Courting the Country Miss

by Donna Hatch

  “Admit it; men find you attractive.”

  “The only men interested in me are the ones you’ve put up to it.”

  He affected a wounded expression. “Not true. I’ve done nothing but make introductions. Their interest is genuine.”

  “Tristan…I appreciate what you’re trying to do but you must see what a futile effort it is to bring me to the attention of a man like Lord Bradbury. No one of his rank would have any interest in the daughter of a simple country squire.”

  “Have faith in your feminine allure, Tish. You’re well-respected in the ton and lovely to boot. He’d be mad not to consider you. Besides, people have crossed bigger social lines than those between you and Bradbury.”

  She turned to him in surprise. “Why, Tristan, I believe there was a compliment in the midst of that.”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. Have I been so inattentive that I never compliment you?”

  “I can honestly say I don’t recall you ever paying me any such thing. Although I do seem to recall that you admired my neck once. Of course, at the time, you were threatening to bite it because I’d made some kind of reference to the possibility that you were a vampire.”

  He chuckled. “I do admire a pretty neck.”

  “I refer to your habit of keeping late hours and sleeping away the daylight.”

  They passed underneath a bower, which blocked them from the prolific lanterns and cast a shadow over them. Couples strolled past without taking note of them.

  He stopped and turned to her, and the intensity in his eyes glimmered in the shadowy light. “I apologize for being remiss in my compliments to you. I shall make an effort to rectify that omission.” He cupped her cheek with a gentle hand.

  Too startled to move, she went still, all her focus captured by Tristan. His touch induced strange stirrings deep inside, both soothing and exciting. Her heart thudded an unsteady rhythm.

  His voice took on a tone he’d never used with her, achingly soft. “You are lovely, Leticia. You have skin like a porcelain doll, and eyes like the sea—mysterious and passionate, yet as innocent as a new leaf in spring. And your lips”—he brushed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, sending spirals of tingling warmth outward—“they are like rosebuds waiting for a touch to release their sweetness.” His voice turned sultry. “They would tempt any man.”

  His gaze lowered to her mouth. His hand cupping her cheek made slow caresses, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. Every nerve in her body quivered. Her heart flailed against her ribs and her breath came too fast. His aftershave curled around her, drawing her in closer in a blend of familiar bay rum and some other, more exotic, scent. His hand slid along her cheek to her chin. With one finger, he gently lifted her face toward his.

  She leaned into him and rested a hand on his chest over his heart. He drew closer, leaning down toward her. His lips parted and came nearer, nearer still. The nervous excitement in her stomach tightened, building up a pressure that must surely shatter her any moment. Her mouth yearned to touch his. Her body craved his arms around her. He closed his eyes. She held her breath, aching, burning for his kiss. The world held its breath in expectant wonder.

  No. This was wrong. Tristan was a friend; nothing more. Besides, for all she knew, he presently engaged in an affair with Mrs. Hunter, or someone like her.

  She drew back with a strangled laugh and put a shaking hand on her forehead to check for fever. “No wonder you’re such a master seducer. You almost fooled me with that one.”

  Tristan opened his eyes, but they were heavy lidded as if coming awake. “Hmm?”

  With that sleepy-eyed, slightly bewildered look, he looked so much like the sweet Tristan of her youth that she longed to guide his head to her lap and stroke his hair and listen as he read poetry to her.

  Not quite. She wanted nothing more in that instant than to kiss Tristan, either as he appeared now, flushed and confused, or in that magical bubble of desire that had unexpectedly engulfed her a moment ago. She almost laughed. Such an act with Tristan would be foolish on every possible level.

  No wonder Elizabeth had fallen so hard for Tristan before she married Richard. No doubt every woman of Tristan’s acquaintance had succumbed to his spell and threw themselves at his feet.

  Tristan’s eyes seemed to focus. Stepping away, he dragged his fingers through his hair and blew out his breath. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was as stunned as she. After clearing his throat, he chuckled and shook his head. “Just checking to see if you’re woman enough for these men I’m considering for you.”

  “Woman enough?” She lifted a brow.

  He winced. “Ah…”

  “Don’t move,” rasped another voice. A ragged man holding a knife crouched in the darkest part of the shadows, poised to spring. “Gimme yer valuables, gov’nah. You too, missy.”

  Leticia gasped, her heart skittering to a stop. Cold chills spread across her arms.

  Tristan stepped in front of Leticia, blocking the man from her view. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “No trouble,” the knifeman said. “Jes gimme yer purse and that there fancy ring and you’ll never see me again.”

  Leticia gripped Tristan’s shoulder with both hands and peeked out at the thug.

  Tristan stood, calm and courageous. He held out his hand wearing his signet ring, which bore the Barrett family crest, and turned it so the filtered light made the rubies sparkle. “The money I could part with, but this ring has been in my family for generations. It is one of five, which are worn by descendants of the very first Lord Averston dating back to William the Conqueror. If you think I’m going to hand it over because you wave a puny knife at me, you are unforgivably stupid.”

  Leticia gasped at his audacity, her gaze darting to their assailant. Surely the thief would be furious.

  Tristan reached back and placed a hand on her hip, an intimate, soothing gesture.

  The knifeman scowled and brandished the knife. “’and it over, fool, along with yer money, or I’ll carve ye up first and then I’ll ’ave a go at yer ladybird.” He leered at Leticia.

  Tristan’s shoulder tensed under Leticia’s hands but his voice remained calm. “Very well. I can see you won’t be reasonable.” He reached into his back pocket underneath his tailcoat and pulled out a small pistol. With a steady hand, he leveled the pistol at the thief. “You will not touch this lady. You aren’t fit to look at her. Now back away and leave us in peace or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

  The thug’s eyes widened and he held up his hands. “No trouble, sir, no trouble. I’ll jes’ be on me way.” He faded back into the shadows.

  “Back away, Tish.” Tristan took a step back and Leticia followed his lead as if they were dancing in reverse position. When they reached lamplight on a main path, Tristan peered again into the shadows, then guided Leticia forward.

  He tucked the gun away and turned to her. “A bit of adventure, now, eh?”

  Now that danger had passed, Leticia began shaking. Tristan enfolded both of her hands inside his, strong and safe and steady.

  “Come,” he murmured. “We’d best find a constable before the blackguard tries that with someone else.”

  Leticia nodded. Tristan took her hand and they walked, hand-in-hand like children. Tristan hailed a constable, described the knifeman, and pointed out his last known location. The constable went to investigate. Leticia hadn’t been able to utter a single word.

  He turned to her. “Tish?”

  She looked up into Tristan’s concerned eyes and tried to pull herself together. “You were amazing. When did you start carrying a gun?”

  “Since those men snatched Richard last year. I rather like defending myself and others.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “My hero.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Come, Love. Let’s find the others.”

  Love. He’d never called her “love” before. Perhaps he frequently addressed women of his acquaintance by that term of endearment, but it
enfolded her in joyful bliss. Grandmama had called her “beloved” with such sincerity that Leticia never doubted that she meant it. That same sincerity rang in Tristan’s voice now. Could she trust that he meant it?

  Walking on Tristan’s arm, Leticia straightened her shoulders and released the last of her fears. She was safe with Tristan. Her friend. Her champion.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week after the unforgettable excursion to Vauxhall Gardens, Tristan arrived at Averston House in Mayfair a few minutes early for the ball. He found Elizabeth flitting about, giving final instructions to the footmen and adjusting flower swags adorning the room. Maids lit the remaining candles in the ballroom while the chalk artist packed away a pallet of chalks next to an ornately decorated floor. Tristan studied the chalk drawing on the parquet with a practiced eye—cherubs and flowers intertwined the Averston family crest, giving the fierce falcon a decidedly tamer look. Fitting, considering how Elizabeth had tamed Richard, transformed him from an unyielding, pompous stuffed shirt into a man of warmth.

  Tristan shook his head. No woman would tame him. He liked himself as he was, thank you very much—free and unfettered.

  “Tristan.” Elizabeth smiled and held out both hands as she came to him. “You’re early.”

  “I thought I might lend a hand, if needed.”

  “How kind, but I believe everything is in readiness.” His sister-in-law fluttered her hand above her head in a gesture that encompassed the room. “What do you think?

  “I’ve never seen anything grander.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “Is it too much?”

  “Oh, no. All the biggest snobs will be green with envy and they’ll fall all over themselves to try to match what you’ve done here.” He looked around again. “My mother used to throw balls and such, but nothing on this scale.”

  As a child, he’d peeked out through the railings, awed by the glittering display. Mama had always kissed him good night before going downstairs to join her guests. Tristan had always followed, and sat watching until his nursemaid had shooed him back to the nursery. Mama had been so beautiful and seemed happiest the day of a party. If Tristan hadn’t been such a misbehaved boy, she might have loved him enough to stay.

  “Tristan?”

  He remembered himself. “It’s perfect. All the Averston ancestors are nodding in approval.” He turned away from her probing gaze.

  Leticia and Isabella arrived, so deep in conversation with their aunt, Mrs. Tallier, that none of them saw him. “…don’t want any kind of censure to touch your name,” Leticia said.

  “If Lady Averston says it’s acceptable, I’m sure it is,” Mrs. Tallier said.

  Leticia frowned, a familiar mulish look in her eyes. “It’s all well and good for old maids and widows and married women, but I’m not sure it’s proper for a young miss newly out.”

  “What do you think, Tristan?” Isabella said.

  Four pairs of eyes turned to him. Leticia’s glance slid away and a faint blush touched her cheeks. The memory of his hand on her soft cheek sent his heart racing. He couldn’t believe he’d almost kissed her. Leticia, of all people—his oldest and most trusted friend! What had he been thinking?

  Would she have enjoyed his kiss?

  “You ought to call him Mr. Barrett,” Mrs. Tallier gently chided.

  “I do in public, Aunt, but I’ve known him most of my life so it seems overly formal to do so in private,” Isabella said. She addressed Tristan. “Do you think it would be wrong for me to take part in the auction?”

  Leticia let out a sharp laugh. “It’s futile to ask Tristan anything about propriety. I doubt he knows the meaning of the word.”

  Tristan took a step back under the force of her verbal blow. Did she have such a low opinion of him? Or did she bear some belated anger over their near kiss at Vauxhall? She hadn’t seemed upset at the time, or later in the evening. It would be like a woman to think about it later and get all riled up over a small thing.

  He bristled. “Just because I have a reputation, doesn’t mean I am not a judge of what’s proper. I know the rules of society.”

  Instead of looking apologetic, Leticia set her mouth in a challenging glare. “Then tell my sister and aunt that Isabella should not put herself on the auction block.”

  Before Tristan could open his mouth, Isabella let out a huff of annoyance. “I’m not selling myself as a slave; it’s a supper dance.”

  “She’ll be viewed by every man in attendance,” added Mrs. Tallier, “which could be of great advantage, especially if the bids climb as high as I suspect.”

  “Oh, dear.” Elizabeth looked between all four of them, her eyes wide with alarm and her chin quivering as if she were about to burst into tears. “You don’t think this will create a scandal, do you?”

  “Certainly not.” Mrs. Tallier turned to Leticia. “You, young lady, ought to trust your elders. Lady Averston would never do anything outside of the pale. If she did, I would not support it.”

  Tristan almost pointed out that Elizabeth, younger than Leticia, could not rightfully be her ‘elder’, but thought it a moot point.

  Leticia’s mouth worked, visibly torn. Tristan hooked his arm through hers. He walked forward, forcing her to walk backward until they reached the far end of the ballroom away from the others. With his hand on each of her shoulders, he turned her to him.

  “Tish?”

  Leticia’s eyes grew shiny as if she were fighting tears. “I don’t want this to hurt Isabella; I couldn’t bear it if it did.”

  His ire melted under her rare show of emotion. “It won’t. Everyone knows this is for charity. Elizabeth and your aunt are pillars of society and etiquette; everyone respects them. As they said, this is for the supper dance and supper. What could possibly happen?”

  She let out a half sob and shook her head, her hands coming up in a helpless gesture.

  He lowered his voice into soothing tones. “I’m sure the guests are the picture of propriety. Richard and Elizabeth were very selective with their invitations.”

  Leticia drew a labored breath and nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

  He squeezed her arms. “I know you’ve taken some abuse about this school idea, but you’re doing the right thing. I admire your passion.”

  She looked up at him with those large green eyes, so trusting, so lovely. “Do you really?”

  “Indeed. If anyone dares speak out against you or Isabella, I’ll take them out and thrash them.” He smiled to soften his words, though he meant them.

  She laughed ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I was tempted to crack my umbrella over Lord Petre’s head when he was so rude.”

  “I’m sure you were. You are downright lethal with umbrellas.”

  They shared a smile remembering when she’d done that to him years ago.

  Tristan looked over his shoulder as voices filled the ballroom. “It looks as though your guests are already starting to arrive. Shall we?” He held out an elbow.

  She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I impugned your honor. I didn’t mean it.”

  He opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “You impugned my honor?” He donned a fearsome scowl. “That’s it, woman; choose your weapons. I’ll meet you at dawn.”

  She smiled at his idle threat. “Of course you know what is and isn’t proper. I merely…”

  He waited, not certain he wanted to hear the rest. She shook her head and never completed her sentence.

  He finished for her, “You hate what a rake I am and you think me incapable of anything exemplary.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  She looked up at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. He was starting to hate what a rake he had become, too. It was all so meaningless. Maybe it would become fun again when he had Leticia wedded and his obligation to her ended. Or maybe it had been so long since he’d been with a woman that he had forgotten how well it helped fill his emptiness—temporarily, at least. Perhaps he needed a bracing drin
k. Or a smack to the side of his head.

  The evening began in earnest, guests arriving, gentlemen paying their subscription, greeting, laughing, drinks flowing. Music began and soon dancers obliterated the chalk drawing on the floor. Tristan did his part, dancing with as many wallflowers as he could find and flirting with proper older ladies until they cracked a smile. He didn’t realize until his dry throat drove him to the lemonade table that he hadn’t touched a glass of champagne. He rather became accustomed to having a clear head. Odd, that.

  For Leticia’s sake, he kept an eye on Isabella but she had no shortage of partners. Rather, they seemed to be stumbling all over each other for the opportunity to partner her. Overall, the evening progressed flawlessly, which reflected well on Elizabeth as well as for The Cause.

  After the quadrille, Richard stepped forward and held up his hands. The string quartet silenced. Voices died down.

  “Welcome, esteemed guests.” His brother’s voice rang in authority—probably the same voice he used when addressing Parliament.

  “As you know, this evening is to benefit a school for orphans, to teach them basic skills so they may become respectable working class instead of thieves and pickpockets and worse. With that end in mind, the supper dance will be an auction. Every lady who feels inclined to do so may come to the front of the room and we gentlemen will auction for the privilege of waltzing with her, and then, of course, enjoy her company throughout supper.”

  Lady Brinton, Elizabeth’s sister, stood up first. “I will volunteer.”

  A collective sigh came from the guests as the beauty made her way to the middle of the room. Toasted as a diamond of the first water when she arrived on the scene two Seasons ago and later made a match with Lord Brinton, she would surely create a heated bidding.

  Richard bowed to Lady Brinton, took her hand, and called out, “What is your offer for the charming Lady Brinton?”

  “Ten pounds,” called the Duke of Suttenberg.

  “Twenty.” And so the bidding continued. The Duke bid for a dance with his daughter, no doubt to help drive up the bids, as did her husband, Lord Brinton. One lady after another stood next to Richard, smiling as gentlemen caught the spirit of the game proving how generous and deep in the pockets they were. Elizabeth brought in three hundred pounds.