“‘Further evidence,’” he repeated. “You mean the man himself? By all means, have him call on us.”
She scowled. “He wouldn’t be calling on you, for heaven’s s—”
“Vingt-et-un!” Edward shouted, bouncing up and down. “You two are never going to win if you keep making moony eyes at each other all night.”
Robert made a choking sound.
“Well,” she squeaked, feeling even less eloquent than Bit, “you’ve left me no hope of winning, Edward. I think I shall retire for the evening, gentlemen.”
The men stood when she did, Tristan nodding stiffly as she made what she hoped was a dignified exit. Once in the hallway, she gathered her skirt in her fists and fled up the stairs.
“Georgiana!”
Tristan’s deep voice stopped her on the landing.
“Well,” She faced him, determined to make light of Edward’s comment. “That was a surprise, wasn’t it?”
“He’s only eight,” Dare said flatly as he climbed toward her. “And if this keeps up, he won’t see nine. Don’t let an infant’s prattling upset you.”
“I…I…” She cleared her throat. “As I said, it just surprised me. I’m not upset. Really.”
“You’re not upset,” he repeated, gazing at her skeptically.
“No.”
“Good.” Grimacing, he ran his fingers through his dark hair, a gesture she had once found very attractive. “Because it’s not true. I want you to know that.”
At his serious tone, she leaned against the railing. “You want me to know what, my lord?”
“That I’m not mooning after you. I’m thinking of getting married, in fact.”
Ah-ha. “You are? Who is she? I’ll tender my congratulations.”
“Don’t do that,” he said, too quickly, his expression deepening to a scowl.
Georgiana stifled a smile. “Whyever not?”
“I haven’t—quite—exactly—proposed to her yet.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad we got this straightened out, anyway. Good night, my lord.”
As she continued up the stairs, she could feel his gaze on her back. Poor Amelia Johns. A broken heart would do Tristan Carroway considerable good, if only to teach him not to toy with other people’s dreams and hearts.
When she reached her room, she dashed off another letter to Lucinda and enclosed a second letter, in a harsher hand and written with a different pen, addressed back to herself. She hoped Lucinda would be a bit more conservative with the cologne. The scent of the first one still lingered in the air, and she could swear that it had turned the flames blue when she threw it in the fireplace.
Georgiana rose early. Thankfully for her exercise regimen, both Milly and Edwina tended to sleep late. After a night at the opera, no doubt she wouldn’t see them before noon. Summoning Mary and donning her riding dress, she hurried downstairs. Her cousin’s groom stood waiting outside, Sheba saddled and ready beside him.
“Good morning, John,” she said, smiling as he helped her into the saddle.
“Good morning, Lady Georgiana,” he answered, remounting his gray gelding. “Sheba’s up for a good gallop this morning, I think.”
“Glad to hear it, because Charlemagne feels the same way.” Dare, mounted on his splendid, rangy bay, clattered around the corner of the house to stop beside her. “And so do I. Good morning, John.”
“Lord Dare.”
Despite her annoyance, she had to admit that he looked very compelling. She could practically see her reflection in his black Hessians, and with his dark coloring and light blue eyes, his rust coat gave him an almost medieval grandeur. His black breeches didn’t have a wrinkle in them, and he sat Charlemagne as though he’d been born on horseback. There were rumors that that was where he’d been conceived.
“You’re awake early this morning.” Blast it, she wanted some fresh air to clear her head. Dare and a clear head were incompatible.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I gave up the attempt. Shall we? Regent’s Park, perhaps.”
“John will escort me. I don’t need your assistance.”
“John will escort me, as well. We don’t want me falling out of the saddle and breaking my neck, do we?”
She burned to hand him a cutting response, but the longer they argued, the shorter her ride would be. “Oh, very well. If you insist on coming along, let’s go.”
Sweeping a deep bow from the saddle, he clucked to Charlemagne. “How could I refuse that invitation?”
They set out at a trot for Regent’s Park, the two of them side by side and John a few yards behind. Flirt, she reminded herself. Say something nice. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. “Does Bradshaw intend to continue his naval career?” she finally asked.
“He says he does, but he’s already itching to be made captain of his own ship. If that doesn’t happen soon, we all assume he’ll become a pirate and steal a vessel.”
He said it in so mild a voice that she blurted a laugh before she could stop herself. “Have you informed him of your theory?”
“Edward has. The Runt wants to be first mate.”
“And will Robert go back to the army?”
His lean face became bleak for a moment. “No. I won’t allow it.”
His uncharacteristic tone and choice of words left her silent. Reconciling the two sides of Tristan Carroway was becoming confusing: He seemed so caring about his brothers and his old aunts, and yet when it came to women like Amelia, he behaved like a heartless rake.
Which of the two was the real Lord Dare? And why was she even asking that question, when she knew the answer? He had broken her heart and ruined her hopes for the future. And he’d never even apologized for it.
He was an idiot, Tristan decided. They’d been having an actual pleasant conversation, and he’d even made her laugh, for God’s sake, and then he’d blurted out his response about Bit before he could clamp his jaw around it.
Whatever she was up to, it seemed to involve being nice to him, and he certainly had no objection to that. But he knew very well how much she hated him, and he couldn’t think of a damned reason why she should have a change of heart about that now.
This game of hers would be easier to decipher if he wasn’t still allowing his lust for her to color every thought and conversation. Six years hadn’t erased the feel of her skin or the taste of her mouth from his senses, and he’d long ago realized that neither time nor an endless parade of lovers and mistresses would ever do so. It was deuced frustrating, and having her sleeping beneath his roof was making it even more so.
“Aunt Milly’s been improving since you arrived,” he said, attempting to change the subject before his overheated brain made him say something he would regret.
“I’m glad to hear th—”
“Georgiana! I say, Lady Georgie!”
Tristan looked down the street. Lord Luxley, that damned pretty-faced stuffed shirt, galloped toward them, knocking over an orange cart in his hurry to reach them. If that idiot had sent the letter Georgiana’d been so smug about, he would eat his hat. The baron suffered from a woeful lack of intelligence.
He watched Georgiana’s gaze travel from the oranges rolling all over the street to Luxley’s face. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, in the cool tones she usually reserved for Tristan.
“Lady Georgiana, you look like an angel. I’m so pleased to see you this morning. I have”—and he began digging through various pockets—“something I wish to give you.”
Her expression unchanged, she held up one hand, calling for him to stop. “I think you also have something to give that cart vendor.”
“Hm? What?”
While Tristan continued to watch her, intrigued, she gestured at the old woman standing next to the overturned cart, weeping as the morning rush of carriages and coaches crushed her produce into orange pulp all over Park Road. “Over there. Lord Dare, what is the price of an orange these days?”
“Two pence each, I believe,” Tristan answered, tripling the pri
ce.
She glanced at him, acknowledging his exaggeration, then returned her attention to the baron. “I think you need to give that woman at least two shillings, Lord Luxley.”
Finally, Luxley looked over at his victim. “That orange girl?” His lip wrinkled in distaste. “I think not. She shouldn’t have left her cart in the middle of the street like that.”
“Very well, then. You have nothing I wish to receive,” Georgiana said coolly. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a gold sovereign. Clucking at Sheba, she moved past the stunned, red-faced Luxley, and leaned down to hand the money over herself.
“Oh, bless you, my lady,” the old woman gushed, grabbing her gloved hand and pressing it to her cheek. “Bless you, bless you.”
“Lady Georgiana, I must protest,” Luxley blustered. “You’ve given her far too much. You can’t wish to spoil the—”
“I think Lady Georgiana has done exactly as she intended,” Tristan broke in, bringing Charlemagne between her and the baron. “Good day, Luxley.”
They started up the street again, leaving a slack-jawed Luxley behind them. After a moment of silence, Georgiana sent Dare a sideways glance from behind the brim of her blue bonnet. “It’s probably a good thing you interrupted him just then, Tristan, or I would have had to punch him.”
“I was only thinking of the injuries to myself if I had to separate the two of you in a brawl. And of the damage you’d do to poor Luxley, of course.”
Her smile touched her green eyes. “Of course.”
Good lord, she’d granted him two smiles in one morning. And she’d called him by his Christian name for the first time in six years. Thank God he’d been on his way out to arrange a picnic with Amelia, or he would have missed spending this morning with her.
He wondered what she would think if she knew that he kept her stocking in a mahogany box in the top drawer of his chest. As far as society was concerned, he’d won the first part of the wager by gaining a kiss, and failed abysmally at the second part. His silence might have saved her reputation, but it hadn’t saved what might have grown between them.
Tristan shook himself. “Shall we?” He kneed Charlemagne.
With a laugh, Georgiana and Sheba were off like a shot beside him. “To the trees!” she shouted, the wind blowing the bonnet back off her curling golden hair.
“Sweet Lucifer,” he murmured, mesmerized at the sight. His big bay was stronger and faster than Sheba, but even Charlemagne seemed to realize that today they were in this for the pursuit, and not the victory.
If Georgiana was playing some sort of game, it was a damned interesting one.
She reached the trees first. Laughing in triumph, she faced him as he drew up beside her. “My dear Lord Dare, I think you let me win.”
“I’m not certain how I should answer that,” he said, patting Charlemagne on the neck, “so I’ll only say that you and Sheba move as though you were made for one another.”
Georgiana lifted a fine eyebrow. “A compliment, now. I’m almost inclined to be impressed by your manners. Next time we race, though, do try harder.”
He grinned. “Then I’m afraid you’ve enjoyed your last victory.”
“I’d put my money on Lady Georgiana, anytime,” a voice came from the trees, and the Marquis of Westbrook emerged onto the path, ducking overhanging branches as he approached on his gray gelding.
Her smile faltered. “I don’t participate in wagers, my lord,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.
Westbrook didn’t bat an eye. “Then I’ll only place my confidence in you.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes at the smooth reply. The marquis had to know of the wager involving himself and Georgiana; everyone knew of it. So he’d made his little faux pas deliberately.
“Thank you, Lord Westbrook.”
“John, please.”
Georgiana’s lips curved upward. “Thank you, John,” she amended.
They seemed to have forgotten Tristan was even there. He loosened the reins in his fingers and shifted his right foot. Charlemagne sidestepped in that direction, crowding Westbrook’s gray.
“Beg pardon,” he said, as the gray stumbled.
“Control your animal, Dare,” the marquis said in an annoyed tone, wrenching his mount back around.
“I don’t think Charlemagne liked you saying my Sheba could beat him,” Georgiana said. When she glanced at Tristan, he had little doubt that she knew what he’d done. Yet she hadn’t given him away.
“Charlemagne doesn’t like transparent flattery,” Tristan amended, turning his gaze to Westbrook.
“Your mount should be reminded that he’s a horse. Animals should know their place.”
Ah, battle, Tristan thought, his blood heating at the insult. “Charlemagne does know his place, as Lady Georgiana indicated. First, I believe.”
“And I believe Lady Georgiana was only being polite. She no doubt recognizes the inferior quality of the animal involved.”
“If you don’t mind, Lord Westbrook,” Georgiana said, “I prefer to supply my own dialogue.”
Poor fellow, already back from John to Lord Westbrook. Tristan would have pursued his victory, but he didn’t want Georgiana angry at him, too. When the marquis glared at him, realizing that he’d been outmaneuvered, Tristan only grinned. As soon as Georgiana glanced in his direction, he wiped the expression away.
“My apologies, Lady Georgiana,” the marquis said. “It was not my intention to offend.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Lord Dare frequently has an adverse effect on others.”
“That’s true,” Tristan agreed. The description was the mildest he’d ever heard her give on his behalf.
She looked sideways at him again, then turned her attention back to Westbrook. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I need to return to Carroway House. Lord Dare’s aunts will be rising shortly.”
“I shall take my leave, then. Good day, my lady. Dare.”
“Westbrook.”
As soon as the marquis vanished from view, Georgie turned Sheba toward the edge of the park. “What was that for?” she asked, her gaze on the path.
“I’m evil.”
Her lips twitched. “Obviously.”
Chapter 6
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
—Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene v
“No one’s been killed yet? I’m astonished.” The Duke of Wycliffe stood to one side of an artistic grouping of potted palms.
Tristan glanced toward Wycliffe’s petite bride, engaged in a country dance with the Earl of Resdin’s son, Thomas. “Emma looks well,” he said. “I assume she and your mother are reconciled?”
“They were reconciled the moment my mother realized I intended to marry,” the duke said in his low drawl. “Don’t change the subject. What the devil is Georgiana doing at Carroway House?”
“She’s volunteered to help Aunt Milly. And I’m grateful for it; she’s made a huge difference.”
“You’re grateful. To Georgie. My cousin. The same female who nearly punctured you with a parasol a few summers ago.”
Tristan shrugged. “As you said, Grey, no one’s been killed. No maimings or amputations, either.” Except for the negligible damage to his knuckles and his toes, her stay had been surprisingly injury-free for him.
The duke straightened, looking past Tristan’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but she’s approaching. Let the maimings begin.”
The familiar, charged tension that accompanied Georgiana’s presence ran through him. She kept him on his toes, figuratively speaking. And now it was doubly complicated, since he didn’t want to begin a fight if she was bearing an olive branch.
“Grey,” she said, going on tiptoe to kiss her cousin on the cheek, “the two of you wouldn’t be gossiping, would you?”
“Actually,” Tristan said, before Grey could remind Georgiana yet again of their mutual antagonism, “we were admiring the cut of Lord Thomas’s coat. He almost looks as though he has shoulders and a neck
tonight.”
She followed their gaze. “Poor fellow. He can’t help that he’s the mirror image of his father.”
“Resdin should have known better than to propagate,” Grey commented. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go rescue Emma.”
Georgiana sighed as her cousin strolled toward the dancers. “He does look happy, doesn’t he?”
“Marriage agrees with him. I thought you were chatting with your friends.”
“Trying to get rid of me? That would leave you standing here all by yourself, my lord. How could I bear doing you such a poor turn?”
Tristan froze for a heartbeat. Lady Georgiana Halley was flirting. With him, of all people.
“Then perhaps you might wish to dance again?” he drawled, bracing himself for a nasty set down, or for a bolt of lightning to strike one or the other of them dead.
“That would be lovely.”
He studied her expression as he took her hand to lead her onto the dance floor, but saw nothing that indicated she might intend him bodily harm. The soft violet of her dress darkened her light green eyes to exquisite emerald, and if God had any compassion at all, the next dance would be a waltz.
The orchestra struck up a quadrille. Apparently God had a sense of humor. “Shall we?”
As soon as they joined the dance, another dozen couples hurried onto the floor. Before news of his father’s poor money management skills had reached every crevice of the ton, he might have assumed that he was the reason for the stampede. Ladies had once been known to fight over his affections. Tonight the gentlemen were in the lead, and they seemed to have their attention on Georgiana.
It had been that way since she’d turned eighteen. Over the last few years he had claimed aloud to pity the poor soul with whom she might choose to matrimonify. His private sentiments had remained less clear, even to him. Tonight, however, the ogling annoyed him a great deal.
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