by Darcy Burke
All he needed was an heir. Could he do that? Could he vow to take a lady into his world, get her with child, all to fill a need of the family? Women normally demanded husbands who at least pretended the role of doting mate and many men portrayed that image in public, even with their mistresses housed a short distance away. Heavens, he couldn’t manage a mistress, let alone the idea of a wife…
One thing stood clear in his mind. He couldn’t marry for love. Never love. That pain still stung too deep and he swore not to repeat it. Marry for money. Marry for producing an heir. Not for love.
And then there was his other obligation. The woman he promised to look after. Christ, that’d take time to track her down. Perhaps he should marry her…the thought, though, was appalling. He’d promised to take care of her…the weight of it heavy on him. That and find the man responsible for Grifton’s death.
“Tris, come, let me introduce you to my wife and her friends,” George said, directing Harry and Tristan along the wall, skirting the dance floor.
Tristan dutifully fell into line with his friends. With another sip of his drink, he determined to set his problems aside. For one night, in the presence of beautiful women, he’d avoid the darkness that always waited for him.
They approached a group of four young ladies, fanning themselves against the rising heat in the ballroom. The ladies all smiled at them as George introduced his wife, the one in the pale blue dress, and she in turned presented them to her friends.
The lady in the pink silk caught Tristan immediately. Her gaze froze when it landed on him and Harry. Her jaw tensed, the move subtle, but he caught it. Her blue eyes glared intently at them, questioning almost, as if, what did they think they were staring at? A lady of headstrong opinions and desires, Tristan guessed correctly. It made him wonder what made her so mad at meeting them. As he bent to kiss the back of her hand, her skin was as cool as her appearance.
He smiled.
The ice queen may be the type of woman who could put up with him. Beautiful enough for him to desire and cold enough that any lingering emotions of attachment didn’t exist. Ideal for the man who wanted nothing from home.
Chapter Two
Evelyn had watched him across the room and, despite rising fear, could not break her gaze. He looked like a Roman god leaning against the pillar, his face carved from marble. A dark-colored marble, not the pale marble so enamored by gentlemen of the ton. Angular cheekbones, square jawline, but his nose was slightly off center as though it had failed to avoid another’s fist. His dark hair wasn’t as long as fashion dictated—in fact, it seemed unusually short from what she could gather. The gaslights, though, showed it wasn’t entirely black but had a gleam to it, as if it had a touch of gold there. Broad shoulders, thick chest from the expanse of his frock coat, he looked huge compared to most. A beast freed of the jungle, she mused.
When he tipped his glass, downing the contents, she watched his throat move up and down in a reflexive movement. It was then she noticed the scar. The marring of a perfect form, slight but noticeable. From his jawline, close to his ear and down to his throat. It was jagged-looking, brutal. It should have repulsed her, yet it only intrigued her more, a minor flaw in the bronze-tone marble.
Eyes fixed on him, she barely heard the buzz of the voices around her, like bees in the springtime. When her Adonis finished his last swallow and lowered his chin, his gaze fell upon her. His emerald eyes appeared to find her among the rest of the crush, but she knew, in reality, he didn’t see her. No man heeded the disgraced daughter of a baron. Well, except those whose eyes lingered longer than seemly on certain areas of her person. This man, though, didn’t. In fact, he leaned back against the pillar, aloof.
She closed her eyes, a knot tightening in her middle. He was stunning in his black pants, cutaway and sapphire waistcoat. Her hands clenched, and a small snap of her fan’s ivory handle sounded before she released her grip. He, along with his compatriots, walked toward her and her friends, his gait fluid and graceful, like a cat approaching its prey. Heartbeat racing, she closed her eyes. Composure was needed. Breathe!
“Dear,” said George Sinclair, taking his wife’s arm, “Look who I have found.”
George’s wife, plain Emily Sinclair, smiled. “My lords, what a pleasure to see you. Miss Winston and Miss Hurstine, allow me to present Major St. James, now the Marquis of Wrenworth, and Lord Martinwood.”
Evelyn grew hot and flushed before a chill took hold. Did Lady Northman just refer to that handsome man with a military rank? A shiver raced down her spine as her breath took flight. Fear and excitement wrestled for control. He might know of Richard. Or, the devil inside her snarled, he could be like the others, those men who haunted her dreams, forcing her to submit. She fought to contain her reaction. Luckily, no one appeared to notice. She forced herself to breathe, her body eventually stilling.
The blonde man grinned as he took Emily’s hand for a light kiss. “Always outstanding, Lady Northman.”
A snort came from Adonis. “My lady, you look well.”
Emily’s face blushed red as her husband interceded, “Yes, and all is well, considering.”
The newcomers looked puzzled. Men. Evelyn happily smiled to herself.
George chuckled.
“Gentlemen, my lady’s condition is, ahem, delicate,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Both men took a second but quickly recovered, apologizing.
Emily’s warmth lit the area. “It is fine, my lords. But please keep it to yourselves; otherwise, I’ll be shown to the nearest chaise.”
Evelyn rolled her eyes. Sarah threw a quick jab into her side. A glance at her friend reminded her this was a social affair, not family, and polite manners prevailed. It wasn’t as though she’d totally forgotten, just that her last two years hadn’t been spent at balls, soirees or parties. No, the country estate meant…
Evelyn’s mind snapped back again at the sound of her name. She hadn’t been paying attention, and a streak of panic raced through her veins. She clutched her broken fan and managed a small smile.
The blond one, Lord Harry, no Lord Martinwood, stepped forward, taking Sarah’s hand and giving it a small kiss. “My lady, ‘tis a pleasure.” A warming grin spread across his lips.
Despite his handsome face and impeccable manners, Harry’s touch did nothing for Evelyn. Sarah, on the other hand, fawned, her fan open and rapidly moving, blushing at his attention.
His friend simply nodded. Cool as marble, he did not duplicate his friend’s motions but merely said, “Ladies.”
Harry took Sarah’s dance card and smiled. “As you are not engaged for the next set, may I have this dance?” The girl barely nodded when he took her hand and disappeared onto the dance floor.
Evelyn swallowed as the other man watched her. Then he offered her his hand.
“May I dance with you, Miss Hurstine?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her friends had retreated, leaving her little choice but to accept. Refusing him was inadvisable—Sarah and the rest would be on her for doing so, even though her instincts warned her not to trust him. No, she was here to dance and be social. He appeared amenable, and surrounded by so many people, she wouldn’t be alone with him. Plus, the room was well lit. Only a slight scream would get everyone’s attention. Definitely, she was safe. She gently laid her hand in his.
***
Tristan watched her small, white, leather-gloved hand come to rest on his. Even through the fabric, the stiff fingers cooled his warm palm. Interesting. She was an ice queen. He could hardly wait to learn whether her disposition was too. With lips curving into a grin, his fingers wrapped around hers.
“Enchante,” he murmured, the French churl flowed easily from his mouth. One of many languages he learned over the years. His specialty—an ability to pick up the common dialect of wherever he was. A gift he’d twisted for the sake of Her Majesty and the Empire…The darkness beckoned to him. Silently, he beat the demon back. Not here, not now!
An amazing feat, one he’d congratulate himself on later with drink in hand. He maintained his rakish grin and managed to avoid squashing her fingers while escorting her onto the dance floor.
Spinning her before him, he raised her hand and placed his other lightly on her back. She took her position, her other gloved hand attempting to raise to his shoulder. But her petite height and the confines of her gown with its off-shoulder neckline prevented her from reaching that high. Poor lady, he mused inwardly. Fashion could be such a devil. His grin grew.
The orchestra began playing a waltz. Tristan took a step to his left, guiding her with him. From the boning in her corset to the stays in her bodice, Evelyn’s clothing encased her upper body. She was shielded from the warmth of his hand, his arm and his chest. The fancy skirt, with all its material swept up in front and bustled and a horsehair crinoline underneath, also formed another barrier. For the love of God, dress the army this way and no harm would come to the soldiers. Tristan chuckled absently.
The lady frowned, an eyebrow raised. “Dancing with me makes you laugh?”
He glanced down and discovered her sapphire blue eyes sparkled. The Ice Queen’s question hinted at a sense of humor and warmth. It made him wonder whether she was warm in other ways as well. His cock twitched at this thought. Quickly he tried to recall the idea of her being an icicle before he embarrassed himself.
“Not at all, Miss Hurstine. Please accept my apologies. It was a momentary lapse of thought regarding the design of ladies’ clothing.” He twisted, bending her back for a split second over his arm and then back upright before him.
She gasped in surprise, stiff in his arms. He grimaced. So much for bed sport with her…Once again, another mental shake of his brains. A bride. An English bride to bed and produce a proper heir with, not another mistress. She appeared fragile, like a rose, but even with her floating in his arms, he sensed her backbone. There was a strength there, albeit well concealed. Strength to protect her from the rigor of the ton’s gossip and duplicity.
“You dance very well for a soldier,” her light feminine voice commented.
He blinked. She seemed to snarl the last word. His rose did not like the military. “But of course,” he began. “Officer’s learn well. We are gentlemen of the finest measure.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Of course, you would be an officer, considering your title. Please excuse me. I’m just not accustomed to…” her voice failed.
The tremor down her spine became noticeable under his touch. A look of fear flashed in her eyes and disappeared like smoke, a quick smile taking its place. It intrigued him because it was reminiscent of a mask, like the one he wore all the time. But what would a proper young English lady have to fear? Was she not here hunting for a husband? All smiles and charm, a promise of happiness in an angelic frame? The momentary anxiety that flashed in her eyes he’d seen before in the eyes of soldiers on the battlefield but not ladies at a ball.
“If I may ask, are you home for good?”
He laughed, spinning her to the outer edge of the floor. Ah, yes, the question of whether he’d sold his commission was to be expected. He wouldn’t lie—he needed a wife, and the money marriage would bring to him would help extend his career, but no reason to tell her that yet. “I’ve gained a title, hence I need a wife.”
As they danced, she moved like quicksilver in his hands, flexible despite the stiff stays. Floating. Like a feather in the air. His ice queen warmed him inside.
“Then, my lord, you should ask Lady Sarah for a dance,” she commented, averting her eyes from his as they turned.
“Really?”
“Yes, she is truly a perfect match for you,” Evelyn said. “Don’t you find her beautiful?”
Tristan frowned. His partner was beautiful, stunning, even if she appeared cooler than London in January. He looked to where she was staring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lady dancing with Harry. They appeared to be having a good time, laughing as they turned the floor. But then again, Harry never failed in getting others to laugh. No doubt he’d get Tris’ partner to as well…and that thought irked Tristan. He wanted to see her smile again. It was quite beautiful.
He glanced down at the woman in his arms as they made their final turn. “Yes, she is lovely.”
She gave him a pleased look and nodded her head. “By all means, you should ask her to dance, my lord.” And with that statement, as the music stopped, she stepped out of his arms and lifted her hand, waiting for his escort off the floor.
Quelling a glare at the twist of events, of being forced toward another, he returned her to the sides, bowed, thanking her for the dance and walked away befuddled and angry. Where was Northman and his brandy?
***
Evelyn watched him storm off and her insides tightened, as if he’d been the one dumping her as a lackluster dancer. Of course, that wasn’t the case. No, it was the relief of him leaving her be or maybe her regret at having pushed him away. She blinked at that thought. Better to have shunned any more attention than allow him closer. No one was to get that close to her…again. A shudder raced through her at the thought.
“Miss Hurstine, how was your dance?”
She turned. Sarah stood, smiling. Apparently, the young Lord Martinwood made an impression.
“It was charming,” Evelyn replied.
“Charming? You danced with one of the most handsome men in the room, the two of you floated as if on air, and all you can say is charming?”
Handsome—yes. Graceful? She’d have to give him that as well. A grin stole across her lips before she knew it. “Yes, my dear. And yours?”
Sarah sighed, closing her eyes. “Wonderful.”
Evelyn laughed and took Sarah by the arm. “Good. Now, let us make ourselves presentable. Your dance card needs to be filled for you to get that brooch.”
They stood to the side, near Lady Swearingen, not far from the doorway to the refreshments. Perhaps too obvious, but her objective was very clear–to make sure Sarah was noticed. She hoped the girl attracted enough suitors that they’d be able to end their Season early. Tonight was the first event they’d attended and, for Evelyn, that was enough. Considering what occurred two years ago…
The skin on the back of her neck prickled, the hairs standing upright. She shivered. It was then she heard the deep voice and Sarah’s shrill laugh. Fidgeting with her broken fan, she glanced up and found the Marquis of Wrenworth before them. Her eyebrows knitted, surprised he was so near again. Hadn’t he understood the clear slight? Her thoughts jumbled as a very small voice deep inside her wished she could rescind those words. Then she heard him offer Sarah his hand.
Unexpected jealousy flared through her. This was exactly what she wanted—to see darling Sarah be admired and hopefully courted by England’s finest bachelors. And the new Marquis of Wrenworth fit the bill plus more. Then why did it anger her that he followed her suggestion so soon? With a forced smile, wishing Sarah to enjoy herself, Evelyn refused to answer the unspoken question.
He was just like all the rest and worse. He was English, a nobleman and, the most condemning, an officer in the Royal Army. Damn them all!
Chapter Three
Pemberton Manor
“Good afternoon, Brighton,” Evelyn greeted the butler who held the front door open for her. Home. She was home. Relief washed over her at the thought. No more façade here, she sighed, as she pulled her gloves off and reached to pluck the hatpin out of the expensive and worthless pillbox on her head.
“Mama! Mama!”
The squeal was followed by the pattering of tiny feet. A little girl, dressed in pettifortes under a blue-striped dress ran toward her, the auburn ringlets and ribbons bobbing with each step. Evelyn laughed, bending to grab the toddler who lunged for her. She grunted at the impact and hugged the child.
“Ah, my pretty girl,” she murmured, kissing the giggling child on the cheek.
“Ma’am, I apologize for her racing through…” a woman in black and white hur
ried after the child.
Evelyn snorted. “Miss Albright, it’s fine,” she reassured the nanny. She missed her urchin. The little girl, ragdoll tight in her hands, clung to Evelyn as they hugged. Evelyn smiled, pulling her head back. “How is Miss Daisy today?”
The toddler’s face scrunched as she struggled to find the words. “Mis’ K’ty.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. How is Miss Kitty today?”
“Ma’am,” the nanny curtsied. “It is truly a bad habit to allow her to continue.”
Grinning at the child, whose tiny fingers traced her face, Evelyn didn’t even look at the nanny. “Perhaps, but I like it.”
Before long, if her father had his way, it would not be allowed. What man would court a ruined lady? Whose ill-begotten child wasn’t kept in her place, far away from London? To not be seen, let alone heard? But the little rusty-haired angel in her arms wiggled, her topaz eyes staring hard at Evelyn. She smiled and kissed the cherub’s forehead.
“How is my little girl today?”
The child giggled as she poked Evelyn’s nose. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Mary, you don’t do that.”
“Ah huh,” Mary mumbled back as she tried to jab her finger into Evelyn’s lips.
“Ma’am.”
Evelyn spun to the voice behind her. Lucy, the little maid and one of the young ones, looking half afraid, fought the impulse to fidget as she stood off to the side. Inside, Evelyn’s stomach tightened. Lucy looked like a lamb led to slaughter when Father sent her to get his daughter. With a deep sigh, she kissed Mary’s forehead and handed her to the nanny.
“Mary, be good for Miss Albright and I’ll see you shortly.”
The little girl squirmed, her whine audible. She called for Evelyn as her nursemaid carried her away. Evelyn knew she couldn’t go to her, not now. Not when the dragon called, or so she’d begun to think of her father.
