by Donna Hatch
Leticia patted her hand. “I’m sure you’ll be blessed with a family soon.”
“I hope so. It’s been a year since our marriage…”
Tristan tried to picture Richard as a father, getting his children out of one scrape after another the way he’d always done for Tristan.
The carriage stopped in front of Tristan’s rooms. He bid them both farewell and stepped out of the carriage.
After consoling his valet, Bentley, on the sad state of his soiled clothing, Tristan ate, bathed, and changed, then took a hackney to Leticia’s aunt’s house. Why he felt so compelled to seek her out, he didn’t dare consider. Perhaps duty drove him there to learn whether she’d enjoyed waltzing and dining with Lord Bradbury the other night. Never mind that she’d been smiling and laughing each time she’d danced with the man. Mere courtesy might prompt her pleased expression. But that sparkle in her eyes seemed genuine enough when she spent time with Bradbury. It appeared his plan was working very well.
Blast it all anyway.
Still, he ought to inquire about Lord Bradbury. He had failed to ask her earlier today; he might as well call upon her now.
During the drive, he entertained himself by fantasizing beating Lord Bradbury to a pulp, first at fencing, then at fisticuffs. By the time the hackney arrived at Mrs. Tallier’s house, Tristan found himself whistling. Inside the drawing room where they received guests, Leticia stood conversing with two ladies, and Isabella held court in another corner with five young bucks who tried too hard to impress her and ended up coming across like over-eager puppies.
Leticia’s aunt, Mrs. Tallier, greeted him. “Mr. Barrett. How kind of you to call upon us.”
Tristan bowed. “It’s always a pleasure, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tallier turned to someone behind him. “Lord Bradbury. Do come in. How delightful to see you again.”
Bradbury. Tristan ground his teeth.
Wait. What did Mrs. Tallier mean by saying “again?” How often had the lord been calling? The auction took place two days ago. Surely he hadn’t called since then. Had he?
Tristan stepped to the side and turned, eyeing Bradbury who greeted Mrs. Tallier with a formal bow.
Donning his mask of urbane boredom that he used with the upper levels of snobbery, Tristan inclined his head and drawled, “Bradbury.”
Bradbury’s gaze flitted to him and he returned the nod. “Barrett.”
Tristan made a grand sweeping gesture toward the room in general, as if he were inviting Bradbury in, and took another step back. Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall and pretended to study the view outside. Bradbury strode to Isabella, greeted her, acknowledged the bucks, and chatted. A moment later, he moved to his true target—Leticia. Before he reached her, the Setons stood and bade Leticia good day.
Tristan tried not to watch as her face lit up when she spotted Bradbury or the way he sat as close to her as he could without breaching propriety. The dog.
Next to him Mrs. Tallier heaved a dreamy sigh. “Lord Bradbury. I can scarce believe it.”
Tristan watched the woman and her look of pure rapture. “Do you know him well?”
“Oh, my goodness, yes. I’ve known him since he was in leading strings. His mother and I are great friends, and he went to Oxford with my son. One of the finest young gentlemen I’ve ever known. Of course, he’s thirty now, but still young—especially compared to me.” Her smile turned self-deprecating.
Thirty—the perfect age for a man to marry, so they say, confound it.
“To think he’s considering my Leticia…” Mrs. Tallier’s voice trailed off and her eyes took on a faraway look. She seemed to remember herself. “Well, time will tell.”
Perfect. Three ringing endorsements for Lord Bradbury. Leticia would be married by summer and then all of Tristan’s obligations to her would end.
He should be happy.
Why this knowledge made him want to challenge Lord Bradbury, he couldn’t say. Perhaps because Bradbury too closely resembled Richard? Too perfect. Too proper. Too loved by everyone.
Tristan cast one final look at Leticia and Bradbury. Bradbury smiled and tapped her on the nose, and Leticia laughed. Very cozy. Intimate.
Nauseating.
“If he hurts her, I’ll kill him,” Tristan muttered.
Mrs. Tallier looked at him in shock.
“Good day.” He stalked out of the house.
Visions of his mother riding away without looking back flashed into his mind. He had an appalling urge to weep.
Chapter Fifteen
Sitting next to Lord Bradbury on the settee, Leticia looked up as Tristan left. How odd. He hadn’t spoken to her.
“I hear your school is almost in readiness,” Lord Bradbury said.
She returned her attention to Lord Bradbury. “It is. We got everything moved in and arranged. Thanks to the success of the fundraiser, we purchased another stove. The schoolroom has one small fireplace and we feared it wouldn’t be adequate. We also dream of getting a pianoforte someday so we can teach dance but that may not happen for some time.”
Bradbury’s eyes took on a thoughtful stare. “I might be able to help you with the pianoforte. One of my properties has one. It resided in the vicar’s house but the new vicar’s wife didn’t want it taking up room in the parlor, so we stored it in the main house. No one is using it. I don’t know what kind of condition it’s in, but I can arrange to have it shipped to you and see to any repairs.”
Leticia clasped her hands together. “Would you do that?”
A slight curving of his lips softened his features and warmed his blue eyes. What a handsome gentleman, and so kind.
“If doing so puts that beautiful smile on your face again, then yes, I would consider that a small price to pay.”
Looking down, Leticia laughed, unaccustomed to such flattery. Only Tristan said such ridiculous things, and he did it to put on an act. “Then on behalf of the school, I do most humbly and gratefully accept.”
“Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements.” He met her gaze. “By any chance, do you enjoy visiting museums?”
“Very much, but I have not had a chance to do so this year.”
“Have you ever visited Bridgewater Collection at Cleveland House?”
“Oh, no.” She’d never imagined receiving an invitation to view such a private collection.
“It’s worth seeing. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me tomorrow?”
Surprised by his continued attentiveness, Leticia faltered for a moment. “Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent. I’ve already received permission to view it. May I come for you at four o’clock?”
“I’ll be ready.”
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I fear I must take my leave.”
Leticia followed his gaze. He’d stayed precisely twenty minutes. Lord Bradbury always did everything right.
He took her hand. “Until then.” As he held her hand, his blue eyes darted between hers as if he were trying to read her thoughts, then he released her hand, stood, and bowed. After another smile, he took his leave of her aunt and left.
Leticia sat alone. Could a man of his rank and means be interested in a frumpy little country miss like her? Tristan would chide her for calling herself frumpy and would no doubt come up with all kinds of ridiculously flowery adjectives to use instead.
Why had Tristan left so soon?
This morning as they’d labored side-by-side at the school, he’d been a hard worker and had hefted heavy objects without complaint. It had seemed easy to him. More than once, she’d caught herself admiring the breadth of his shoulders or his toned muscles underneath his linen shirt. Tristan joked with the men, his aristocratic accent at odds with the comfort with which he interacted with the low-born. He gave no indication that he felt any class distinction. Within minutes, the workers were joking with him as if he were an old friend.
She wondered if Lord Bradbury would have helped in such a personal w
ay, or been so amiable to men of a class so far beneath him. She failed to conjure that picture.
“Leticia,” Isabella called. “We’re going to the milliner’s. Would you care to join us?”
Leticia looked up. While she’d been lost in thought, their callers had all said their goodbyes and taken their leave. “Yes. I’ll change into my half boots and get my wrap.”
Moments later, their carriage fell into the usual London traffic. Isabella chattered on about all the young men who’d called on her, relishing the attention. As well she should.
A pair of young men trotted by on horses, their voices carrying to Leticia. “My bet’s on Tristan Barrett. He’s fearless—never lost a race that I’ve seen.”
Leticia’s heart stopped. Tristan? She put a hand on her chest and drew steadying breath, trying to calm her fears. Tristan had been steeplechasing for as long as she could remember. An accomplished rider, he loved it and excelled at it. She had no reason to fear for his safety.
“Yeah, but Appleton’s got a new curricle that flies.”
“I’ll bet one hundred quid Barrett beats Appleton.”
“Hurry. We don’t want to miss the race.” Their voices faded away.
Curricle. Tristan wasn’t racing on horseback; he was curricle racing. Her heart did a slow, backward crawl.
“Leticia, my dear. You look as if you’re about to swoon.” Aunt Alice’s voice broke in through the fear squeezing Leticia’s lungs.
Every muscle in her body screamed to run after those men and find out the location of the race. She had to stop it. “Aunt. We must follow those riders.” She pointed to the two young men.
“What is it?” Isabella laid a hand on her arm.
“Tristan’s going to be in curricle race right now.”
Isabella paled and put her hand over her mouth.
Aunt Alice clucked her tongue. “Good gracious. Is that boy trying to get himself killed?” She barked out orders to the driver and the carriage lurched forward the instant they were seated.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, Leticia willed the carriage. If only she could get there in time to stop the race.
The longer she rode, the more her cold fear heated to anger. Selfish, stupid Tristan. Didn’t he know if he got himself killed, the blow might kill Richard? Didn’t he know how many people loved him and would mourn his death?
By the time they reached the outskirts of town, the carriage had to stop. Dozens of horses and carriages lined the highway as spectators all crammed in to watch the dangerous race.
Leticia got out and hailed a nearby man. “Excuse me, do you know where the starting line is?”
“Up that way a few miles.” He pointed. “The finish line is by that hedgerow.”
A ribbon fluttered in the breeze, marking the ending point. Since the carriage couldn’t get through, Leticia picked up her skirts and ran toward the starting line. In the distance, two tiny objects blocked the highway. Curricles. A gunshot crackled and the objects sprang forward.
Too late! She could only watch as Tristan risked his life for a meaningless race.
Chapter Sixteen
Standing next to his horses, Tristan eyed his opponent’s sleek, new curricle. Well-sprung and designed by a master, it gave him pause. Still, the curricle made up only one part of the formula for a winner. The horses and the driver made up the rest. Tristan had no fears on that regard. A skilled driver, he had never lost a race. His well-matched team ran synchronously. Appleton posed no threat.
His stallion snorted and stomped, tasting the energy of an upcoming race. Tristan ran a soothing hand over the steed, speaking in low tones. “You’ll get your chance. Just run like you always do, and we’ll take home another victory.”
Next to him, Appleton grinned. “Not this time, Barrett. My new curricle is like the wind. You don’t stand a chance.”
Tristan gave him his best curled lip of disdain. “Your cattle aren’t as experienced as mine, and you don’t have the heart of a winner.”
Appleton snickered, his eyes alight in excitement. “I will today. Then you can see what it feels like to lose. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a drink out of my winnings.”
They grinned at each other, both posturing as much as their horses.
Tristan pointed up ahead. “Watch that curve. It comes up faster than you think.”
“Try to stay on your side of the road.”
“Good luck.” Tristan held out a hand.
Appleton gripped it. “You, too.” Appleton looked ahead and let out a breath, his one sign of nervousness.
“Good luck, Barrett,” Palmer said as he hefted the starting gun.
“My bet’s on you,” called another voice. Wynn strolled up with Mrs. Hunter on his arm, both wearing expressions of smug amusement.
Tristan tensed. “Thank you.”
“I wagered a hundred quid on you, so I hope you win.” Wynn glanced at Mrs. Hunter.
“I hope I win, too.” Tristan eyed them.
Mrs. Hunter released Wynn’s arm and slinked over to Tristan, her lithe body moving with the grace of a cat. “Perhaps a kiss for luck would be in order,” she purred.
He raised a brow. “Are you offering?”
She moved so close that her body touched his. “Good luck, Tristan.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
He tried to pull away, but she entwined her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. For a moment, Tristan succumbed. He’d been so lonely. It had been far too long since he’d touched a woman.
No. He wanted more than a meaningless dalliance. His breath rasped. He pushed her away. Though obviously an enthusiastic participant, she failed to ignite the flames he thought she would.
Why did he feel so confoundedly guilty?
She looked at him from underneath her lashes, her lips curving into a smile. “A skilled kisser. No doubt skilled at other things.”
Stepping back, Tristan cleared his throat and glanced at Wynn, but he leered at a woman who strolled by smiling at him over her shoulder. Wynn didn’t seem to notice that the woman in his company had thrown herself at another man. This kind of thing never bothered him before. What the deuce was the matter with him? When had he started thinking like Richard?
Bold and confident, Mrs. Hunter smiled at Tristan and indicated Wynn with her head. “John and I have no special relationship. Do come by my house tonight and we can have our own private victory celebration.” She slipped her calling card into his pocket.
There. The perfect, uncomplicated offer like so many he once enjoyed. He watched her saunter to the sidelines, all the while wearing her come-hither smile.
He should do it. He would do it.
No. He might have a few hours’ pleasure but tomorrow he’d wake up as alone as ever, and wondering if he’d put another stain on the family honor. Or disappointed Leticia yet one more way.
He wouldn’t do it.
He’d be alone forever.
Maybe he should get involved in some kind of cause, something to occupy his time instead of all these meaningless pursuits.
“Ready, Barrett?”
He glanced at his opponent. “Ready.” He slipped a foot into the stirrup at the outer edge, took the second small step, and swung the rest of the way into the open curricle. He checked to ensure the top was folded all the way back and securely fastened.
A rush of nervous energy filled him, clearing his thoughts, sharpening his mind. He focused on the road, the motion of the horses through the reins in his hands. Each breath the horses took, each stomp of their hooves, crackled in his head. He sat forward and braced his feet into a wide stance. He nodded at Palmer holding the gun in the air.
“Gentlemen, ready.”
Excitement swept through Tristan and his muscles tensed. A gunshot split the air. Tristan snapped the reins. Two pairs of horses leaped forward, their hooves moving in a blur. Trees and people flew past him in a colorful smear like an impressionist’s painting. Aware of every movement of the team, he eased them into a flat out ru
n. Born winners, they responded, their necks stretching out and their legs moving in unison.
Over the rutted highway they flew. Exhilaration replaced Tristan’s blood until he was born of wind and speed. He slipped into a state of tranquility where he lived to move at one with his team, where leather and metal and animal blended with man until they were one, unified force.
A shout to his side snapped him out of his nirvana. A sickening bump shuddered through him, then an ear-splitting crash. His carriage lurched to one side. The horses stumbled and went down. All the world slowed into one horrifying motion.
The horses dragged down the pole attached to their harness, converting the two-wheeled curricle into a springboard. The curricle launched Tristan into the air. Helpless to stop himself, he flew, limbs flailing. He landed hard on the ground and rolled.
Tristan disintegrated in an explosion of pain.
Chapter Seventeen
Mute with dread, Leticia stood, her hands over her cheeks, as the curricle racing against Tristan spun out of control. Horse and carriage and rider went down in a tangled mass right in the path of Tristan’s team. Tristan’s lead horse stumbled and went down, dragging the other with it. The entire curricle tipped forward, throwing Tristan out and upward.
Leticia screamed. Disbelief swirled with horror into a dark maelstrom.
Tristan’s body sailed through the air, his arms thrashing as if he were trying to swim. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled a few times. Leticia’s heart dropped. He lay still. Stunned silence fell over the crowd.
Leticia ran. Focused on the motionless form in the road, she raced as if her body became pure motion. She dodged the other curricle, trying to shut out the screaming of the horses, and stayed focused on Tristan. Others in the crowd snapped out of their shock and moved to aid injured men and horses.
A crowd formed around the twin wreckages. Leticia pushed through the people and dropped to her knees next to Tristan. He lay on his back, still and pale. Dirt and blood smeared his white face.
“Tristan?” Kneeling next to him, she reached for him but her hands stopped mid-air.
What to do? What if he were…
