She hadn’t expected to hear it from a man who had broken into her bedroom like some common burglar, even if the only thing he professed to desire was her company.
“I-I don’t know,” she stammered.
He smiled. “Well, having some extra money might assist you. You can buy a pretty dress for a ball.”
“And find myself a husband?” she asked.
She hadn’t intended her voice to wobble.
In her mind, the statement had been natural and not the least unusual, but emotion rippled through her voice.
His face softened, even though tenderness wasn’t a trait she associated with intruders.
She averted her gaze. “You truly want me to pretend to be your wife?”
“Precisely.”
“But that’s a lie.”
Tristan gave a patient smile. “That is why it will be a matter of pretend.”
“I can’t do that,” Irene said. “It’s impossible. If I’m caught—”
He strode toward her and clutched her hand. “Don’t you see? You won’t. Look, Highedge Hall is on the other side of the hill. You can see it from here. You can slip out easily from the balcony.”
“You’re suggesting I scale the castle walls?”
“It will be fine, as long as you don’t let go.”
Irene nodded. She’d seen the outside wall and the tree that leaned beside it. She could scale it, even if it would be one of her more ridiculous actions.
“But I’m a houseguest here. I can’t simply—leave. And what if someone recognizes me?”
“No one will. You’re not from here, and my guests are from even further away. Obviously you can’t spend the night. But you can pop in and out of the manor house. It will help me. So much.”
Irene’s heart twisted, but she shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
Footsteps padded in the hallway, and she remembered the bell pull. “You have to leave. The servants—”
His face whitened. He might want her to be his pretend wife, but clearly he seemed most disinclined to be seen to be compromising her and having her be his real wife.
“If you change your mind, come to Highedge Hall tonight,” he said hastily. “I hope you’ll be there.”
And then, before she could utter another word, he ducked behind a curtain.
A servant appeared. “Can I bring you anything, Miss?”
Irene hesitated. She had no intention of informing the servant of the actual reason she’d called for assistance. The man was correct: having rumors about a strange man in her room would only negatively impact her, and Irene had no intention of marrying a man in such a manner.
Despite Lord Burley’s considerable charm, marriage was an undertaking that required premeditation. It certainly required the same thought one might give to purchasing a cottage, despite the emotions that might swirl through her.
“I would like some tea,” Irene asked.
The servant nodded, and Irene was soon alone with her thoughts.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT HADN’T WORKED.
For a moment, Tristan had allowed himself to hope, but Miss Carmichael was too sensible to agree to his plans.
Tristan rode back to his manor house to await the arrival of the prince and princess, conscious his shoulders were not at their customary perch. He wound his way up the hill. Snowflakes tumbled downward, scattering across the dusty brown landscape.
He hoped his visitors liked snow. There was bound to be more.
A grand carriage, with brightly colored wheels, sat outside Highedge Hall. Servants carried trunks inside.
Tristan had never seen so many trunks in his life.
There were large trunks and small trunks, trunks with locks and trunks without. Leather trunks and non-leather trunks, though all had vibrant colors, untainted by the rigors of mass travel.
Blast.
The prince and princess must have arrived.
Tristan urged his horse to a gallop, even though his horse must think him mad: he never galloped so near the manor house. Tristan arrived at the stables, jumped from his gelding and tossed the reins to his surprised looking groom.
He then sprinted toward the manor house, patting his attire, lest his cravat become unwound or another clothing tragedy befall him.
The snow was thicker near Highedge Hall, less touched by the wind, and Tristan moved awkwardly toward the door. He’d intended to be home when he greeted the prince and princess, and not dashing after them in an impromptu show of athletic skills and a definite show of absurdity.
If only Francesca were here. His visit to Miss Carmichael had only wasted valuable time. No woman would agree to pretend to be his wife, no matter how vital to him. He shouldn’t have asked a woman he barely knew to risk her reputation. He should be grateful Miss Carmichael hadn’t burst out laughing and ushered the entire household to her room to point and stare at him.
He sprinted up the steps. The door opened quickly, and he expressed his thanks to Dawson.
“Your visitors are in the parlor,” Dawson said, abandoning his normal gravitas for a more rapid pace.
“Any chance the visitors are not the prince and princess?” Tristan asked hopefully.
Dawson shook his head. “They’ve only been here ten minutes. I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Hutton to prepare tea.”
“Good chap.” Tristan slapped Dawson’s arm in a manner more typical of sports teams at Eton than of servant-employer interactions.
Formality was another thing he despised.
Hopefully he would be working at Hades’ Lair soon, and he would be working with others to improve upon McIntyre’s and Vernon’s gaming hell. The two men had let the gaming hell go in the past year. Tristan’s favorite place in the world had been deserted. Vernon spent too much of his time on Guernsey with his bride, and McIntyre ensconced himself in his castle in Scotland with his new wife, even though he’d never shown much prior interest in Scotland, ridding himself of his accent shortly after arriving at his boarding school. Tristan missed spending time with McIntyre and Vernon, but the thought of no longer spending any time at the club, not having a single location where he might find his friends, was worse to contemplate. He wasn’t going to let the gaming hell close down.
“Your waistcoat, my lord,” Dawson murmured. “The buttons need adjusting.”
Blast.
Tristan marched to a mirror. His hands shook, but finally he inhaled and entered the parlor.
Without a wife.
Without a plan to explain his lack of a wife.
The prince and princess rose. They were younger than he’d expected. Somehow, he’d envisioned that the prince and princess would be gray-haired and stern. The prince was most likely his age, and the princess only a few years younger. One wouldn’t have known they’d spent the day traveling. Their attire was immaculate, even though they’d traveled rather further than to the neighboring castle and back.
“Ah!” Prince Radoslav raised his eyebrows. “You have arrived.”
“Er—yes.” Tristan did not normally succumb to awkwardness, but he was not normally in the presence of a prince and princess. He swept into a bow, hoping the bolt of activity might temper some of his nervousness.
It did not.
Bows, it seemed, had not yet been imbued with magical prowesses.
Prince Radoslav returned Tristan’s bow, though the prince did not venture very deeply and retained an annoyed expression. His pear-shaped face seemed formed for the specific purpose of allowing his lips to show more dramatic frowns.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tristan said gamely.
Prince Radoslav murmured a reciprocation of that thought, even if nothing in his expression hinted he was doing anything except maintaining a decorum of respectability, perhaps because he believed that Tristan had lapsed.
Tristan turned to Princess Natalia. “I am sorry I was not here to greet you personally. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
She nodded, as if well aware of
the pleasure people experienced when they met her, and she extended a lace-gloved hand. Tristan dutifully kissed it.
He could somewhat understand Prince Radoslav’s enthusiasm for the state of marriage. Princess Natalia was beautiful, in every conventional sense. Her nose was tiny, and her face oval. Her eyes were a pleasing cerulean. Her hair was fair, as if she came from one of the Scandinavian countries, though he suspected she came from a Slavic region.
Prince Radoslav’s gaze narrowed, and his carefully plucked brows, perhaps an influence of his wife, shot together. “Lady Burley is not joining us?”
Tristan’s heart galloped.
“Perhaps she is occupied,” Princess Natalia said smoothly. “Visiting the sick relative, perhaps?”
Prince Radoslav kissed his wife’s hand. “You always see the best side of life, my dearest.” He turned to Tristan. “She is my angel, my heart.”
Princess Natalia gave a modest shrug. “He flatters me.”
“I speak the truth,” Prince Radoslav said. “I would be nothing without this woman.”
“And I would be nothing without my wife,” Tristan lied.
Dawson’s eyes rounded, but he was too practiced in the art of discretion to protest.
Prince Radoslav’s stared at Tristan, as if he suspected Tristan was already nothing.
Tristan pushed his guilt away. Perhaps he wasn’t married, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be excellent at managing Hades’ Lair. Tying oneself with someone in a permanent manner seemed a dubious path to happiness. His parents would have been more content had they never married, and Vernon’s and McIntyre’s happy marriages had dismantled their former lives. Tristan enjoyed bedding Francesca on occasion, but he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with her.
Perhaps Tristan was lying, but Prince Radoslav would learn eventually that Tristan was utterly capable of running Hades’ Lair smoothly. Tristan didn’t need a wife to run his household to be able to run a gaming hell. He didn’t require a person to sit opposite him at the breakfast table, or to accompany him to balls, whatever the prince might believe. His mother had certainly not enhanced his father’s life.
When Prince Radoslav discovered Tristan’s deception, as he inevitably would, the prince would merely remark he’d made a mistake. No doubt Prince Radoslav would laugh and thank him for his determination when the moment came. It would all be wonderful.
Unfortunately, it probably was also all conjecture.
The prince glowered at him, scrunching his face, as if determined to form more wrinkles.
Well, the prince succeeded.
From everything Tristan had read, the prince succeeded at doing everything he desired, and Tristan braced himself for a barrage of questions about his absent wife.
CHAPTER FIVE
IRENE HAD BEEN A FOOL.
Tristan had asked her for help, and she’d been too shocked by his appearance to murmur anything except the requisite societal rules.
Tristan knew those rules. He knew them better than she did: he was older, and unlike her, he’d been raised entirely in Britain.
She glanced back at her book. Normally, she enjoyed reading, and this copy of Gale Patterns in Northeast England: 1810-1815, was of particular interest. But she couldn’t simply immerse herself in facts, despite their obvious fascination value.
Not when Tristan had appeared so distraught.
She considered his request.
Helping him would be foolish. In fact, it would be worse than foolish...it would threaten her standing in society. Tristan had confidence in the brilliance of his plan. Still, even though the distance to Highedge Hall from Salisbury Castle might be small, and even though her mother had not yet arrived at Salisbury Castle, she could scarcely pretend to be his wife. If one of the servants saw her sneak from the castle and gossiped, her reputation would be ruined. Nice girls who attended Almack’s did not clamber down castle walls.
But I could pretend to go on a walk.
She hesitated. The servants already thought her eccentric. Most people did not cram their trunk with books when they visited people, and if they did, they selected lighter readings than books on weather patterns.
Irene shifted her feet over the floorboards. Tristan had appeared distraught. He wouldn’t have sneaked into her room unless it was absolutely vital.
A knock sounded on the door, and the maid soon entered with a tray.
“Here you go, miss,” the maid said. “I brought some ginger sweets for you too.”
“Thank you,” Irene said. “These look delicious.”
“One must take pleasure where one can find it.”
“Of course,” Irene said.
The maid looked dubiously at the crowded desk, and Irene shoved some books on her bed.
The maid nodded gratefully, put the tray on the desk and left the room.
Irene picked up the hot drink, musing over the maid’s words. Perhaps assisting Tristan would be a pleasure. She wouldn’t be endangering her life, only her reputation. She wasn’t desperate to marry, and if it never happened, then she would still have her books and research.
She raised her chin. If Tristan needed help, she would help him. His manor house was near the castle.
Irene ducked her head from the door and beckoned to the maid. “I’m afraid I don’t feel well. Could you please tell the duchess that I will not be able to join her for dinner?”
The maid’s eyes rounded. “Of course. Do you need the doctor?”
“Nothing like that,” Irene said. “Though please tell the other servants that I do not desire to be disturbed at all, not even to put a hot brick in the bed.”
“Very well.”
Once the maid left, Irene slipped on her pelisse and clambered out the window.
If Tristan could do it, she could as well.
Irene was thankful the duke had adorned this side of the castle with trees. She lowered herself onto a branch, happy when her feet touched it. This would be easier, were she taller. Being short was another one of her many ineptitudes, and Mama had long ago resigned herself that Irene would never blossom into something that better fit into Paris fashions.
It was a great trial of her mother’s life, that when her mother had only had a moderate amount of money, having married an Englishman who was cousin to a duke, she had had two handsome sons. When her husband had died, and her mother remarried a wealthy American merchant and Mama had plenty of money to splurge on the finest fabric, she’d been stuck with two plain daughters to dress. Irene’s stepsister was beautiful, but she’d married soon after her arrival in England.
Irene ambled over the hill until she came to Highedge Hall. She might not be able to amble outside alone in London, but this was the countryside. Still, that didn’t mean she was supposed to knock on the doors of unmarried men without even a chaperone.
Up until now, Irene had behaved with propriety. She’d followed the demands of her nanny, then her governess. Unlike her siblings, she’d never rebelled.
Each step now toward Tristan’s manor house was forbidden. Every limb of her body stiffened, as if the option of turning to stone might be an improvement on venturing alone to the front door of Highedge Hall.
Wind tossed leaves toward the gables, as if playing an absurd game to throw them over the building. The wind’s force might be magnificent, but it seemed ill-equipped to compete with the height of Highedge Hall, in all its seventeenth-century glory.
Soon she grasped hold of the knocker and was greeted by a surprised looking butler.
“May I help you?” the butler asked.
She ignored the manner in which her heart raced and lifted her chin.
“I am Lord Burley’s wife,” she declared in her most authoritative tone.
The butler widened his eyes. “I sincerely doubt that.”
Fiddlesticks.
This would be going more smoothly had she’d told Tristan she would agree to play his wife.
“We married hastily,” Irene lied.
<
br /> The butler blinked, and his mouth dropped open. “So you really—?”
She nodded.
“Forgive me. Lord Burley has been acting—” He halted, obviously reconsidering sharing Tristan’s behavior with her. Finally, he swallowed. “I think he will be happy to see you.”
“Good.”
The butler stepped outside, and the momentary obsequiousness seemed to be replaced with suspicion again. “I didn’t hear a carriage.”
Irene thought quickly. “The carriage broke a wheel.”
“Oh!” The butler raised his eyebrows. “How dreadful. Would you like me to fetch help?”
She shook her head. She refused to send the servants on a task to find an imaginary carriage.
“My trousseau fell into the mud,” Irene said. “Everything is ruined. The driver is at the local coach house with my lady’s maid, and I have instructed them to return to my parents’ home for more clothes. So—er—just fetch my husband.”
“Naturally, Your Ladyship.”
The butler soon disappeared, and Irene’s heart raced. She thought the butler believed the story. But she’d struggled and she hadn’t even met Tristan’s guests.
For a moment, she worried that this might be some dreadful prank after all, but then Tristan strode toward her.
“You came!” His eyes shone, and he hurried toward her. No man playing a prank could feign such relief.
She nodded briskly. “I trust I am not too late?”
“Not at all.” Tristan’s voice rumbled pleasantly, and Irene’s heart squeezed.
He exhaled happily.
It must have been difficult for him to ask her to be his wife, if only for a limited time. It wasn’t a question that anyone, even important earls, would be comfortable posing.
Tristan no longer wore a greatcoat, and Irene was conscious of the manner in which his navy blue tailcoat stretched appealingly over him.
Irene’s heart raced. The last thing she desired was for him to think she’d spent the past seven years remembering his visit.
Most likely her heart raced because of a much more reasonable explanation. After all, she’d walked from the castle, which had involved a great deal more athleticism than normal, since she’d wanted to stay away from the main path. Normally when she went on a walk, she did not spend half the time craning her neck to make certain no one was following her.
A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble Book 6) Page 3
