The sound of her given name alone, without the artifice of title or formality, caused her to blink. Odd, she thought, how you can hear a name spoken every day of your life, and suddenly it is spoken in a way that gives it new meaning.
Tristan straightened and came around the side of the desk in a swift, fluid movement. He lifted her out of the chair and swept her into arms so strong she could not even think of resisting. His lips came down to hers, barely touching as he whispered an invitation. “If you must flirt with disaster, madam, allow me to show you a far more interesting way.”
His mouth claimed hers hungrily, as if he were starving for it. Indeed, Annica felt as if she were being devoured, and she relished the way his mouth moved on hers—nibbling, worshipping, demanding as his right more than any man had ever had the temerity to demand. So caught up was she in this new and exciting emotion, her response was to surrender to a force stronger than pride, stronger than fear, stronger than reason.
Her arms went up to cling to the powerful shoulders and her fingers fondled the silken curls at the back of his neck. A moan found its way to her throat when he lifted his lips from hers.
“Annica, Annica…” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I cannot believe the effect you have on me.” He kissed her again, in a series of insistent nibbles that urged her to open to him. When her lips parted, his tongue slipped through in an intimate invasion.
Was it the brandy that made her head spin, made rational thought impossible? Or was it Tristan’s consuming lips? Oh, he was right—this was a far more interesting way to flirt with disaster! Every instinct she possessed warned her to run—and quickly—before running was impossible.
Too late, a mocking little voice taunted as her heated blood flowed thick and sweet through her veins. She wanted more of Tristan’s mouth, and was ready to ask for it—for anything that would prolong the delicious burning in her belly and the delicate trembling of her limbs.
He gripped her waist and put her firmly away from him. “This is a first for me, Annica. It goes against my nature to deny myself something I want as badly as I want you, but this is neither the time nor the place for this pursuit.”
Denied the support of his arms, she sagged and caught her balance by gripping the edge of the desk. Bewildered, she glanced up at him and murmured, “The brandy…”
“No doubt.” He gave her a satisfied smile.
“I…I must return to the ballroom. Charity and the others will wonder what has become of me.”
“What has become of you, Annica?”
You! You have become of me! she wanted to cry. “I fear we have crossed a line in our arrangement, Lord Auberville. I wonder if it will be possible, now, to go back.”
“No, nor would I want to. Shall we begin to call it a friendship, Annica? And do you think you could learn to use my given name?”
“I’m not certain what you are asking…Tristan.”
“Neither am I. Believe me, I am as surprised as you by the nature of what happened here. I never expected you to have such a powerful effect on me. Go now, before I change my mind.”
Feeling like a child, she hurried to the door. She paused and turned to see him looking after her with a strange light in his eyes. Was she about to lose her heart? Never! Oh, never!
Shaken but amused, Tristan watched the library door close. Annica! She was everything he had ever wanted…to avoid.
He enjoyed her wit, her unique view of the world and her sense of humor. He adored the sweetly confused look on her face when he forced her to acknowledge the attraction between them, and he felt his body respond in the most primal way when he looked into eyes deepened with desire.
But Annica was unconventional. She was frank and forthright, intelligent and decisive. His instinct warned him that she would claim a greater depth of emotional commitment than he was prepared to give. But that simply was not possible. He had no more to give.
The distance he kept from others was his mother’s legacy. She had been flighty and frivolous, bestowing her affections where her whims led her. And her whims had led her to run away with a ship’s captain in search of…what? Adventure? Excitement? Or escape from the dull grind of life as a wife and mother? Her disloyalty and desertion had left him inconsolable. What a bitter lesson for a boy barely out of the nursery.
Women, unless they were as sensible and capable as a man, were a disloyal, self-indulgent lot. And that is why he needed to keep a part of himself separate, untouched and unmoved by that untrustworthy gender.
To complicate matters, Annica’s only instinct when faced with romance was to flee. Perhaps it was that very vulnerability that drew him. Something of her hidden past reached him and communed with his own pain.
The thought of Annica in pain caused a twitch in the scarred muscle beneath his left eye. Her father must have done extensive damage to mold her in such a manner. Tristan’s hands tightened into fists as he wished the man was alive—if only so he could kill him. He poured himself a stiff brandy instead and warmed it between his palms as he gazed into the amber depths.
He was faced with a difficult decision. Should he abandon his pursuit of Annica and resume his search for a suitable wife? Or redefine his requirements? The mere thought of replacing her with another woman caused him to sneer with disdain. The decision had been made before he’d posed the question.
Chapter Six
“It is not suitable for you to be associating with men of his ilk, Lady Annica.” Hodgeson’s concern could not be ignored. Annica sighed as he helped her down from the carriage in front of the Book Emporium.
“I am not having him over for tea, Hodgeson, and there is nothing wrong with his ‘ilk.’” Annica closed her rose-bud-embroidered parasol and tucked a stray wisp of dark hair into her pink bonnet. “Mr. Bouldin and I have a business arrangement.”
“That is what you have said regarding your relationship with Lord Auberville, milady.”
Annica tilted her chin upward. “It is not the same thing at all.”
“My point precisely, milady. Which?”
“Which what?”
Hodgeson look confused. “Which is a business relationship, and which is the other?”
“Other what?” Annica frowned.
Hodgeson closed his eyes and cleared his throat. “Never mind, milady.”
Relieved that her ploy of confusing him had worked again, Annica nodded. “I shall not be long, Hodgeson.” She smoothed her ivory muslin dress, dotted like her parasol with pink rosebuds, and left Hodgeson standing by the carriage.
She caught sight of her friend near a stack of books in the reference section. “Good morning, Charity.”
Charity smiled and closed the book she had been examining to show Annica the title. “Medical books are so very…educational, are they not?”
“Have you been studying the diagrams again?”
Charity winked.
“Is Mr. Bouldin here yet?”
“Behind the history shelves.”
They browsed in that direction, looking for all the world as if they had nothing on their minds but finding a book of poetry. At last they flanked a rough-looking man in dark, nondescript clothing.
“What do you have for us, Mr. Bouldin?” Annica whispered.
“I’m ’avin’ a bit o’ trouble, milady. That last bloke—Wilkes—I cannot pin the goods on him. Ain’t no one left what can tattle on ’im, if ye catch my drift.”
Annica nodded. “I do, indeed. It was an unavoidable complication, Mr. Bouldin. Keep at it. Someone knows something and, sooner or later, they will tell. Roger Wilkes was the last friend Farmingdale had.”
“’E’s the likely villain, milady,” Bouldin agreed. “’E ain’t got the same ’abits that Farmingdale ’ad, but ’e ’angs out at the right places. Gambling ’ells, brothels, opium dens.”
“Faith!” Charity exclaimed.
Bouldin shifted his weight uneasily. He glanced behind him and then peeked over the books on the shelf to the other side. Satisfied
that they were private, he met Annica’s eyes. “That other name you gave me, milady? Mr. Geoffrey Morgan? There’s something afoot there, and it ain’t good. If it don’t concern you, leave it alone.”
“Is it dangerous, or merely unpleasant?”
“Both, milady. And illegal besides. I ’aven’t got all the particulars. I did as I told ye—hired more runners an’ put my partner on it.”
“If he is a danger to others, we must be forewarned. Continue your investigation until your findings are conclusive.”
“If you say so, milady. Me and Renquist will follow this one an’ Wilkes full-time.”
Annica fished in her reticule and brought forth several sovereigns. “You will be needing this for the extra runners. Thank you, Mr. Bouldin. I knew I could count on you. Shall we meet here Friday next? Same time?”
“Aye, milady.” Bouldin tipped his hat and moved away.
“Now, suppose you tell me what you are up to, ’Nica Sayles,” Charity said when they were alone.
“I have simply observed someone giving our Constance the eye. I thought we should be aware of any potential problems.”
“Who?”
“Geoffrey Morgan. If I recall correctly, he was in town when Sarah was attacked, and left town shortly after. Perhaps that is coincidence, perhaps not. The point is that he is so deucedly secretive. One does not become secretive unless one has something to hide. I hope Mr. Bouldin will be able to discover what Mr. Morgan’s game is before Constance’s heart is broken.”
“I have seen her dance with Roger Wilkes and Lord Tristan, as well, though it’s obvious she favors Mr. Morgan. Even though she has been caught up tracking down Frederika, she makes time for him. They are becoming quite an item, you know. The on dit has it that he will offer for her soon. I think it is better if she favors Mr. Morgan—” Charity smiled “—because I think Tristan Sinclair favors someone else.”
“Oh? Who?”
“A dark, sultry beauty. Names are not being mentioned, of course. It is still too soon.”
“How long has this been whispered?”
“Since you were seen leaving the Grays’ library a bit flustered last night, and Lord Tristan a little while later.”
“Lord!” Annica sighed. “How will I ever hush this up?”
“I am not certain you should. After all, it isn’t as if Auberville is déclassé.” Charity paused dramatically. “In fact, I think your reputation could benefit from the hint of a thaw.”
“I am puzzled at how society can lose interest in something so quickly and yet retain it in their memory until hell freezes. But never mind. We have other business to be about.”
“Ah, yes. Where are we to meet with the others?”
“St. James’s Street—the bastion of English manhood.”
“Gads! There must be a more receptive route.”
“The unreceptiveness of the route is what makes it so desirable,” Annica said.
Charity squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Once more into the breach, dear friend!” she paraphrased the Bard.
Annica opened her reticule and took out two wide red ribbons. Bold white lettering proclaimed Enfranchisement For Women on one and Social Reform on the other. “Which do you want, Charity?”
“I shall take Social Reform.”
They slipped the sashes over their heads to wear diagonally across their chests. With a reassuring smile at one another, they stepped out of the bookstore and onto the street.
Hodgeson was nearly apoplectic when he saw them. “Milady,” he said, gesturing at the banners, “what is this?”
Annica looked him straight in his rheumy blue eyes. “What is what, Hodgeson?”
A long moment passed while the man tried to speak and no sounds came forth. Annica read the emotions flickering across his face and knew he was debating the wisdom of argument.
Finally he asked, “Will Miss Wardlow be riding with us, milady?”
Disgruntled-looking men came to stand at the entrances to the clubs lining the fashionable street. Women and children paused to watch while tradesmen called taunts and threw rotten vegetables.
Annica ducked a tomato that whizzed past her left ear and splattered on Hodgeson’s black jacket. His usually stoic expression gave way to an outraged snarl.
“Impertinent pup!” Hodgeson shouted at the miscreant, using his placard stating Women Are People, Too to swat the moldy onion that followed.
“Are you not glad we armed you, Hodgeson?” Annica smiled. “Would you like me to tell you what your advertisement says?”
The servant turned back to her, fighting to regain his composure. “No, milady. I very much fear this may be one of those times that ignorance is bliss.”
“I told you to wait at Hyde Park—”
“I could never allow you and Miss Wardlow to be seen in such a place unescorted.”
A commotion from the front line of marching women drew their attention. Several men on horseback broke through the line and scattered the protesters. Outraged screams met this tactic, and the marchers fought back using their signs and placards.
Shouting grew louder and the press of the crowd closed around them. Anger and fear spiraled to hysteria. Annica reached out to lay hold of Charity’s arm, but the surge of retreating people separated them. Limping, Hodgeson, too, was swept away in Charity’s direction.
Annica called to them but her voice was lost in the cacophony of neighing horses and frightened shouts. A rough hand at the small of her back pushed her deeper into the crowd. She tripped over a fallen sign and fought to keep her balance.
Bloody hell! She is bent on self-destruction! How she has managed thus far to keep from teetering over the brink into ruination, I cannot imagine. Do I want to spend the rest of my life snatching her away from the yawning jaws of disaster?
Tristan applied his elbow to the rib cage of a bully boy engaged in purse-snatching in the confusion. Using the butt of his cane, he made steady progress toward the pretty pink bonnet.
Annica’s parasol came up to swing at a dark, bearded man who appeared intent on dragging her away. Alarm was quickly followed by an urgency Tristan hadn’t felt since standing on the deck of the Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar. Ah, but he had to credit Annica with courage. She was not afraid to fight for her convictions, and she stood ready to pay them more than mere lip service.
A second man, as deliberate as the first, pushed her from behind, forcing her to fall toward the bearded man. She staggered, regained her balance and swung her parasol again, catching both men across the midsection. The abuse proved too much for the substitute cudgel and it snapped in the middle. The pink fabric held it together, but the end dangled uselessly as she swung it again.
“Misogynists!” she cursed over the melee.
Her bonnet fell back, dangling by the ribbons. Indignation burned bright spots on her cheeks and the fire of battle lit her evergreen eyes. She was stunning! Tristan could almost pity the man who had provoked such a response from the formidable Lady Annica.
“Annica!” he shouted. “Over here!”
She turned toward his voice and was bumped again. The bearded man was rather too single-minded in his targeting of Annica, Tristan thought. He applied his elbow to a few more rib cages and a ruthless iron backhand swept several men out of his way.
“Keep ’er off the streets and at ’ome, guv’nor,” one tradesman yelled from the curb. Tristan wondered if he’d just heard for the first time what he would be hearing the rest of his life.
Royal guardsmen rode into the free-for-all, adding to the chaos. Knowing he had scant seconds before all hell broke loose, Tristan closed the gap separating him from Annica. Bending and throwing her over his shoulder, he made his way to the curb and ducked down a side street, where his coach was waiting.
“Tristan!” Her voice was muffled against his back. “Put me down! Charity and Hodgeson! I cannot leave them!”
“They were on the other side of the street, out of the fray,” he told her.
“Hodgeson saw me coming after you. They were heading for your carriage.”
“I must go back—”
The thunder of a pistol shot reverberated off the buildings to either side of them.
“We are not going back, Annica.” He threw the door to his coach open and propelled her onto the cushioned seat. Following fast behind, he tapped the roof with his cane and called, “Away, Davis! Go ’round the long way. Keep off of St. James’s Street.”
The coach lurched as the driver cracked his whip. Annica fell off balance and gasped as Tristan gripped her shoulders.
“Before we begin the argument, Annica, I want you to know that I do not object to your sentiment, only your method.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Do you not?”
She blushed and dropped her gaze to her lap. “I cannot think this is any of your business, Lord Auberville.”
“Tristan,” he instructed. “And I’ve made you my business.”
“I will not countenance your interference.”
“Interference? Should I have turned my back when I saw you in the street under attack and about to be trampled?”
“No! Indeed, I appreciate your assistance, but not the assumption that you have the right to dictate my activities.”
“Shall we say monitor your activities? Your safety and well-being are my chief concern. That does not mean I wish to schedule your activities, or to edit them.” Her bonnet still hung down her back on tangled ribbons. He set the bonnet to rights and untangled the ribbons. “I only want you to be more careful.”
“I am not accustomed to accounting for my whereabouts and interests. I do not think I like it. Furthermore, the issue of rights for females is quite dear to my heart. I—”
“I will not permit you to divert me from my original topic—your method of pursuing female enfranchisement.”
“Your objection to my method, you mean.” Annica tilted her chin in a defiant gesture.
“As you will,” he conceded.
“But you have absolutely no right to interfere with anything I may or may not choose to do.”
A Wild Justice Page 6
