by Donna Hatch
Molly shivered. “I wanna read, Papa.”
Oh, dear. Surely this vile man wasn’t this sweet child’s father?
“No! I forbid it!” He boxed her ears.
“Stop!” Leticia rushed forward but Tristan caught her by the arm.
“Sir.” Tristan’s voice, filled with authority, caught the man’s attention. “There is no cause to strike the child.”
“She disobeyed me. I won’t ’ave a willful girl, getting’ no ’igh falutin’ ideas.” He spat on the floor and grabbed Molly by the arm.
Molly burst into tears. “Please, Papa, please let me stay.”
As the girl’s father raised his hand to strike her again, Tristan grabbed the man’s arm. “If you hit that child in my presence again, I will flatten you.”
The man swung at Tristan who neatly dodged it and landed a punch of his own. The man staggered back but as he lunged, Tristan pulled out a pistol. The sight checked the man’s step.
The girl’s father stared hard at Tristan. “Molly. Out.”
Molly shuffled toward the door.
Leticia called. “Molly, wait. You don’t have to go with him. Remember when I said I would help you? You can stay here, or…”
“Shut yer trap, woman!” the girl’s father snarled. “My girl. Not yours. She goes wit’ me.” As if remembering the pistol trained on him, he snapped his mouth shut.
“No,” Lectica said. “I won’t allow you to take her. You—”
Tristan’s voice cut across hers, gentle but decisive. “He’s right. As her father, he has a legal right to keep her.”
She turned to Tristan, angry and helpless. “He hurts her.”
Tristan kept his focus on the man, steady, grim. He flicked his gun toward the door. “Go. Do not return.”
The man cast a sneering glance at all of them and dragged his hapless daughter by one arm. He left the door wide open behind him.
Peter closed and bolted the door. “Sorry, Miss. I’ll keep better watch.”
Mrs. Harper shepherded the children back to the classroom and instructed them to recite sums aloud.
Leticia rounded on Tristan. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me—”
“Keep her?” Tristan supplied. “Then what?”
She struggled to come up with an answer. “I don’t know, but I can’t stand the thought of her living with such abuse.”
Tristan tucked away his gun and put a hand on each of her shoulders. “If you tried to take her from her father, you would be in danger of the law.”
Leticia struggled against anger, helplessness, sorrow.
Gently, Tristan pulled her in close and held her. “I know, Tish.” He let out his breath. “Fathers should love and protect their children, not hurt them.”
Enfolded in the soothing comfort of his arms, her distress faded. She held on to him as a deep place inside her sighed.
He let out a caustic laugh. “Although, I suppose some children are full of the devil and deserve a few beatings.”
She pulled away to look at him. “No child deserves any beating.”
“Not like that.” He glanced at the door through which Molly and her father exited.
“Not like what your father did to you, either.”
Memories surfaced of, as a child, often finding Tristan, grim and teary-eyed but trying not to cry, curled up in the hollow of the oak near the brook after his father had whipped him. She had always put an arm around him and tried to reassure him that he was a good boy. Eventually, he stopped believing her. Now, as it did then, the idea of the gentle, dreamy-eyed Tristan she knew as a child being subjected to harsh punishment sent pain through her.
His eyes took on a faraway look, his expression unbearably sad. “I was such a disappointment…the reason my mother left.”
“No, of course not.” Did he really believe his mother ran off because of him?
His lips tightened. “I would never treat my children that way. There are more effective ways of punishing a misbehaving child and ensuring discipline than inflicting welts and bruises.”
“Of course there is.” She smoothed back that curl that always tumbled over his brow and let her fingers slide along his smooth-shaven cheek.
His eyes became intensely focused on her. With deliberate slowness, he slid one hand up her arm, over her shoulder, up her neck to her face. His thumb grazed her cheek in a feather touch. The air around them thickened, and all her nerve endings tingled as if a thunderstorm raged nearby. His gaze focused on her mouth. Her lips heated in response. He lowered his head, paused, met her eyes. A question lay there, open and honest.
She didn’t know the answer. Her heart throbbed and a slow, burning tightness coiled in her stomach. He moved his other hand, slow and sensuous, up her shoulder to her other cheek. He stood, warm hands on her face, his eyes hot. He lowered his head again but paused a breath away.
Is this what she wanted?
He brushed his lips over hers, warm and unbearably soft. Someone let out a sigh. Or a moan. The pressure of his mouth increased to a gentle tug, asking, testing. It returned with renewed heat, no longer asking but offering. Unimaginable pleasure crept over her. The slow burn intensified.
Footsteps outside the room neared. “Stay in line, children.” Mrs. Harper’s voice rang out.
Leticia leaped away from Tristan. The warmth of his touch, his kiss, remained. While Tristan moved to stare out of the window, Leticia sank into one of the armchairs facing the stove. She pressed a finger over her lips. They throbbed. Burned. Delicious warmth inside her made her want to stretch like a cat. No wonder mothers and chaperones kept such wary eyes on young girls. Everything proper inside her crumbled under the power of Tristan’s skillful kiss. The reckless behavior of so many women now made perfect sense.
She was a fool to venture there, especially with a libertine of Tristan’s caliber. She would do well to remember that he was not the sweet, sensitive child she’d comforted, confided in, played with, loved as a brother but most of all as a friend. Over the last several years, he’d become a rake in every sense of the word. He claimed to have changed, and indeed appeared to have done so, but this newly reformed side of him may not be here to stay.
If she gave her heart to him, only to have him eventually resume his life as a rake, she may never survive the heartbreak.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Staring out the window of the front room in the school while every muscle in his body screamed at him to carry Leticia off to a dark corner, Tristan took several steadying breaths and ran through the latest figures the land steward had sent to him until his heartbeat returned to normal. Later, he would pull out the memory of kissing her, and revel in it, but for now, he needed to appear perfectly circumspect. He almost snorted at the idea of linking the word perfect with any part of himself. Too far away to touch, Leticia sat shuffling sheets of music with shaking hands.
Footsteps reached them. “Ah, here you both are.” Mrs. Harper’s voice cut through his thoughts.
Tristan turned and gave her a bland smile. Leticia looked up and held up sheet music as if indicating she’d found something she sought. All appeared innocent—if no one noticed Leticia’s flushed cheeks.
“Form two lines please,” Mrs. Harper instructed the children. “Mr. Barrett and Miss Wentworth will help us. Right here, Mr. Barrett, if you please.”
The footman, Peter, entered, and the four adults helped teach the reel to the children. Throughout it all, Leticia refused to look Tristan in the eye. At first, he assumed the kiss flustered her, perhaps even embarrassed her. As the dancing lesson progressed, however, it became apparent something truly distressed her.
He must address her concerns before they festered. For now, he focused on the dancing. He guided girls ranging from barely tall enough to reach his elbow to adolescent. Engrossed in his assignment, he guided and complimented until they managed a reel. At the end, as they all bowed and curtsied, Tristan glanced at Leticia. She met his gaze and smiled.
&nb
sp; Perhaps whatever concerned her could be assuaged more easily than he first feared.
Mrs. Harper dismissed the students, reminding the older ones of the public dance.
Leticia moved toward the room’s doorway but Tristan called her. “Miss Wentworth, a word if you please?”
Mrs. Harper called as she headed to the schoolroom, “We will wait for you outside.”
“I’ll hail a hackney.” Peter unlocked the front door and held it open for the children and the teacher, then followed them all out.
Alone with Leticia, Tristan moved to her side and peered into her downcast face. Very softly, he said, “Tish.”
She stiffened, staring at the floor. He put a finger under her chin, lifted, and waited until she looked him in the eye.
A teary gaze met his. “Please don’t make me fall in love with you.”
He blinked. Fall in love with him?
“I won’t do it,” she said with a fierceness at odds with her usual demeanor. “I won’t risk you breaking my heart. You say you’ve changed, and I think you believe it, but I don’t know if…” She pinned him with a stare. “Have you changed in your heart, or are you temporarily adjusting your behavior out of some idea of paying penance—or worse—as a way of adapting your seduction repertoire for me the way you adapted it for Elizabeth?”
All the wind left his lungs. If she’d driven a blade through his heart, it could not have caused worse agony. His throat and eyes burned. The pain heated to indignation, to anger. “This has nothing to do with Elizabeth. When will you stop flinging that in my face? I have changed. Why can’t you see that?”
She folded her arms and looked down. Her condemnation knifed though him.
He fisted his hands. “You are so eager to give another chance to those who live in the streets, to champion change for them. It seems I don’t get that same opportunity.” He whirled around and rushed out, nearly trampling Peter outside.
“Y-your carriage is here, sir,” Peter stammered.
Tristan said, “Drive it home. I’ll walk.”
He headed down the street and walked and walked until he found himself in a secluded area of a park. Alone, he broke into a run and ran until his legs weakened and his lungs ached. Twilight fell, enshrouding the city. At least, the growing darkness would help conceal his state of dishevelment. His anger and pain faded to an empty hopelessness.
She would never forgive him. To her, he would always be a rake.
A drinking song serenaded him, guiding him to a tavern. Lights shone from the windows and laughter beckoned. What did he have to lose?
He opened the front door, seeking its familiar, mind-numbing diversion. Inside the tavern, the blend of tallow candles, smoke, unwashed bodies, and beer greeted Tristan like an old friend—familiar, and yet somehow foreign. Men gathered in groups, drinking, singing bawdy songs, and playing cards. Women of loose morals and an abundance of cleavage wove among them, some sitting on laps, offering samples of wares they were willing to sell.
In a nearby table, a man in a drunken stupor snored and drooled on the table while one of his companions relieved him of his purse. Others traded jests and far-fetched stories while laughing at their own wit. The general gaiety should have slid on him like a familiar coat. Instead, it shifted, unreal, strange, and distant, like revisiting a painting he’d viewed years before and finding that the truth didn’t quite match his memories—the colors brash instead of bright, the subjects hideous instead of handsome, their games tiresome instead of titillating, and their intent calculating instead of congenial.
Had he changed that much, or did he merely see the truth now that he viewed the scene with a mind undimmed by the fog of alcohol and a devil-may-care attitude? And worse, did Tristan appear this way to Richard all those years? His conscience shouted a resounding yes to all.
Disgusted by the revelation, Tristan returned to the quiet outside. A lamplighter worked his way down the street, chasing away the shadows with his light. Fog crept through the streets, sending a chill through Tristan. He reached to turn up his collar but his fingers encountered a tailcoat, not a greatcoat. He paused to get his bearings. White’s would be closer than his bachelor’s rooms, and he could find warmth and food there.
After a brief ride in a hackney, he strode into the club and paused. Gentlemen sat in small groups or alone, talking quietly, sipping port or brandy. Some sat alone reading the newspaper. Two wrote in the famous White’s Book where gentlemen logged their wagers both great and small. From the dining room came the aroma of savory meat, the clink of glasses, and the scrape of silverware. The scene felt wholesome and serene in comparison to the tavern. He found a seat and ordered a beefsteak.
“Dining alone tonight?” Captain Kensington appeared next to him. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Kensington. Another painful reminder of all the ways Tristan fell short. His appetite fled. Still, he gestured to the empty seat. “Please.”
Kensington sank into the chair and made small talk for a few minutes, all the while, Tristan trying to quell his irritation at facing a rival for Leticia’s affection. Tristan used to genuinely like the fellow, and they’d certainly enjoyed some good times, as well as a few scrapes, together. But now, with so much at stake…
Kensington had spent his last ten years serving King and Country, not as a wastrel. Perhaps he deserved Leticia. Still, Tristan had no intention of stepping aside. He was nowhere near that noble.
After a few minutes, Kensington fell silent, toying with the stem of his wineglass. “Tristan…” He let out his breath. “When you suggested that I court Leticia…”
Tristan stiffened. No. No, not yet. Not before Tristan had a chance to prove himself to Leticia.
Kensington continued, “I did it as a favor to you, for the most part. She is a delightful girl. But…”
Tristan raised a brow and held his breath.
“I do not wish to pursue a courtship with her.”
Tristan leaned forward.
“It’s not that I couldn’t be happy with her. I probably could be content, but I do not love her, and after knowing—” He broke off and then tried again. “It is inappropriate to continue to see her and raise her expectations. Since Lord Bradbury is also calling upon her, I think it best that I step aside.”
Tristan let out a sigh of relief. “I see.”
Kensington’s next words came out rushed. “I have not given her any reason to believe my heart is engaged, nor do I believe hers is, either, nor did I kiss her, or…anything.”
“I should hope not.” If Tristan learned Kensington had kissed Leticia, he might have to rearrange the man’s face.
But no, her kiss, while sweeter than anything he’d ever experienced, revealed without a doubt that she’d never had such an experience, despite her earlier taunt. That thought made him want to puff out his chest, as well as give her more experience in the art of kissing.
“I know you are old friends,” Kensington said, “Rather like a brother to her, I should think. Since the idea of my courting her was yours, I thought it best to tell you my intention, or lack thereof.”
Tristan tried to affect a calm demeanor. “Very sensible of you. I appreciate your candor.”
Kensington eyed him. “You aren’t angry with me?”
“No, of course not. You seemed to have treated her well, made her feel admired, and you showed others she was desirable, which, no doubt, boosted her view of herself. Withdrawing now before expectations are raised is a wise course of action.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
Tristan took a leap of trust. “Just so you know, I don’t view her as a sister.”
Kensington tilted his head to one side. “I see.”
“She is…special.”
Kensington toyed with a small gold band he wore around his little finger, a ring Tristan had not noticed before. “I have business in the continent. I depart Tuesday next.”
“Will you be in Italy, by chance?”
“Yes,
as a matter of fact, I will.” Kensington eyed Tristan.
“Perchance you could look in on my sister Selina? She’s been gone a rather long time and seems reluctant to return home. Perhaps you can reassure me as to her safety.”
“I’d be happy to.”
Their food arrived, and they spent the remainder of the time talking like old friends. Warm and fed, and with one obstacle to Leticia’s heart now cleared away, Tristan turned over new possibilities as to how to convince her that he truly loved her and that she could trust him with her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Inside her bedchamber at her aunt’s house, Leticia fastened her garters and smoothed wrinkles in her silk stockings. As she stood to allow her maid to lower her ball gown over her head, Isabella entered.
“Do I look well enough?” her sister asked, turning.
Leticia glanced at her. “Bella, you always look perfect.”
Isabella gestured to her ivory gown with tiny aqua flowers and trimmed in matching ribbon. “I don’t think this color suits me.”
With a sigh, Leticia gave her a closer look. “Come in by the light so I can see you better.”
Isabella came closer and stood near the tall candelabra where beeswax candles flickered. With her dark hair styled meticulously, and her large, darkly lashed, blue-green eyes more vibrant with the matching aqua of her gown, and the creamy perfection of her skin, she created a stunning image.
“The gown is a perfect complement to your complexion, and it brings out the color of your eyes.”
Isabella’s smile was pained. “Truly?”
Leticia studied her. There seemed to be a deeper issue here than Isabella’s appearance. “Whatever is amiss, dear?”
Isabella sank down on a nearby chair. “I want to look well tonight.”
The maid finished pinning Leticia’s gown and departed without a sound.
“Any particular reason why?” Leticia asked.
“Oh…not really.” Isabella stared off into space for a minute. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.” Leticia stepped into her carriage shoes.
“If Lord Bradbury offers for you this season, will you accept him?”
