by Donna Hatch
Richard arrived and Elizabeth filled him in. He nodded. “I’ve heard of Dr. St. Ives. By all means, let him try.” White-lipped with concern, Richard lay on the bed next to his brother and watched him as if willing him to get well.
A young man strode in, all confidence. “I’m Dr. St. Ives. Lord Bradbury sent for me.”
Richard sat up. “Come in.”
The doctor went straight to Tristan. With long, slender fingers that reminded Leticia of a pianist, he gently probed the wound in his head, then began a thorough examination.
“Carriage accident, I understand?” The doctor ran his hands over every inch of Tristan’s head, then turned Tristan so he could see the wound in back.
Richard watched everything the doctor did. “He was thrown clear.”
Leticia stood, expecting to be ordered from the room but the doctor didn’t acknowledge her or Elizabeth’s presence. She pressed her hands together against her lips and held her breath.
“Any other major wounds?” Dr. St. Ives pushed back Tristan’s eyelids and looked at his eyes.
Richard said in a low voice, “The head wounds are the worst.”
The doctor continued his examination, then slid Tristan’s shirt up to feel along his abdomen.
Leticia averted her gaze.
Dr. St. Ives looked up as if realizing others were in the room. “Ladies, perhaps you ought to step out, unless one of you is his wife?”
“Er, no.” Leticia, with Elizabeth at her heels, left and closed the door behind them. “We seem to be doing an awful lot of waiting while others tend to Tristan.”
“I know.” With a heavy sigh, Elizabeth sat next to her. “They virtually imprisoned me here in this house while Tristan, Captain Kensington, and Cooper rescued Richard last year. I waited in pure torture.”
“I cannot imagine.” She took Elizabeth’s hands and they sat in shared worry.
Tristan let out an agonized cry that brought them both to their feet, and sent Leticia’s heart galloping.
From the other side of the door came voices. “Hold him.”
“I’m trying,” said Richard.
Tristan screamed. Elizabeth fell to her knees and prayed. Leticia put a hand over her mouth, fearing she’d cast up her accounts. What were they doing to him? More cries, then silence. Her heart thundered in her ears and her legs shook.
Unable to stand it another moment, she went to the door. “Richard?”
“Stay out!” Richard roared.
Tristan screamed again. Leticia’s knees wobbled and she had to sit down. More screams and moans. She put her hands over her ears but couldn’t shut out the sound.
The cries ceased. All fell silent.
Chapter Twenty
Tristan awoke, disoriented. His head throbbed. How much had he had to drink last night? He hadn’t been this jug-bitten in…how long?
No, wait; he lay in his old room at Averston House in London. He’d know those bed curtains anywhere. Mother always liked fleur-de-lis. What had he drunk last night? He felt like a horse had trampled him.
Not a horse. A race. An accident. A fall.
The death of a friend.
He closed his eyes, willing himself back into oblivion, but remained awake. Heavy breathing next to him caught his attention. To his right, Richard lay curled up next to him, almost touching Tristan’s shoulder. Funny, how he always thought Richard would sleep on his back like some kind of monarch, not curled up like a child. Elizabeth slept on a chair next to the bed.
Off to the left, someone sighed. Tristan turned to that side. Pain spiked at the motion. Leticia sat in a chair scooted up to the bed, the upper half of her body resting on the mattress next to him, her head lying on her arm, her hand resting on his stomach. Her relaxed face reminded him of a painting of an angel. Her perfect rosebud lips parted as if she awaited a kiss.
He relived their kiss, shocking in its sweetness. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to repeat that act. The next time, he wouldn’t surprise her with it. He’d woo her and kiss her when he was sure she wanted it. She may not want it now, but he’d pursue her until she did. And he’d do a proper job of it next time.
She said she’d had better kisses. Well, he’d make sure she got better—from him.
Whom had she kissed? The thought nagged at him but he shut it down. It didn’t matter. He’d make sure their next would convince her she never wanted one from another man.
The old Tristan waited for beautiful, experienced widows to pursue him and offer themselves to him. The new Tristan would do the pursuing. He would court Leticia. He’d be proper and persistent until she said yes.
A bolt of alarm shot through him. Say yes to what? More than a kiss, surely. But what? Marriage? Good heavens, did he truly contemplate marriage? He stumbled over that thought.
If he ever were to marry, Leticia would be the one he’d want for a wife. She had been the one constant in his life, next to Richard. Tristan liked Leticia. He trusted her. She’d be a faithful and loving companion.
With one finger, he traced the curve of her cheek, admiring the perfection of her ivory skin like a finely-crafted porcelain figurine created to portray an angel. He ached to encircle her with his arms, to guide her head in the hollow of his shoulder, feel the length of her body against him, love her as a man loves a woman.
He loved her. He loved Leticia.
All those other women had been small, pencil sketches compared to the real, larger-than-life, living color of Leticia.
He caressed her skin with the pad of his thumb, then traced the curve of her lips. She stirred and he let his hand fall away. He’d have to move with care, take his time. He must prove his sincerity, that he had changed from the callow rake of his past. She would be hard to convince. Still, she alone knew him. If anyone would believe in him, she would, in time.
She turned her head, and yawned. Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked as if trying to focus. As she met his gaze, she smiled and raised her head.
What a beautiful sight—Leticia smiling! He wanted to wake up to that glorious smile every morning. Her smile inspired him. He could do anything. The possibilities took flight.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
He grinned at her but the motion tore at his cracked lips. “Good morning yourself, you hussy, spending the night in a bedchamber with two men.”
Smiling, she reached out a hand and touched first his cheek, then his forehead. He held his breath, loving her touch, but afraid to move lest he frighten her off.
“You’re cool, at last.” She cradled his head while she steadied the glass so he could drink. “You gave us another scare. I hope you’re finished having fun at our expense.”
“I make no promises.” He paused. “Did I have a fever? I felt like I might set the bed on fire.”
“Your wounds sickened but Dr. St. Ives came and cleaned it all out and applied herbs. Unconventional, but effective.”
“I remember being cold, too, and feeling like I was drowning.”
“We gave you a cool bath to help bring down the temperature.”
He lifted a brow. “We? So…you bathed me?”
She let out a snort. “Yes. I bathed you. I got in the hip bath with you and we frolicked in the water like a couple of mermaids.”
His grin broadened. “I’m sorry I don’t remember that. You must have been glorious, all naked with your hair floating all around you.”
“Shh! Gentlemen are not supposed to think naked thoughts about nice young ladies, much less use the word.” A twinkle in her eye revealed the playfulness hidden behind her rebuke, and a blush bloomed in her cheeks.
Tristan portrayed the picture of contrition. “You’re right. Forgive me. I vow from this moment on to be the perfect gentleman.”
“That, I’d like to see.”
He sobered. “You will, just wait. I am in earnest. I’ve considered my life, and I vow to be a better man. No more meaningless activities. I will no longer be Tristan the Rake, but I will be Trist
an the Paragon.”
“Paragon of what?” she teased.
“You may laugh now, but you’ll see. I’m going to settle down and run for the House of Commons and push to help the poor. I may buy an estate of my own and become a responsible gentleman farmer.”
“You?”
“I’ve made some very lucrative investments over the past year so I could do it.”
“I see.” She grew thoughtful, no longer teasing, but clearly unable to believe his words as anything more than idle talk.
He added, “And one day, I plan to marry.”
She choked out a laugh and touched his forehead again. “You have been very ill.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I can’t wait.”
“He’s been talking like that ever since that blow to the head.” Richard’s voice rumbled next to him, amusement lacing his gruff tones.
“I thought you’d be happy,” Tristan said.
“I am happy.” A rumpled Richard propped himself up on his elbow and smiled. “I hope you’re in earnest. But don’t do those things because that’s what I want you to do; do them because you’re really committed.”
Leticia touched his arm again. “I think you’d be wonderful serving in the House of Commons. You’re a natural leader and you’re so good managing people and seeing to their needs. It’s about time you embraced your potential.”
“Thank you, Tish. I appreciate your faith in me.” Did she believe he’d do it or merely being supportive? It didn’t matter. He’d show them all he could be a better man.
****
Over the next few days, his vision cleared and the pain in his head subsided. Leticia visited him each day, bringing him news, and sometimes staying long enough to beat him at backgammon or chess. When his strength returned, he returned to his bachelor’s rooms, which ended Leticia’s visits. Her absence opened a void inside him.
With the return of his health, he turned his mind to the unpleasant task of calling upon Appleton’s family. He dressed with care in all black except for his white cravat. He left off his usual stickpin, his signet ring his one adornment. After his valet, Bentley, finished, Tristan checked his appearance in the mirror, frowning at the purple, green and yellow bruise on his forehead surrounding a large black scab. At least the lump had gone down. It resembled a large grape instead of an orange. The rest of the bruises on his face had faded to a greenish yellow-brown. Fortunately, he had not knocked out his teeth. He was lucky to be alive.
“Shall I have your…er, shall I hail a hackney?” Bentley asked.
Tristan shot his valet a look of sympathy. The man had been about to call for Tristan’s curricle but it had been destroyed in the accident. Tristan would need a replacement, not to mention a new pair of carriage horses; his rider and his hunter were unsuitable for pulling a carriage. Tristan let out his breath and stared out the window. His last pair had been the finest, most perfectly matched team he’d ever seen. Good-natured, too, for racers. How sad to lose them.
“Sir?” Bentley prompted.
Tristan cleared his thoughts. “I’ll walk to the mews and have a horse saddled.”
The valet opened his eyes wide in alarm. “Are you sure you should walk that far, sir?”
“I’m well enough for a little stroll, thank you.” He headed for the door but stopped and turned around. “Bentley…”
“Sir?”
“Thank you for your aid during my incapacitation. I’m most grateful.”
“Oh, sir, I would have done more, but your family insisted on caring for you ’round the clock.”
“I appreciate your faithful service. I fear I’ve taken you for granted.”
Bentley bowed. “You are a kind master, sir, and it’s my pleasure to serve you.”
Uncomfortable with all the emotion, Tristan nodded and left. After walking to the mews, which left him surprisingly fatigued, he had to sit down while a groom saddled his favorite riding horse. Once astride, Tristan made his way to Appleton’s family home. After handing the reins to a lad to take care of his horse, he stood on the steps, looking up at the façade, sick with dread and remorse.
He didn’t have to do this. He could leave now and no one would be the wiser. The Appleton family did not expect him. They may not welcome his visit. Would he meet with blame? Hostility? Undiluted grief?
He must do this. He owed it to the Appleton family.
Tristan sucked in a ragged breath and wiped the perspiration off his brow. It was like marching to a firing squad. With another deep breath, he strode up the steps, tugged firmly on the brass knocker, and let it fall.
A butler opened the door, took one look at Tristan’s obviously battered face and blinked. Understandable. Tristan looked like he’d gone twenty rounds with the champ in fisticuffs.
The butler glanced down at Tristan’s attire and opened the door a little wider. “May I help you, sir?”
Tristan handed him his card. “I’m Tristan Barrett—a friend of Ronald Appleton. I was in the accident with him.” His voice failed him. He cleared his throat. “I wish to convey my condolences to the family.”
The butler opened the door wider. “Come in, Mr. Barrett. I’ll inquire if the family is receiving.”
Black cloth covered all the pictures, and a pall hung in the air. As Tristan waited nervously in the foyer, he brushed an imaginary speck off his sleeve and resisted the urge to adjust his perfectly tied cravat.
Footsteps neared. “This way, Mr. Barrett.”
Tristan steeled himself and followed the butler into a front parlor. Inside, a gentleman stood, dressed head to toe in severe black. He bore a striking resemblance to Appleton but with silver hair and a little extra thickness around the middle. He eyed Tristan, making careful note of every inch of him.
Tristan swallowed against a dry mouth, half expecting the man to pull out a gun and start shooting.
The gentleman spoke. “You were in the accident with my son, Mr. Barrett?”
“Yes, sir. I came to express my deepest regrets. And my condolences.” A bead of perspiration ran down his back and he fisted trembling hands.
The man continued to take measure of him. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
Tristan tried to fill the silence. “I’m sorry for what happened.”
Finally, the senior Mr. Appleton spoke. “Please sit.” He gestured to a settee. “I understand you nearly lost your life, as well.”
“I still don’t know how I survived.” Tristan looked the father in the eye. “I am so sorry about your son, sir. Truly I am.”
Mr. Appleton met his gaze, his expression blank. “Did you challenge him?”
Tristan let out his breath in exasperation. “I don’t remember that day or the events leading up to it at all.”
“I see.”
“In fact, I don’t remember him having a new equipage and team. He used to say when he got a good carriage and cattle that he’d put an end to my winning record, but I do not know if I challenged him or he challenged me. Regardless, I should not have raced him. He was inexperienced. I should have known better.” Tristan resisted the urge to sink his head into his hands, and instead remained sitting upright.
The other man let out an uneven breath. “He loved to race. He once said he felt most alive then. He usually steeple chased. I had no idea he had ambitions for racing curricles, but it doesn’t surprise me. He was always looking for a new challenge, something new to conquer.”
“I shouldn’t have let him race in a new curricle. I don’t know what I was thinking…” Tristan cleared his throat. “I vow, if there were any way I could go back to that day and do it over…”
Mr. Appleton nodded. “I’m sure you do.”
They sat in awkward silence until Tristan spoke again. “I didn’t mean to intrude, sir. I wanted to tell you that your son was a good friend and…I’m sorry.” His throat thickened, and his voice shook. He stood to leave.
Mr. Appleton stood with him and took a step closer. “I don’t blame you, n
ot really. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. And from what witnesses told me, he lost control and ran into you.”
Tristan nodded. “So they say.”
“A piece of advice, young man; let go of the blame and live.”
Let go of the blame and live. Could he?
“Thank you, sir…” Tristan’s voice trailed off as emotion closed over his throat.
They shook hands, Tristan blinking back tears, and he left the Appleton home.
Let go of the blame and live.
Yes. That’s exactly what he would do—live. Live the way he should. He paused halfway down the steps. With a final, long breath, he released the guilt and self-loathing and set off to become a brother worthy of Richard’s good name. And Leticia’s paragon.
Chapter Twenty-One
Flattening herself against the wall outside the door so as not to be too visible, Leticia peeked into the classroom of the charity school. Mrs. Harper’s voice rang out with calm authority as she taught the alphabet to a classroom of seven children, and one girl in her teens, while the pot-bellied stove warmed the room. The girl from Mrs. Goodfellow’s organization who’d asked to be taught her letters sat at the back of the classroom, gazing at the teacher as if she’d never seen anything so wondrous. Next to the letter A on the chalkboard, Mrs. Harper drew a picture of an apple and an angel with wings and a halo. Her artistic skills and unconventional approach had the children enraptured. Smiling, Leticia tiptoed away so as not to disturb them.
In her office near the foyer, Leticia sat at a desk. She glanced about, remembering Tristan moving furniture with confidence and strength and cheer. She sighed happily and went over the latest figures from the solicitor. She nodded in satisfaction. They still had their year’s worth of cushion, so they had plenty of time to garner more pledges before they’d need money again.
