Courting the Country Miss

by Donna Hatch

  Mentally, he sighed. He couldn’t blame her. He had years of bad conduct for which he must atone, and it might take a decade of good behavior to prove to her he had changed in truth.

  In front of the British Museum, they climbed the stairs, passing between the enormous columns, to the entrance.

  He paused in the main area. “Do you wish to view other displays as well as the sculptures?”

  She retrieved a guide from her reticule and studied it. “Let’s see the sculptures first, then browse as we have time.” She smiled, a genuine warmth that he hoped she gave no one else. Reading aloud from the guide, she gestured. “I think it’s this way.”

  Inside the Elgin Room, a curator gave them a bland description and brief history of the famous and controversial Parthenon Marble Sculptures, which some called simply the Elgin Marbles.

  Tristan breathed a sigh at the mind-numbing narrative. “I don’t think they could have found a more coma-inducing guide if they searched the entire world.”

  Leticia chuckled. “What do you think of Lord Elgin bringing the marble sculptures from Greece to England?”

  “I think he was a self-serving vandal.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Surely not.”

  “Even Lord Byron disapproves. In Child Harold’s Pilgrimage, he lamented that ‘the antiquities of Greece had been defaced by British hands.’ I’m inclined to agree.”

  Her eyes sparkled the way they did when she embarked on a debate. “If he protected them from destruction, then he saved valuable works of art. He did bring them here for the world to enjoy. John Keats wrote a sonnet that celebrates the Elgin Marbles.”

  Taken aback, Tristan stared. “Since when do you read poetry?”

  “I don’t, as a rule, but I read about this one. It’s what piqued my curiosity about seeing the marbles in the first place.” She nodded to the art in question.

  Tristan gestured to a sculpture of a horse’s head nearby. “Is it everything you’d hoped?”

  “I admit I prefer the images carved into a frieze over the statues—they are more intact. All those headless and armless statues are a bit disconcerting. They must have been spectacular in their prime, though, don’t you think?”

  Tristan eyed them. “I’m sure.” Wickedly, he asked, “Your feminine sensibilities aren’t offended by all the male nudes?”

  With exaggerated delicacy, she cleared her throat. “I’m trying not to look.”

  He laughed at her partially pained, partially playful expression.

  They browsed a few minutes longer, reading from the paper guide before they wandered to other rooms and other displays. Leticia strolled on his arm, her delight in exploring, and the tones of her voice, sometimes playful, sometimes awed. Tristan let out a sigh of contentment. A missing piece inside him returned and fell into place. Without moving his head, he looked at her as she admired a painting.

  Her lively face, so familiar, and yet more dear than ever, entranced him. How had he missed what a beauty she’d become? How much time he had lost looking for a sense of belonging when she had been here, practically under his nose, all his life! He ached to gather her into his arms, press his mouth to hers. That very moment. In public. Or better yet, haul her off to some vacant room and do a thorough job of kissing her in private.

  He must resist. He must move slowly to gain her trust and prove to her, and to himself, he had changed, that his intentions truly were honorable—but not so slowly that Kensington or Bradbury had a chance.

  Upon leaving the museum, Tristan glanced at the sky again. Though still early yet, the gloom had deepened to near darkness as storm clouds thickened.

  Leticia eyed the heavens and said in mournful tones, “Your offering may prove inadequate.”

  Straight-faced, he said, “I suppose I could still try that virgin sacrifice.”

  She gave him a withering glare.

  He shrugged. “The rain may hold off yet, until we can get home.”

  The coachman arrived with the barouche to take them home, and Tristan steadied her as she climbed in. How many times he’d done such a simple act without appreciating the gift of her presence. What a blind fool he’d been.

  He leaned back in his seat and affected a casual air. “What else would you like to do while you’re in London?”

  “Are you trying to help me see all London has to offer since this will be my last time to town?”

  “Your last trip to town?” He turned in his seat to face her.

  She looked down. “I may come for the school, or to visit Elizabeth, but I won’t be back for another Season. I’m here at my aunt’s insistence and because it comforted Isabella for me to come with her for her first Season.”

  He eyed her. “I doubt very much this will be your last visit to London.”

  “Well, I…I suppose if I were to marry a Member of Parliament, I would return.” She lifted a shoulder.

  Did she refer to Lord Bradbury, then? Had she developed a preference for him over Kensington? He didn’t know whether to be alarmed at the thought or relieved that she’d eliminated a contender.

  Still, she chose to spend time with him today. He refused to give up.

  “How is the school proceeding?” he asked.

  Her expression softened. “It is most satisfactory. We gather new students almost every day. Although, we appeared to have lost one.” A shadow passed over her face but she cast it off with her usual cheer. “I have begun teaching some of them to play the pianoforte. You never know when a skill may aid in obtaining employment normally closed to members of their social status. Oh!” Her eyes sparkled. “Elizabeth and I want to teach them to dance.”

  “Dance?”

  “Yes, people of almost every class dance, and public dances are an effective way to meet prospective spouses as balls are for members of our social circles. If these girls know how to dance, they have a better chance of marrying a man with a good position.”

  He thought it over. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I asked the servants at my aunt’s house to tell me when and where the working classes gather for these public dances, but I don’t want to send the children unprepared. I thought a few practice sessions would be wise.”

  Tristan leaned back and eyed her hand. Would she allow him to hold it? “I didn’t see much of the school the last time I went there. Perhaps you could show me around now that it is in full operation?”

  “Would you like to go now?”

  “There is nothing I’d rather do.” He called out the direction to the coachman, who turned the carriage at the next intersection. “So, your pupils will not only read and do arithmetic, but play piano and dance.”

  “Such skills will help them find gainful employment and rise above their circumstances,” she said.

  “If they don’t, it won’t be for a lack of trying on your part.” Unable to refrain from touching her, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “And Elizabeth. She and I hatched this plan together, and it would never have reached this point without her.” Did he imagine her voice grew unsteady?

  He wrapped his fingers around hers, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

  She looked down at their hands. “That’s distracting, you know.”

  “Is it?” Surely a good sign.

  Her eyes locked with his and she nodded. Her pupils dilated. She swallowed. Moistened her lips.

  Leticia’s feminine, passionate reaction to his touch warmed him with unholy pleasure. Good thing they were in an open carriage or he might be tempted to cast off his determination to woo Leticia properly, and kiss her until she pledged herself to him alone.

  She removed her hand from his. The absence of her touch hit him like a cold stream. Oh wait. He looked up as more rain hit his face.

  “We’d best raise the canopy,” she said.

  Surprised she’d make such a suggestion, he stared at her. “We can’t do that; it would turn the barouche into a closed coach. It would ruin your reputation.”r />
  She let out a huff of exasperation. “Tristan, it’s raining. Concessions can be made.”

  As if in reply, the heavens opened up, and rain drove down on them. Rain fell in torrents and blew across the street in sheets.

  Still, he shook his head. “I won’t have anyone call into question your purity.”

  “So, you’ll get drenched—and I will, as well?” She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “If anyone saw us hiding behind a canopy, they could claim I’d compromised you.”

  Her expression changed from incredulous to hurt to anger. “Oh, that would be terrible, wouldn’t it, with no one to save you from having to marry me the way Richard saved you from having to marry Elizabeth!”

  Tristan rocked back. “The Duke of Pemberton refused to allow me to marry his daughter and insisted on Richard.”

  As he spoke, his anger grew. How could Leticia bring that up again? The entire episode had been a nightmare for everyone concerned. It had been a miracle that Richard and Elizabeth had found happiness together considering the circumstances that facilitated their marriage. To think that Leticia still blamed him…the thought opened an old wound and poured in salt.

  She folded her arms and glared at her feet while her clothes and bonnet went from water-spattered to drenched.

  The coachmen cleared his throat. “Sir.” He handed back an enormous black umbrella.

  “My thanks.” Tristan opened it and held it over them both, although they were already soaked. Leticia retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her nose.

  He drew two steadying breaths. “How many ways must I apologize for the fiasco with Elizabeth?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t.”

  “Then why are you so angry?” When had she become so short-tempered?

  She sniffed and her lip trembled.

  “Leticia? Are you crying?”

  “No.”

  As he peered at her face, tears fell from her eyes and streaked her cheeks. The sight hit him like a punch. “Tish?”

  He should have raised the hood and spared them both the argument, but he had a feeling they argued over more than the rain hood.

  Though tempted to put an arm around her, he settled for sliding his hand down her arm to her hand. He tried to put a teasing note into his voice. “You know, if you don’t explain yourself to me, I might be tempted to think you want me to ruin you.”

  She let out a scoff.

  He painted on a lazy grin in case she looked at him. She didn’t. He opted for a drawl, “Perhaps all along you’ve been wishing I’d carry you off and ruin you. Then you’d have to marry me.”

  She did look at him then. Her accusing stare wiped away his smile.

  “You mean, you’d have to marry me.” Her huff of breath carried the weight of a sob. “That would make us both miserable.”

  She considered marriage to him miserable? “Why would you say that?”

  “Because a man ought to be attracted to his wife as you have never been attracted to me. Most of all, it would break my heart if my husband were a rake.”

  He sagged. He would never prove himself to her. “Can’t you see that I am not a rake anymore? I have changed.” He tightened his grip on the umbrella’s handle and steadied it over them.

  Frowning, she shook her head. “Temporarily, I am sure—a natural reaction to your accident.”

  “No, Tish. I had already changed. I admit that the accident did cause me to look deeper within myself to find what really matters—to seek out more worthwhile pursuits such as helping Richard with estate business, and considering Parliament. However, I began to change long ago. I haven’t done anything that would justly condemn me as a rake in a very long time.”

  She gave him a patently disbelieving stare. “You have completely given up gambling and drinking and—the most difficult to believe of all—loose women?”

  Defensive, he said, “Yes. All. I haven’t gone near a woman in nearly a year.” Not since Richard accused him of seducing his wife and threw him out of the house. “I haven’t been intoxicated in several months—I told you this—I have grown to dislike the sensation of being out of control. Since the accident, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol except for a glass of wine at dinner. It’s been longer than that since I placed a single wager—not that I gambled much anyway even in my former life.” With the umbrella behind her like a backdrop, her eyes danced between his, searching. He’d never in his life wanted so badly for her to believe him.

  “Why?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  “It lost its appeal. I want to do something that matters. Be worthy of the love of a good woman. A lady.”

  Still she gave him that searching gaze.

  He pulled off one of his gloves and wiped moisture from her cheeks, more rain than tears, he hoped. “Come now, you’ve known me all our life. Have I ever lied to you?”

  A small, sad smile came in reply. She shook her head.

  “You are lovely. Desirable.” He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb.

  She studied him, a smile of wistful disbelief. If they were alone, he’d kiss her until she stopped doubting his sincerity.

  The carriage pulled up to a stop in front of her aunt’s house. Still holding the umbrella over her head, he helped her down.

  “Perhaps you’d best come in,” she said. “You can wait until the rain stops.”

  Tristan called to the driver. “Go on to the mews at the end of the street. We can wait until the storm passes to return home.”

  “If it’s all the same, sir, I’d best get back to the earl. He will need me tonight.”

  Waving him off, Tristan nodded. “I can take a hackney home. Thank you.”

  “Sir.” The coachman touched his cap and drove off.

  Holding the umbrella over them both, Tristan trotted up the stairs next to Leticia. Inside, they stopped in the foyer. Leticia’s bonnet drooped, water dripping off the brim, and her clothes stuck to her body in a way that should not have been so provocative. She gave Tristan a sideways glance, her mouth quivering and her eyes crinkling. He probably looked as drowned as she.

  Her mouth compressed and then a bark of laughter erupted. He stared. Tears a moment ago, and now laughter? When did Leticia become so driven by her sensibilities?

  “Oh, Tristan, you should see yourself. You look like a drowned cat.”

  He affected a lordly air. “Madam, I believe the words you seek are devilishly handsome.”

  “Oh, right. A devilishly handsome drowned cat.” Her peals of laughter undid him, and he joined in.

  “You, my dear, look like a…” He couldn’t think of an appropriate insult with her wet clothes clinging to her delicious curves.

  The butler arrived and cleared his throat. “A towel, miss?”

  “For Mr. Barrett. And show him to a room where he may change. Do what you can for him. I’ll go to my room and change. Send for my maid, please.”

  She vanished up the stairs. By the time Tristan had changed into some borrowed, but ill-fitting clothing from a decade ago, and warmed himself by the fire with a cup of tea, Leticia re-emerged. Her aunt and sister accompanied her, thus preventing a continuation of their earlier conversation. Her Aunt Alice chatted, amiable as always, and Isabella contributed, but Tristan said little as he watched Leticia. Though her earlier emotional state vanished, she continued to send occasional long looks his way.

  Again, came that suspicion that she’d misread his intentions. Somehow, over the years, she’d made up her mind that he found her unattractive—the reason why he’d never flirted with her.

  He’d have to clear up that misunderstanding.

  What if he were wrong? If he declared himself to her, he risked rejection.

  Still, if she could love him…

  He would take that risk.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Leticia sat next to Lord Bradbury in his private box in the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, and peered through her aunt’s lorgnette at th
e stage. From the box, the actors appeared healthy and attractive. However, the magnifying lens of the lorgnette revealed the young and handsome hero as a man twice her age wearing garish make up. Still, their comical facial expressions made up-close viewing enjoyable, and the music exceeded anything she heard back home.

  Lord Bradbury shifted and draped his arm across the back of Leticia’s chair—not touching her but still too…close. She glanced at her aunt, who murmured something to Isabella. Both kept their focus riveted to the stage.

  The murmur of voices from other boxes as well as from below gave evidence of how many came to the theater to see and be seen rather than to enjoy a comedy production. Tuning them out, Leticia returned her focus to the stage and paid attention to their dialogue, laughing at the mishaps, jests, and expressions.

  When the curtain fell at intermission, Isabella clasped her hands together. “I’ve never seen a production so grand. What impressive costumes, and the set is glorious! Oh, and when the prima donna sang, I thought I would weep. I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight.”

  Glancing behind him at Leticia’s sister, Lord Bradbury let out a low chuckle that bordered on paternal, as if he enjoyed the antics of a child—a rich chuckle, but nowhere near the infectious laugh Tristan often released. “I’m gratified you are enjoying yourself, Miss Isabella.” He turned his focus on Leticia. “And you?”

  Leticia toyed with the lorgnette. “It’s very diverting, my lord. I share my sister’s enthusiasm. Although, I admit, I wish the peanut gallery would be quieter so I could hear better.” She indicated those in the pit who created the most noise. The chandeliers filled with candles illuminated them almost as brightly as the stage lights illuminated the actors. She expected Lord Bradbury to laugh at her peanut gallery comment, or rush to their defense that they were not as unfortunate as those who attended plays during Shakespeare’s time and had to stand.

  He shrugged. “Many come for pleasures other than to enjoy a theatrical performance.”

  Leticia decided to tweak him a bit. “Why do you attend?”

  A charming smile touched his lips. “To spend time with you and your delightful family, of course.”