“We are not discussing rights, nor are we discussing political or social issues. We are discussing risks. Can you stick to that subject, please, and not try to confuse the issue, nor try to divert me from the topic? It will never work, Annica. I have far too much experience in negotiations.”
She gave him a grudging look of respect and settled back against the cushions. “What of the risks, m’lord?”
“They are unacceptable.”
“I weighed them beforehand and found them unavoidable and, therefore, acceptable.”
“You were nearly a casualty, Annica, and that would not have been acceptable.”
“There may be casualties. No cause worth winning ever came easily—or cheaply.” She leaned toward him in earnest. “My only recourse would have been to stay at home and allow the cause to go unheard. What progress would ever be made if those with courage enough did not speak out?”
Tristan considered her argument. He agreed that only courageous people could change the course of history, but he could not allow Annica to be a casualty. “That’s a bloody good defense, madam. Very well. You’ve convinced me of the necessity to wage your war, but you must be more prudent in choosing your battles. The march may have been necessary, but to carry it down St. James’s Street was ill-advised. I shall expect you to use better judgment in the future.”
She stared at him, a stunned look on her dirt-smudged face. He smoothed the dark tangles of hair away from her cheeks to tuck into her bonnet, and removed a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at the soiled spots. “What is it, Annica?”
“I am confounded if I know what just happened here.”
“We have discussed your political activities.”
“Are you not going to try to stop me? Are you not going to shout and threaten? Are you not going to dismiss my opinions and convictions as mere twaddle?”
“That would be a foolish mistake.”
“Yes. It would.”
“And I am no fool.”
“No, you are not.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him closely. “I perceive, in fact, that you are a different sort of man than I have ever known.”
“Ah, you’ve noticed.”
The brilliant smile she bestowed on him caused a quickening of his pulse and an ominous firming in his loins. He leaned down and nibbled lightly on her full lower lip. She sighed and gave herself over to him in a surrender so tenuous that he scarcely dared move. With no more tutelage than the previous evening, she brought her arms up to circle his neck, her eyes half closed with sensual delight.
“How is it you do this so well?” she whispered.
“Practice,” he murmured against her lips.
The sweet petals parted, inviting more intimate contact. He accepted, and tightened his arms about her, light-headed at her response. He’d taken bawds and virgins, courtesans and noblewomen, and he’d found many who could stir his blood, but he’d never encountered one who could touch his heart. He hadn’t believed himself capable of such bittersweet yearning.
“Mmm,” Annica breathed when he lifted his mouth from hers. “Then I must practice, too.”
“Allow me to assist you,” he said, intently aware of the softness of Annica’s breasts against his chest. He longed to lay her bare to his touch, press his lips to the sweet-scented flesh, taste the dew of her warmth and hear her chant his name in a litany of passion.
“Tristan, Tristan…teach me more,” she whispered as if in answer to his prayers.
The appeal took him by surprise. Obediently, he turned his attention to one delicate earlobe. When she shivered with delight, his body sprang to full readiness. His hand found its way to her soft bosom. The taut flesh firmed and pressed enticing little dots into his sensitive palm, arousing him more, inviting his mouth to taste that flesh, too.
“Annica, dear God…” he groaned, unable to hear his own voice over the thundering of blood through his veins.
Had she been anyone else, he’d have taken her that moment. But she was Annica Sayles, and he realized with fatal certainty that she was the woman he would marry. Capable or not, she amused him, challenged him and aroused him like no other woman had. And she deserved better than a hasty, uncomfortable coupling in a coach. But, God help him, he could take no more right now without taking it all.
Getting a firm grip on his emotions, he steadied his breathing and put her clothing to rights, trying to ignore the look of confusion on her pretty face. “Hodgeson and Miss Wardlow will be waiting.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Tristan met the deep liquid green of her eyes and his heart soared. He’d risk betrayal for that heady sensation. Yes…that was the word he wanted most to hear from her. A long moment passed while her embarrassed glance gave silent acknowledgment of what both were thinking.
“You’ve narrowly missed becoming another sort of casualty, Annica.” He dropped a yearning kiss on her swollen lips and smiled. “We shall have to be more careful in the future.”
“Or quicker.” She smiled, charming him completely.
Stripped to her chemise, Annica stood on a stool with her arms extended while Madame Marie draped a muslin pattern over her form. Immediately upon rejoining Charity and Hodgeson, she had decided that she needed a new gown. One Tristan had not seen.
Charity fingered a length of fine ivory silk shot with subtle stripes of gold metallic thread. “This is lovely stuff, ’Nica. ’Tis heavy enough to wear alone, yet light enough to cling. Auberville’s eyes will pop when he sees you in this!”
Annica worried her lower lip. “D’you think so, Charity? He is not easy to impress.”
“Yes, definitely. In case you had not noticed, you impress him. Have you been flirting with him?”
Gazing at her reflection in the wide mirror in Madame Marie’s fitting room, Annica was horrified to see a crimson blush spread from the low cut of her chemise up to the roots of her hair. “I am not certain, but I think so. At least, that has been my intention, but I am sorely ignorant.”
Charity laughed. “Though you have had precious little experience in that feminine art, I am certain you have mastered it as quickly as everything you set your mind to doing.”
Annica acknowledged the compliment with a wince. “I wonder if I am not in over my head, Charity. The last thing I want is to be shackled, anyway. I cannot think of a logical reason to entertain his interest, if, indeed, he is interested.”
“He would be utterly unsuitable for me, ’Nica, because he would intimidate me. There is something dangerous about him that puts one in mind of an animal about to pounce. As if he watches and waits for just the right moment, and then—poof! But you are his equal. He is the man for you if you want one who can make your heart pound and—”
“Charity! That’s enough! You know I shall never marry.”
Madame Marie, kneeling at Annica’s feet, spat a mouthful of pins into a dish and contributed, “Not every romance must end in marriage, eh? Pleasure does not depend upon a ring. Eet can be more…exciting weethout, eef you take my meaning.”
Annica pondered Marie’s words. Could the modiste be suggesting…surely not! But the notion was intriguing. She already knew that Auberville had indulged in discreet liaisons. If one intended never to marry, what was the harm in—no, that did not bear thinking about. Such thoughts made Annica’s limbs go weak. To the contrary, she resolved to avoid Auberville except in the performance of her contract with him. Once that was completed, she would finish with him entirely. Then, perhaps, her persistent unsettling dreams would end.
Chapter Seven
“Why have you been avoiding me, m’lady?” Tristan asked as he set her easel up on the riverbank. Finishing his task, he turned to her. “I could have sworn you actually ran when you caught sight of me last night at the Abbington ball.”
“How odd,” she hedged, glancing over her shoulder toward their chaperons, Julius and Charity. She laid out her paint box and brushes and unfolded a small stool with a canvas seat. “I am not t
he sort to run away, m’lord.”
“Are you not?” He lowered his voice intimately. “I suspect you have spent the past several years running from anything that comes a little too close to your heart, Lady Annica. And the past several days running from me.”
A flash of fear passed over her face. “That is absurd.”
“Not absurd in the least.”
“I…I have been distracted of late. Very busy.”
“You are making excuses. If you have reservations regarding our relationship, you must say so.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side.
“To be honest, I am a little confused by what has happened between us. Had I known what lay ahead…But how could we possibly have known what lay ahead for us?”
Tristan smiled. He had known. With the exception of Annica’s “accidents,” he had planned it all. He’d been patient, allowing her the luxury of time, if not escape. Her propensity to run from the possibility of being hurt troubled him most. He understood the instinct, but he could not yet risk trusting her to stay with him through good times and bad.
He watched the dusky-pink mouth move in a faltering attempt at explanation, and felt himself being intensely drawn to it. When her tongue slipped nervously over her lips to moisten them, he felt a thickening in his groin. He fought the impulse to press her back against the soft bed of moss and wildflowers and lay her bare to his gaze. He wanted to crush her against him and plunder that innocent mouth with his own.
“I had not thought to ever have such a friendship,” Annica was saying. “To the contrary, I have done my best to avoid it. I have filled my life with matters of greater importance. Social reform. The Seamen’s Widows and Orphans Trust. St. Anne’s Orphanage. Women’s suffrage. Literature. My art…”
He leaned closer, forcing her to tilt her head upward to meet his gaze. “Those things are commitments, Annica—duties and convictions. They relate to your beliefs, not your needs.”
“I…I have obligations.”
“As do I,” he said, trying not to think of the fact that he should be engaged in important international business today, and not in wooing a beguiling little sprite.
“I fear how my life would change if I allowed…if I made a different sort of commitment.”
He smiled, vastly encouraged to hear that she had at least entertained the notion. “Do you fear you will not be able to find time for all the things in your life? That you will have to make difficult choices?”
She took her seat on the little stool and busied herself with laying out her paints and brushes. “I am not afraid of difficult choices, Auberville. I have made them ere now. I am afraid I will not have any choices—that they will be taken from me and made for me without my consent. I am certain I needn’t explain a married woman’s status in the eyes of the law. Any woman with common sense would have reservations about that.”
“Is it so very difficult for you to trust, Annica?”
“Life has taught me an opposite lesson. If it were not difficult for me to trust, I would be a very silly woman.”
“What is your secret, Annica?” he murmured. “Who hurt you?”
She seemed on the verge of giving him an answer, knitting her brow in fretful lines and pressing her lips together as if to speak. But she shook her head instead. “I do not know what you mean, m’lord.”
He would swear it was tears that made her eyes sparkle in the sunlight. “I think you do, but I will not press.”
She sighed and turned her gaze to the flowering plant she had come to paint. “I would appreciate that, Auberville.”
He raised an eyebrow and watched her for a long moment. He had thought that exposing her self-delusions would break through the walls she had built, but he could not bear to see her pain. Perhaps a strategic retreat was in order. Given enough freedom, enough rope, she’d come around. Meanwhile, he could use a little time to pursue his business for the Foreign Office.
“Mayhap you are correct, m’lady,” he said, backing away. “We took a wrong turning. Thank God it has not gone so far that we cannot be friends. We can remain friends, can we not?”
“Y-yes.” Annica’s reply was so soft he barely heard it. Her look of sweet confusion was more promising than her words. “I…I hope we shall always be friends.”
“Quite. We are agreed, then.” He placed her canvas on the easel and stepped away. “I shall go sit with Lingate and Miss Wardlow. Call if you have need of anything.”
He gained some satisfaction from the fact that Annica kept glancing in his direction throughout the remainder of the afternoon. Ah yes, she would miss him. She would miss the excitement of their kisses and the challenge of flying close to the flame without being burned. Soon. She’d be ready soon.
That night, at the Sunderlands’ soiree, Annica found the opportunity she had been awaiting. She straightened her back, assumed as sweet a smile as she was capable of, and advanced on the hapless man. Geoffrey Morgan, his long slender form draped in elegant black and silver, was leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb and jingling the coins in his pocket as he studied the Sunderlands’ gaming room and its occupants.
“Ah, Mr. Morgan! How fortuitous. I have been hoping to find you. A friend told me you are somewhat of an expert at vingt et un, and that if I wished to learn the game, I must learn it from you. Please? ’Twill only take a few moments. I am a quick study. I’ve already learned faro and whist.”
He turned and gave her a small bow. If he was dismayed, he did a good job of hiding it. That was a sign in his favor. “I shall be happy to oblige, Lady Annica. I wonder, though, why you need to learn vingt et un.”
“I foolishly promised to accommodate my cousin in a friendly game with favors as the wager. If I know Gilbert, he will have me fetching and polishing his boots, grooming his horse, writing his correspondence and doing his lessons. He gave me a week to learn, but I forgot until tonight. Our game is tomorrow.”
Mr. Morgan swept one arm toward an empty table and inclined his head, his hazel eyes glittering with amusement. “At least you have chosen a fairly uncomplicated game. If you can count cards and keep track, you should do well.”
He held a chair for her, then took the one opposite. He picked up the deck of cards from the center of the table and began shuffling.
“I ought to have asked if you have other obligations, Mr. Morgan,” Annica said after a short pause. “I did not mean to take you away from anything of import.”
“What could be more important than saving a lady from a conniving cousin?” He grinned.
He dealt two hands, faceup, and explained the rudiments of the game, the odds and the rules. “D’you think you have it?”
“I believe so, Mr. Morgan.”
“I shall be happy to oblige you in a few practice hands,” he offered.
She smiled and inclined her head as a servant brought Morgan a glass of brandy. He did not appear to be the least bit nervous or uncomfortable with her attention, and that was another sign in his favor. She took her time deliberating over her cards to allow him ample opportunity to drink, fidget or otherwise betray himself.
“How kind of you to help me, sir. Considering the company you keep, I almost expected you to leave me to my own devices.”
“What company is that?”
“Harris, Taylor, Farmingdale, Wilkes…”
Mr. Morgan straightened and his smile faded. “You are behind the times. I have ceased keeping their company.”
“Oh? I had not noticed.”
“I was never really one of that crowd.” Morgan dealt another hand, looking uncomfortable for the first time.
His terse reply did not give her much to work with. Sarah had been assaulted last All Hallows Eve. When had Mr. Morgan broken his association with the others? Annica sighed, not liking the necessity of being a bully, but persisted for Sarah’s sake. “I’d have sworn I saw you arrive with Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Farmingdale at the Worthingdon ball but a few weeks past.”
“Not I, m
y lady. ’Twas early October when I last sallied forth with them.”
That was telling. Had he ceased association when the others began planning their perfidy? She tried a different tack. “Oh, well—no matter. I have not seen Mr. Taylor or Mr. Harris around of late, nor Mr. Farmingdale. I danced with Mr. Wilkes recently, and he has asked permission to keep my company.”
“Believe me when I say that Roger Wilkes is not your sort.”
“Why do you say so?”
“You have a reputation for being sensible as well as intelligent, Lady Annica. Wilkes is neither. I cannot imagine what you would have in common.”
Suppressing a smile, Annica lifted a corner to peek at her card and tapped the back. “Another, please.”
“I beg your pardon, but that would be ill-advised.”
“Trust me, sir, I need the extra card.”
“Not that. Keeping company with Wilkes would be ill-advised.”
“Why? For the crime of being a little dimwitted?”
“Trust me, Lady Annica—keep clear of Roger Wilkes. You must listen to me in this.”
“I cannot doubt your sincerity, sir, but I have given my consent to his offer to escort me tomorrow evening. I would require a compelling reason to reconsider.” She shrugged one shoulder in an attempt at nonchalance. “Were there such a reason, I would certainly acquiesce.”
A hard look settled over his features. “Suffice it to say that you must not go with Mr. Wilkes.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Auberville,” he acknowledged.
Auberville! Annica turned in her chair and looked up to find Tristan standing behind her. She felt her heart leap and her mouth went dry. How much had he heard?
“Morgan.” He nodded to the other man.
“Lady Annica was just telling me that she has decided to entertain Roger Wilkes.”
Tristan’s chin went up as if he’d been slapped. “Is that true, Lady Annica?”
“I…I was considering it.” She glanced away at the look of utter disbelief on Tristan’s face.
“If you are considering such a thing to spite me, I assure you it will not be necessary.”
A Wild Justice Page 7
