by Hatch, Donna
“Nothin’ t’ worry about, miss,” the pilot said. “All very safe. I’ve been doing this for ages.”
“If memory serves, this is powered by a type of gas called hydrogen?” Tristan asked the pilot.
“Aye. Makes the balloon lighter than air so it can go up.”
Up. Up and away from the ground. So far up…
Tristan touched her shoulder. “Tish?”
She turned to him, unable to speak.
Without a word, he drew her into his arms and held her while she trembled. He rubbed circles on her back, slow and soothing. “We’re safe. Hold onto me.”
Burrowing into him, she clutched him as if he alone protected them all from a horrible death. He held her, steady, strong. The mint in his clothes mingled with his bay rum aftershave and that uniquely adult Tristan scent, calming her fears—familiar and yet different in a way that left her baffled. His strong arms held her against his solid chest.
His beloved voice rumbled through her. “Look Tish—you will want to see this.”
Without moving, she opened her eyes. London Bridge, the spires of Parliament, the Thames winding like a shining pathway sprinkled with stardust—all of London lay before her like a detailed, colored map. Ships and other watercraft dotted the river like a child’s toys. The ocean’s great expanse shimmered in the distance. Land formations she never knew existed now revealed themselves in the layout below. Absolute silence reigned in this world above the land.
A cold breeze blew a strand of hair over her eyes. She pushed it back, mesmerized by the view, and by the singular experience of enjoying the flight within the safe harbor of Tristan’s arms. She looked up at him, her motion catching his attention. He slowly smiled, and her heart opened up like a flower to the sun.
A sublime transcendence settled into her heart. Tristan. Her dearest friend. And yet, something more, something encompassing friendship but carrying it to a new level of joy, peace, safety.
“It’s magical, isn’t it?” He spoke almost reverently as if reluctant to break the beauty of the moment.
She nodded, too awed to reply.
He looked back out at the panorama. “I’d forgotten what it’s like up here.”
The view. Of course. She rested her head against him, no longer afraid but absolutely craving more of him, more of his touch, more of…
She didn’t allow herself to finish the thought. Instead, they spoke in whispers, pointing out landmarks to each other. She could happily die here, in this quiet, surreal world, enfolded in Tristan’s arms.
The pilot pointed out some sights Leticia had not noticed, and she admired the scene.
“Here we go, now,” the pilot said. “Time to go back down.”
Tristan watched the pilot’s every movement, clearly fascinated. “Do you ever fly without a tether?”
The pilot nodded. “Oh, aye, but not in London. I go out a ways before I lift off—it’s easier to find a landing spot. Better visibility, too. Always an adventure flying untethered. No two flights are the same.”
They began the descent, so gradually that it seemed as if the ground rose to meet them. Tristan loosened his hold on her and she moved away from him. The closer they came to the ground, the greater the distance she put herself from Tristan.
They hit the ground with a soft thump and Leticia shifted her feet to stay balanced. With her hands folded, she waited as the land crew placed the stepladders. She drew a breath, ashamed for her panic, and for the unseemly way she threw herself at Tristan.
Some inner glow filled Tristan’s eyes and the smile he offered her eased the tension inside her. His glance reassured her as surely as if he’d reached out and touched her with his hand.
He held her steady as she climbed the stepladders up and over the basket, and joined her on the ground. As she wound her hand through his arm and they strolled to the waiting carriage, a new awareness of him tingled her senses—surely the euphoria of the balloon ride caused her unexplained reaction.
She met his gaze. “What an unforgettable experience. Thank you.”
His familiar grin, yet warmer somehow, appeared. “It was most assuredly my pleasure.” Tristan the rake resurfaced with a teasing light glimmering in his eyes. “If I’d known all I had to do to get you into my arms was take you in a balloon or some other great height, I would have done it years ago.”
Her world righted itself, and she whacked his arm. “Tell anyone about that and I’ll tell your cook to put mushrooms in your favorite stew.”
He shuddered dramatically. “No need to resort to cruel threats. Your secret is safe with me.” Grinning, he led her up the rise to a walking path. “Shall we take a walk or do you need to return right away?”
“I have no engagements.”
They walked and talked, and their familiar friendship returned. Yet, that underlying awareness of Tristan remained, each breath he took vibrating through her, each smile bringing an answering one to her lips, each mood, every expression echoing in her heart.
The sunlight flirted with the leaves overhead, sending shafts of light on his face, his hair. As they walked, a cat drowsing in the sun startled and slunk off into shrubbery, and Tristan quoted a poem by Keats about cats.
“Does everything remind you of a poem?” she asked.
His mouth curved upward on one side. “I suppose a great deal does.”
Elizabeth loved poetry too—something that had drawn Tristan and Elizabeth together for their brief fling in a time that now seemed so long ago. Perhaps time did heal all wounds, for the wound of losing Richard to Elizabeth had vanished.
As they completed their walk and boarded the carriage, Tristan cocked his head. “An ice from Gunther’s?”
“How well you know me.” She smiled.
As they sat in the carriage enjoying ices, Tristan devouring his, he put a hand on his head. “Ow.”
A bit smug, Leticia shook her head. “You ate yours too quickly; eating cold that fast always causes head pain.”
He winced. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“Not much experience with ices, I imagine?” she said sweetly.
“No, my friends and I preferred to take refreshment in other ways, as you well know, you saucy wench.”
“I hope you don’t still call me that when we’re old and gray.”
He leaned back, that gleam coming back into his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll have a new nickname for you by then—if you stop acting like a saucy wench.”
“Never. You wouldn’t know me then.”
“True. Very well, let’s think of a new one. How about…pet.”
She made a face.
“Ducks?”
She made a gagging sound.
“Dear?”
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider.
The gleam turned to a hot, sultry glower she’d never seen before. Very slowly, his lips and tongue moved forming, “Love?”
Every drop of moisture in her mouth evaporated under the heat of his stare. Leticia, the proper young lady, the friend, the rational being, collapsed and incinerated. Out of the ashes flew a new creature, one born of instinct and need. Her focus fixated on his mouth. Her lips starved for his kiss. Her arms ached to wrap around him. Her body craved his arms to enfold her. A temptation assaulted her to cast off her dish of ice and throw herself at him and do more than seek comfort in his familiarity.
The spoon cut into the edge of her fingers, snapping her out of such madness. Cold realization hit her like an icy wind.
This, then, must be the reason why every lady, proper or not, threw themselves at Tristan’s feet. He need only give them that look, and they lost all reason. No man should have that much power.
Anger that he’d had so much control over women all these years raced through her. If she’d been made of paper, the heat of her rage would have blackened her.
She tossed her head. She tried to make her voice sound teasing, but her brittle anger hurled her words at him like darts. “Don’t look at me like that,
you rake. That obviously works with others, but you can be assured that I’m impervious to such a cheap ploy.”
He jerked back. Blinked. Confusion and hurt flitted over his features. “What?”
A Gunther’s waiter who passed by the carriage caught her eye. “I’m finished.” She handed her half-eaten dish of lemon ice to him. Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them back. She would not cry in front of Tristan. The shameless womanizer! To think she almost fell for his game. How many he had seduced with such a look, she hoped she never knew.
“Please take me home.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and grappled at her tattered composure.
Tristan handed his dish to the waiter and spoke to the coachman. As the carriage pulled into traffic, neither of them spoke.
His hand enclosed hers. “Tish?”
She stared straight ahead. If she looked at him now, she’d lose control and yell or cry.
“What did I do?”
She clamped her mouth shut. So much for him knowing her so well.
“I promise you, whatever look you thought you saw, was not some tool in my seduction repertoire. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have an arsenal of weapons to use on women. Even if I did, I’d never use it on you.”
She sighed. “I know—you use them on women you find attractive.” She removed her hand from underneath his. Why, then, had he used it on her?
“Is that what this is about?” He leaned over and peered at her face from under the brim of her bonnet. “Tish?”
She sighed again and looked at his face. Her smile probably came out sad. “’Tis of no consequence.”
“Don’t you know how attractive you are?”
“It doesn’t signify. Do forget I said anything about it.”
He took her hand in his and pulled it against his chest. She half expected him to start spouting outrageous sonnets or something, but his expression remained serious, despite the fondness in his eyes. “Leticia Wentworth. You are one of the prettiest ladies I have ever seen. Every man who sees you knows it. I didn’t refrain from flirting with you all these years because I found you unattractive; I never flirted with you because it felt wrong. I have known you all of my life—loved you as a friend all of my life.”
Which did make sense, curse him.
“I would never attempt to trifle with your heart or your sensibilities. Things have changed between us. We’ve survived many difficulties, you and I.” He enfolded her hand with both of his, still holding it against his chest. “Don’t you know how much you mean to me?”
His dear, familiar face filled her vision, eclipsing all else. He had loved her as a friend all of his life. Of course he did. Therein lay the blessing. And the curse.
Bittersweet, she smiled. “Forgive me for overreacting. I know we are good friends, you and I, and I know why you never flirted with me.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Do you? In truth?”
As they approached the house her aunt had let out for the Season, Leticia looked up at him. He sat so very near that she wouldn’t need to move much to kiss him. Just lift her head and…
She cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for the balloon ride. It was unforgettable.”
“It was for me, as well.” That lazy glint returned. “Do feel free to pretend we’re way up high any time.”
She let out a scoff and whacked his arm again.
“We can still view the Elgin’s Parthenon Sculptures if you wish. I’ve never seen them and would love to see them with you.”
He hadn’t taken other women there? Where did he take women he courted? Of course, now that she thought of it, he had never courted a lady before. She stopped that line of thought before she ground her teeth into powder.
“Thank you. I would like that, too.” Now why had she agreed to it? Spending more time in Tristan’s company was a pointless exercise. And quite possibly dangerous. Lord Bradbury would take her to see the famous marble sculptures if she asked him. However, viewing them with Tristan appealed in ways she couldn’t begin to explain.
He grinned. “Tomorrow?”
She nodded. “I am engaged for the evening, but I’m available all day.”
A slight pause, curiosity brightened his eyes and he opened his mouth to ask her something, but with a slight shake of his head said instead, “Until tomorrow then.”
If she were of an inclination to place wagers, she would have wagered that he wanted to ask her about her evening plans, and with whom. Since when did he refrain from expressing his thoughts?
For some reason, she needed him to know she would not see Lord Bradbury tomorrow night. “I’m attending a small dinner party hosted by Mrs. Goodfellow.”
His gaze slid her way. “Bradbury or Kensington invited?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
His posture relaxed. Puzzling. Why the sudden dislike of her spending time with the gentlemen he’d previously been so happy for her to meet? Again, flared a faint suspicion—hope?—that he was jealous. Ridiculous.
He handed her down from the carriage and escorted her to the front steps. The noise from the streets seemed loud and busy, as if everyone in the district were nearby.
She made a loose gesture to the door. “I’d invite you in but my aunt is likely still gone with Isabella.”
“Of course.” He bowed low over her hand, then continued to hold it as he straightened. “Tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Tomorrow.”
He held fast to her hand. Her focus fixed on his as if somehow every muscle in her body had frozen in place. He swallowed. Twice. Then he released her hand and backed away. As he strode down the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder, smiling, and looking almost triumphant.
Released from whatever spell she’d been under, Leticia went inside.
What a confusing situation! She should have refused to see him on the morrow. Spending so much time in Tristan’s company had both an unexplained and uncomfortable effect on her sensibilities.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tristan finished his correspondence with the caretaker of the property Richard had turned over to his care, and signed his name with a flourish. How gratifying this undertaking had been! The caretaker clearly enjoyed someone taking an interest in the “old place” and had plenty of suggestions for restoring it to its former glory. Tristan had half a mind to hire a coach and view the property immediately. But not now. Roads were difficult in the best of times, but this year produced the coldest spring he’d ever seen. He might hit torrential rain or even snow in places. No, he’d best wait until summer.
Besides, he didn’t dare leave now with Bradbury and Kensington competing for Leticia’s affection.
Yesterday, the balloon ride had been turbulent at best—at least in her heart. Heated glances, a few blissful moments in his arms, the exhilaration of flight, comfortable friendship, and that moment when she’d grown angry with him—all creating a confusing combination. Why had she grown so angry with him? Had she felt overlooked as he flirted with every other lady or woman whose paths he crossed?
That didn’t make sense. She’d never shown any signs of desire for him, until quite possibly these last few days, and she still viewed him as a shameless rake.
He craved the love of a faithful woman. To such a woman, he would give everything—his heart, body, and soul. To Leticia, he would give it all. Would she ever see him for who he’d become, or always view him as a dissipated rake?
There must be a way to prove himself to her.
He set the pen in its holder and capped the inkwell. After sanding the ink, he folded and sealed the letter and handed it to a servant to have it posted.
Richard’s barouche arrived and Tristan practically skipped out to it and tapped his toe during the drive as if the cadence would speed his arrival to Leticia. Inside the foyer of her aunt’s house, already prepared to leave, Leticia waited.
His heart sang at the beautiful sight. “Leticia love, you look exquisite.”
She faltere
d and made a point of adjusting her gloves. “Er, thank you.”
He grinned to put her at ease. “And how refreshing that you are always ready when I come for you.”
It worked. Her eyes took on a playful glint. “I know it’s terribly unstylish not to adhere to the custom of ladies making a gentleman wait. However, I assume he tells her what time to expect him so she knows when to be ready.”
Bowing, he took her hand and kissed it. If only her gloves could vanish. As he straightened, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I am delighted, as always to benefit from your superior good sense.”
She let out a slight chuckle. “You don’t have to play the part of a besotted suitor, Tristan.”
“What makes you think I’m not a besotted suitor?”
She huffed. “You? I’m hardly your type.”
“Perhaps my type has changed.”
She shook her head, disbelieving. He pursed his lips. He had much to do to convince her.
He made a gesture. “Your carriage awaits.” Walking taller with Leticia on his arm, he led her outside. He glanced at gathering clouds. “I hope the weather holds.”
She looked up. “Didn’t you pay homage to the weather god?”
“Of course, but he may not grant me two requests in a row.”
“Perhaps you need to make a better offering,” she suggested.
“Perhaps…but I rather frown on virgin sacrifices―”
“For which I am grateful.”
“—but I suppose I could offer something else.” He handed her into the barouche.
“Such as?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any suggestions?”
She pretended to think as the carriage rolled over the streets. “You could sacrifice your wild ways.”
“I already have. Or haven’t you noticed?”
She laughed. “Oh, of course. How could I forget?”
He sobered. “I’m serious.”
Patting his hand, she gave him an almost matronly shake of her head. “A few weeks may not be an adequate sacrifice.”
“You believe me un-genuine?”
Still smiling, she shrugged. “I think your changes will be short-lived.”
