word for it that you are a lady.”
Mary’s heart began to pound as she belatedly realized that her sharp tongue had gotten her into yet another tight spot. “Apply to my uncle if you wish a tracing of my family tree.” She brazened it out, her green eyes spitting fire in the darkness. “I am not about to justify my existence to you.”
“I have talked with Sir Henry,” Tristan informed her to her dismay, “and all he says is that you are the daughter of an old friend. You have the man so besotted he’ll say anything to protect you, but I am not so hoodwinked by your beauty that I can overlook the fact that you have somehow established yourself in the house of one of the most important men in the war effort.”
Even in the midst of her fright Mary took a small bit of satisfaction in the notion that Lord Rule thought her beautiful, but that admission did not serve to overshadow the fact that he was accusing her of—what was he accusing her of? “You think I’m Sir Henry’s mistress?” she squeaked at last, feeling something akin to relief.
Tristan’s fingers tightened on the soft, slim neck. “Mistress?” he repeated, brought up short. “No, Rachel wouldn’t stand still for being a party to that, not even for an old friend…would she?” he questioned softly, as if debating with himself.
Mary reached up and tried to remove his hand, finger by tensed finger. “Look, my lord, either throttle me or let me go. Make up your mind.” In the space of a moment she had decided that Tristan Rule was not ruthless—he was ridiculous! But if he was suffering from overexposure to battle or some such thing, he should take himself off to some spa for the waters, not run amok in London searching out nonexistent intrigues. Besides, she reminded herself as she attempted to lift his thumb from the pulse point at the base of her throat, it wasn’t as if there was no intrigue about her presence in Sir Henry’s household—even though her true identity was not all that earthshaking. The last thing her uncle would wish for was this man meddling in their affairs.
Lord Rule shook his head a time or two, bringing himself back to the matter at hand. And that matter was, to be obvious about the thing, that the matter at hand was his hand—for somehow it had found its way around Miss Lawrence’s slender throat. God! The woman had the power to drive him distracted. And the thought that she could be Sir Henry’s mistress did something evil to his insides that he was powerless to deny. Looking down into her angry face, Tristan cudgeled his brain for a way out of this latest coil into which the dratted chit had succeeded in goading him.
“Well, sir,” Mary prompted, puzzled by the slightly dazed expression in Lord Rule’s dark eyes. “Which is it to be—a quick snuffing or sweet freedom?”
What would Julian do in a situation like this? Or Kit? Tristan cursed under his breath as he realized neither of those esteemed gentlemen would have allowed themselves to be drawn into such a tangled mess in the first place. But then neither of those men had ever stood within a heartbeat of the beautiful, willful, mysterious Miss Mary Lawrence. Any man could be ex
cused for losing his head in such circumstances, he assured himself, regaining a small bit of his consequence while fueling his flagging temper with yet another shovelful of Mary Lawrence’s supposed sins against him.
The firm clasp turned abruptly into a rough sort of caress as Tristan Rule smiled evilly, and Mary found herself wishing he were still scowling. “Wh-what are you going to do?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“What do you think I’m going to do?” Tristan returned in a soft growl. If he was already in trouble—and he knew he most assuredly would be the moment Sir Henry heard of this night’s work—he’d already decided he may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. His dark features nearly blotting out the moonlight as they descended on her, Tristan ended huskily, “I’m going to throttle you, what else?”
“No!” Mary protested swiftly, but not nearly quickly enough to keep her denial from being smothered by Lord Rule’s punishing mouth. Nor did her hands move rapidly enough to prevent his arms from capturing her slim body in his rock-hard embrace.
Mary had been kissed before, she was sure she had, but all of those kisses paled beneath the reality of Tristan’s mouth as it curved, and slanted, and moved possessively upon hers. As his strong arms forced the very air from her lungs, he captured her breath in his mouth and breathed his own life back into her. It was so personal, so intimate an action, that she felt herself to have been actually violated. When the tip of his tongue slid along the edge of her teeth as his mouth opened more fully over hers, then brazenly penetrated, Mary instinctively fought back.
“Ouch! You hellion!” Tristan spat, jumping back to reach a finger inside his mouth to inspect his wounded tongue.
The ruthless Lord Rule Page 3
