Tristan looked around. “You know, it looks more normal than I thought it would. I guess I expected more paintings of hell and suffering being visited on the wicked.”
“Yes, I am both let down and a little relieved, if I am to be honest with myself.'
Tristan laughed a little, and then there was no time to lose. They set about searching for where the disagreeable old man might be keeping his mail, and with every moment that passed, Georgiana became more aware of the little time they had remaining.
Georgiana had always had a good feeling for the passage of time, generally knowing when the end of an hour was nearing or when her lessons should be over. Now it became less a gift than a curse as she did her best to find out where her blackmailer's letter might be. The cottage was curiously well appointed for a man of the cloth, especially one who was rumored to be as ascetic as Mr. Hensbury.
The furnishings were unusually rich, but more than that, they were also cluttered. The man apparently hadn't thrown anything away since the seventeenth century, and now they were left sifting through the mess, looking for where he might keep his mail. It wasn't in any of the common places, but then Tristan opened a door and called Georgiana over.
“I think this must be where we should look.”
He had found the curate's study, a place that seemed packed wall to wall with paper. Of course, the blackmailer's letter would be somewhere near the top, but there was something terribly frightening about the huge drifts of paper around them.
“Take that end, and I'll start here. For the love of all that is good, don't pull anything over on us.”
Tristan nodded his agreement, and then they set to with a will. Time ticked past, and somewhere in the back of Georgiana's mind, she started to wonder if this was some kind of hell. She was doomed to live in tense expectation in this tiny room, swamped in paper, looking for something that was not to be found.
Would it be a hell with Tristan? She thought it might be, especially if they remained turned away from each other, never talking, never touching. The thought brought a pang to her chest, and she shook her head. This was really the last time for any kind of foolishness like that.
Just when Georgiana was beginning to give in to despair, Tristan stood up quickly, a very familiar envelope in his hand. She had never seen this particular missive before, but she had two of its fellows in her possession tucked into a riding habit's pocket in her wardrobe.
“Is that it?”
In response, Tristan slit open the top, pulling out the scrap of foolscap inside to skim it. As she watched, his eyes hardened, and he nodded.
“It is. Let's go.”
They both headed for the door, but then almost in tandem, they both froze. They could hear someone's shoes on the stop, and the door creaked open.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Georgiana whispered, and by Tristan's look, he concurred. They could hear Mr. Hensbury prowling around his house, and at that moment, she felt very much like a little mouse, run to ground by the cat. Her mind was whirling, but she was coming up with nothing that would tell her what to do. When Tristan touched her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“The window.”
He jerked his head back toward the window that ran along one side of the study. It looked like it might have been just large enough for someone to get through it, but it was half blocked with papers. Without saying a word, they started to pull the papers away. Georgiana realized with a wince that there was no way their intrusion would go unnoticed at this point, but right now, her only goal was to get out of the curate's house unseen.
It's funny. I think I would know what to do if this was a party, and I was caught in the wrong room. However, I don't think Mr. Hensbury is going to be all that agreeable when I tell him I was simply looking for a peaceful drawing room where I could lie down for a bit.
As she and Tristan worked, Georgiana kept one ear out for the curate's step. She hoped for a short while that he had simply decided to take a nap in the front room, but instead, he seemed restless, pacing back and forth, now coming closer, now fading away. She and Tristan had just cleared the window when she realized with a sinking heart that he was certainly coming toward them.
“Damn it all, get through that window. At least he already hates me.”
Tristan gave Georgiana an indignant look. “Under no circumstances!”
Georgiana shook her head, turning toward the door. “Go, if one of us should get out of this unscathed...”
She barely managed to stifle a surprised yelp as she was picked up. In the back of her mind, she remembered all over again how very strong Tristan was. He handled her as if she were as light as a feather. In one moment, she was scooped up in his arms, and in the next, she was heaved bodily out of the window.
Don't yell, don't yell, don't yell...
She hit the soft grass outside the house with a thump, and without stopping to rub her offended parts, she dashed to the front of the house. With both fists, she set up a ferocious battering on the door. She kept it up until she could hear the curate's footsteps approaching, and then she dashed to where she and Tristan had tethered the horses.
She barely beat Tristan there, but when she saw him appear from the forest, she uttered a soft sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank goodness, I was afraid he'd caught you.”
Tristan shot her a wry look. “What in the world did you think he was going to do to me? I'm far bigger than he is and a lord besides.”
Georgiana gave him a stern look. “He could have excoriated you in front of his flock, you know. Perhaps you have not been forced to deal in reputations as much as I have, Tristan, but that might have made life difficult even for you.”
Tristan shrugged. “They are welcome to try to make life difficult for me. Hell, they might even succeed. I'm not very interested in that, however. Come on, let's get back on the road.”
Tristan was acting strangely, Georgiana realized. There was something closed off about him, something strange and quiet and severe. Before she could ask about it, she heard Mr. Hensbury in the woods, muttering about pranksters banging on his door, and with one exchanged look, Tristan and Georgiana were mounted and away.
They rode in silence for some little while, but before they returned to Morgan's tower, Tristan pulled his gelding to the side of the road and turned to face Georgiana.
“What is it?”
“I think you had better read this.”
He handed Georgiana the envelope that had been the source of all the trouble. Puzzled, she took it. She supposed that she had expected it to be some maid's account of the nights she had spent on the road to Gretna Green or something like that, but instead, what she saw made her stare. Her mouth dropped open, and her heart beat faster. The writing on the paper, far from being that of a stranger, was Tristan's.
Dearest Georgiana:
When I think of you, my heart opens in a way that I never thought it could before. I love you, I love you, I love you to the very depths of the ocean and up to the very vaults of of the sky.
It took her more than a few moments to gain her breath back, and when she spoke, her voice was rather higher than it usually was.
“Well. Well... I... I can see that you have become a better writer than you were once upon a time.”
Tristan gave her a hard look. “Is that truly all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don't know, Georgiana! Perhaps start with how my letters to you became the property of a blackmailer.”
His words were dark and cutting.
Georgiana flinched.
“I have no idea, Tristan! It was five years ago. I suppose that it simply became lost and someone found it.”
Tristan's eyes were hot coals. “I burned all of your letters, Georgiana. If you had had the sense to do the same, we would not be in this mess.”
He touched his heels to his gelding's side and rode onward. Georgiana had no choice but to follow along behind him.
> * * *
Chapter 23
It took Tristan the rest of the way to Ashby and then a few more hours after that to realize what an ass he had made of himself. He wondered if Georgiana's silence was cowed or self-righteous, and then he decided it must be the latter. Georgiana had no real interest in being cowed, but the look on her face made him wonder.
Whenever he stole looks back at her as they rode, she had a marble statue's calm. He knew better than to think that told the whole story. He knew her too well for that. He wanted to apologize to her, but that would have opened doors he wasn't prepared to open again. Of course, those same doors had been torn off the hinges by what he had read in Mr. Hensbury's study, but that didn't mean he was eager to have that particular sanctum violated again so soon.
Instead, they both rode back to Morgan's tower and waited for her. When she appeared, the lady of Ashby spilled out of her carriage, her face a mask of contrition.
“I am so sorry, I stalled him as long as I could, but the man was simply not interested in the saving of my immortal soul. He kept telling me that it would be all right, and that all I had to do was to come back to service, as if I do not have my own curate in Ashby now. Honestly, what a wretched little man.”
Tristan stepped forward to help Morgan to one of the chairs in the drawing room. Georgiana was curled up in one of the wing chairs a little distance away. From how still she held herself, someone might have thought she was just napping, but Tristan somehow sensed that she was watching everything that happened with a sharp and eager eye.
“It was admittedly a little hairy getting out the back when we heard the damned man at the front, but we managed it. And Georgiana was very clever in making sure that he didn't find me after I shoved her out the window.”
“It wasn't as clever as all that. And you might have been gentler when you thrust me out the window, Tristan. I landed in a quite unladylike fashion.”
Morgan laughed at Georgiana's words. “You must not expect gentleness from Tristan, you know.”
“And I suppose you know?”
Tristan was startled when Georgiana's words came out so frankly rude, but Morgan only laughed again. She was no fool, for all that she had given up London society, and she must have caught Georgiana's rough edge.
Instead of taking offense, however, she smiled at Georgiana warmly.
“I do, as a matter of fact. The Dukes of Parrington and the Marquesses of Ashby have long been firm allies. Our parents drifted apart when we were quite young, especially after some of my parents'… misfortunes, but we saw each other at Christmas and New Year's and all the other holidays as well.”
Morgan stood up and crossed the room to offer Georgiana her hand hopefully.
“Perhaps we can tell you all about it at dinner? I have persuaded Cook to make us up some things very quickly.”
Georgiana looked taken aback by Morgan's friendliness. With a pang, he thought about the time she had spent as the jewel of any social gathering. He knew how very lonely that could be, when every eye was turned toward you in hopes of getting something for themselves. Morgan, however, only wanted to talk, and he could see Georgiana thaw toward her.
“I would like that a great deal. Thank you, Lady Ashby.”
“Please. I would be so very happy if you would call me Morgan.”
“Then you must call me Georgiana, mustn't you?'
She smiled at the taller woman, and for a moment, Tristan found himself dazzled all over again by Georgiana's beauty. There was something brittle and lovely and sharp about her when she was at a gala populated by the best and brightest in all of London, but when there was a hint of vulnerability and hope in it, the way there was right now, she could take his breath away.
He followed her and Morgan to a dining atrium that might once have been an old Norman chapel attached to the tower, and though Morgan occasionally asked his opinion or to corroborate one memory or another, he was mostly silent.
He noticed with a slight ache that Georgiana was turned away from him a little, that she would only look toward him in slight and sneaking glances. He refused to believe that Georgiana would ever be afraid of him. That was simply impossible. Georgiana was not made to be afraid. It was like the sun deciding to set in blue instead of gold.
Still, that night, after Morgan had gone to bed, Tristan found himself at Georgiana's door. He knew how it looked, a man coming to an unmarried woman's door at night while she was defenseless. It was scandalous, improper, but in a way, every word he had ever passed with Georgiana was illicit. From the moment they met to this one, they had been doing something they shouldn't have done. It bothered Tristan that it didn't bother him more, and he finally knocked lightly on the door. If she didn't open it or told him to go away, he would leave, but then the door inched open. He caught sight of her bright blue eye through the crack, and then it opened the rest of the way.
“I was sleeping.”
“You weren't. You're not even undressed.”
She shrugged, unconcerned to be caught in the lie. Georgiana swept back into her room, leaving him to shut the door, and when he turned back around, she was seated on a small wing chair by her banked hearth, looking at him with a level eye.
“Well?”
Tristan paused. If he had been asked on his way to her room, he would have said that he had no idea why his feet had taken him there. Instead, now that he was here, he knew exactly what he needed to say.
“I am sorry.”
Georgiana blinked, looking at him with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”
“I reacted poorly when I realized what was in the letter. I... I snapped at you, and then I sulked. It was unworthy behavior of a duke, and you did not deserve it.”
She frowned at him, not as if she disbelieved him, but as if he were speaking another language entirely.
“You were startled. You thought you were just helping me on this mad enterprise. You had no idea that you might be personally involved.”
“I was personally involved from the beginning. I could not help it. You were involved, after all. It is only that...well. I never expected to see those words again.”
Georgiana let that one pass, though whether because she was kinder than most thought her to be or because she was saving it for later remained to be seen. “It's fine. I'm not angry at you, you know. You are entitled to your reaction. I can say from personal experience that no one ever wants to find themselves at the receiving end of a blackmail plot.”
She answered him so easily that he knew at once that she was telling him the truth.
Tristan frowned.
“Then why have you been so strange tonight? You can barely look at me, and you've been so quiet.”
“That's none of your concern.”
Tristan nodded, because by and large she was right, but then something absurd struck him. He stared at her.
“Are you jealous of me and Morgan?”
Her head shot up and she stared at him with such panic and fury, that he knew he was right. Tristan knew he was only adding fuel to the fire, but he started to grin.
“You know there's nothing behind it, right? Our families were simply friends when we were growing up. I did her a good turn when were young, and she's a good person. That's all. You have nothing to be jealous of.”
Georgiana shot to her feet, and her cheeks were flaming a bright crimson. “Out! We have a long ride tomorrow, and I do not want to be tired as a dog for it! Get out and take your ridiculous theories with you!”
Tristan allowed himself to be pushed out the door, still grinning and oddly grateful that she was simply jealous and not afraid.
“Georgiana?”
She paused at his serious tone. “What is it?”
He reached down to cup her cheek in his hand. “You have nothing, nothing at all to be afraid of.”
She growled at that, shoving him the rest of the way out of her room and latching the door firmly behind him. Tristan stared at the door for a moment, and wit
h a soft laugh, made his way back to his own room. He had no idea why he thought it, but he rather believed that he would sleep better tonight.
* * *
Chapter 24
It should have been an easy ride back to Fox Hall, but Georgiana hadn't counted on the thunderstorm rolling in. Early summer in Devonshire was always unpredictable, and when she saw the dark blue-gray clouds rolling in, she bit her lip.
“Should we take cover?” Tristan asked.
“It might miss us entirely. We can probably keep going.”
Tristan didn't look as if he believed her, but he nodded, bringing his gelding to follow hers.
Unfortunately, just a few hours after that, a sprinkling of rain had turned into a drenching downpour, and Georgiana could barely see the road in front of them. The rain was coming down hard and fast when she finally admitted defeat, and they turned off the road for a small inn.
This time, Georgiana offered no protest as Tristan checked them in as husband and wife, instead asking to have a meal sent up so that they could dine quietly. While Tristan was seeing to the horses, she stripped out of her soaked clothes and into a dark blue dress that was, if not entirely pressed, mostly dry.
Tristan came up with two mugs of steaming cider, setting them down next to her before turning toward his own bags. Georgiana caught herself watching him for a much longer period than she really should have before turning away, a light blush on her cheeks. He was such a handsome man. Life would be so much simpler if she wasn't so drawn to him, hadn't been so drawn to him from the beginning.
“Do you remember when we met?” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she cringed a little. There was something so very lost and needy in them. Tristan gave her an opaque look as he pulled a wrinkled shirt over his head and came to sit next to her on the small, slightly dusty divan next to the fire.
“Of course, I do. The harvest fair in Westburn. Why?”
There was no way for them to move away from each other, and as the rain sleeted down the windows, she moved closer to him instead. After a moment of hesitation, Tristan slid his arm around his shoulders.
The Duke's Hellion (Hart and Arrow) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 12
