Irene smiled. “You don’t know me.”
“But you’re not one of these party girls, I can tell.” the housekeeper said. “You won’t just spend time with him at balls. You’ll spend time with him otherwise... Like now, when he’s trying to get an investment deal done.”
Irene nodded.
“But he should have told me he was married!” The housekeeper shook her head. “I haven’t even made up a room for you!”
“Please don’t worry. Lord Burley and I will share a room,” Irene’s voice wobbled, and she hoped the housekeeper would not notice.
“Ah, newlyweds,” the housekeeper breathed.
The corridor might be dim, but Irene was certain the housekeeper must be able to tell she was blushing.
“And—er—you should tell the servants not to enter our wing,” Irene added.
“Because of your newly married state?”
“Er—yes. Naturally,” Irene lied, grateful for the fact she had four older siblings and that she had an idea that there were reasons why married couples might not want servants wandering outside their bedroom, particularly in the early stages of marriage.
A vision of lying beside Tristan entered her mind, and she expelled it hastily.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MISS CARMICHAEL HAD been marvelous. There’d been tension, but Tristan didn’t care.
He could work with tension. There remained hope the prince would invest in Hades’ Lair.
Tomorrow would be better, he was certain. The prince and princess would have forgotten they’d been subjected to hours in their carriage of uncomfortable swaying.
Tristan paced the drawing room, and when Miss Carmichael finally ascended the stairs, he approached her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she murmured, darting a glance around.
“They’re upstairs,” he said reassuringly.
“Thank goodness for miserable carriage rides,” she said, and he grinned.
“I’m glad you were here.”
“Of course. I only wish I were better at playing the role.”
“You’re the only person there is.”
She gave a wobbly smile, and he considered that perhaps, just perhaps, he’d insulted her.
He hadn’t meant to offend her. He stared at her intelligent green eyes, wondering what was in her mind, beneath the unflattering dark colored dress and the bun tied in an unflattering position on her head that seemed to lack so many of the flourishes of other women’s hairstyles.
“I’m very grateful,” he said again.
She tilted her head, and he had the odd feeling she was bracing herself.
Francesca hadn’t been bracing herself. She’d been excited at the prospect of meeting Prince Radoslav and Princess Natalia. Of course, she would have made money, but he had had the impression that she would have been excited to meet them anyway. That’s what made it so surprising she wasn’t there, but then, something better had occurred in York.
“So you want the prince to invest in a gaming hell?” Miss Carmichael asked.
“Er—yes.”
“I see.” Miss Carmichael didn’t criticize him, and he realized he wanted to know exactly what she thought.
He sighed. “Let me return you to the castle.”
“You’ll take me back?”
He nodded. “It’s dark now anyway. You’ll be quite obscured.”
She giggled. “Very well.”
“Dawson, fetch this woman her winter clothes.”
“Very well, my lord,” Dawson said, and Tristan stiffened.
Dawson knew that Tristan had lied.
“About tonight,” Tristan said, shifting his legs from side to side.
“If you are going to inquire if I am discreet,” Dawson said, “the answer is, naturally.”
“Right. Of course.” Tristan felt his cheeks warm.
Perhaps Dawson didn’t need explanations. Perhaps Tristan simply wanted to explain things to his own guilty conscience.
THE SLEIGH SWEPT SWIFTLY over the snow. Tristan held the reins confidently, and Irene resisted the urge to lean against him, despite the frequency of the curves. She clutched onto the edge of the sleigh.
He glanced at her. “Are you comfortable?”
“Naturally.” Her voice squeaked, and she hoped he would blame the unnaturalness of the sound by some distortion caused by the wind.
“I must thank you for what you did tonight.”
“It was no problem at all,” Irene said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He jerked his head toward her. “Truly?”
She nodded. “This is an important venture. Your wife should be there, as long as the prince is there.”
He smiled. “I’d imagined I would say you’d been called away abruptly.”
“And perhaps they would have believed it,” Irene said, “and perhaps they would have found it disrespectful.”
“Why did you decide to come?” Tristan asked. “I mean, I am extremely grateful, but—”
Irene hesitated.
Now was not the time to confess she’d thought him spectacular ever since she first set eyes on him.
After all, he’d not only not thought her spectacular, he hadn’t even remembered her.
It was not a story that she had any desire to recount.
“You saved my brother’s life,” Irene said.
Tristan blinked, then he smiled. “I’d forgotten before today. I saved many people’s lives. I was at war. That’s what one did.”
She smiled. “Not everyone.”
“Nonsense. One pushed people away, when one saw cavalry galloping toward them or a person pointing a weapon,” Tristan explained. “I did save Arthur, but it was my duty.”
“It was very much appreciated,” Irene said.
The stars twinkled above, and brisk cold wind wafted around her. Her fingers trembled, though she doubted the temperature was solely to blame. It’s only an assignment, she told herself. And she hadn’t even been his first pick for it.
And yet, at tea, it had almost seemed possible to imagine they were actually married. It had been an odd sensation, one she would be eager to get rid of.
Irene said goodbye to Tristan, then ascended the tree. She stepped onto the balcony and opened the doors to her room. The scent of oranges and cloves drifted toward her, and she smiled. Her heart felt full, even though she hadn’t happened upon a new scientific insight. Moonlight lit the room, casting everything into a silvery glow. She removed her boots and stepped onto one of the thick Oriental rugs that dotted the room at tasteful intervals. Happiness flitted through her, and she grabbed her night rail. She approached the bed, then paused.
There was a definite lump in her bed. A lump that seemed to be moving. A very large human-like lump.
Irene stifled a scream. She was absolutely not going to send the servants rushing to her room. Not when she was still dressed, after informing them she would go to bed early.
Irene peered cautiously at the bed and recognized familiar dark curls. Her friend Celia, the Duchess of Salisbury, was sprawled on her bed.
“Celia,” Irene whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Oh.” Celia yawned, then scrambled to a sitting position. “I was waiting for you. What time is it?”
“Late,” Irene said. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“The important question is, why did you enter the room through the balcony?”
Irene shifted her legs. “You noticed that.”
“Naturally.” Celia raised her chin and gave a smug smile. “Though I’m afraid I will need an answer. You are an unmarried woman staying with me. I would hate to face a diatribe from your mother. I hope I don’t have to explain that the world is a dangerous place. It’s the sort of thing a woman your age should have realized by now.”
“I know the world is dangerous,” Irene said softly.
Celia’s expression grew more serious, and she scooted over. “Have a seat. Now tell me everything. You can’t tell me
you were on that balcony the whole time. I know you weren’t.”
Irene sat beside her hostess, and the bed cords sagged.
“Please tell me you haven’t taken a lover,” Celia said. “I would hope not to be an utterly dismal chaperone.”
“O-Of course not.” Irene’s cheeks heated, and for a moment she imagined another night, in which she’d sneaked off to see Tristan to partake in illicit activity. In that world, he would have visited her because he couldn’t be without her, and not because he required someone, anyone to play his wife.
Celia assessed her. “You must tell me your secret.”
“Wouldn’t you rather wait until the morning?” Irene’s voice reached a higher pitch, and her fingers quivered as nervousness thrummed through her. She crossed them rapidly against her chest, lest Celia notice their odd movement.
“No, I wouldn’t. After all, I rested. I’m wide awake now.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not going to get out of this,” Celia said sternly. “Now, were you conducting some meteorological experiment?”
Irene sighed. It would be easy to lie, but she’d lied enough tonight. Perhaps, just perhaps, Celia might understand. “Are you familiar with Lord Burley?”
“The rake whose estate is next door? I’ve only heard stories, but I’ve invited him to the Christmas ball. He’ll bring two guests. You can meet him then.”
“I’ve already met him,” Irene said, not glancing in Celia’s direction, lest she make eye contact, even though the room was dark.
“Truly?”
Irene was silent, but her heart beat at a quicker pace.
“Is he the reason you weren’t here?” Celia asked suddenly.
“Yes,” Irene squeaked. “He—er—told his guests he has a wife.”
“He’s married?” Celia exclaimed. “I must call on his wife then. For a moment I thought you saw him alone. Obviously, that would be absurd.” She laughed. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad more people will be around. This part of Yorkshire is ever so isolated, and Frederick does work so hard.”
“I know,” Irene said, “But the thing is, Lord Burley doesn’t have a wife. He wanted one for business purposes. Something about making him appear more respectable.”
Celia lit a candle, then scrutinized Irene. “He didn’t ask you to play his wife, did he?”
Irene’s mouth dried.
Celia’s eyes narrowed further. “I hope you didn’t accept that role.”
Irene was silent.
“That is the sort of thing that would ruin your reputation,” Celia warned.
“If someone finds out.” Irene raised her chin, “And no one will.”
“Oh dear.” Celia placed the candlestick on a table and lay back on the bed. “I am the worst chaperone ever.”
“You are a wonderful chaperone,” Irene assured her.
“Last time I was chaperoning someone, she ran away with a Frenchman.” Celia squeezed her eyes shut, as if the action might vanquish the memory.
“Well, Lord Burley is not a Frenchman.”
Celia frowned. “I’m not certain that’s an improvement. Apparently, Frenchmen are quite decent ever since they’ve stopped killing everyone around them.”
Irene sent her a wobbly smile.
“Now how on earth did Lord Burley convince you to play his wife?” Celia asked.
“He needed my help.”
“Don’t tell me you favor him,” Celia moaned. “A man like that is not to be trusted.”
“He really isn’t so dreadful,” Irene said, even though the words felt ridiculous in her mouth.
Tristan was that dreadful. He was a rogue. He was just the sort of man her mother told her to stay away from.
“You sweet, naïve child,” Celia scolded. “Well, how was the evening? Did you enjoy being Lady Burley?”
“Mostly,” Irene’s voice squeaked.
Celia scrambled from the bed. “You poor thing. I’ll let you rest. But you mustn’t leave again without telling me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT DAY THE SUN shone, and Tristan resisted the urge to whistle, lest the prince and princess still sleep, as he strode to the breakfast room.
He needn’t have worried.
The prince and princess sat in the breakfast room, flanked by nervous looking servants. Silver platters, piled with delicious food, gleamed against the white lace tablecloth. Tristan strove to concentrate on the rolls and variety of cold meats rather than the prince’s somber expression.
“You are fond of lingering in bed,” Prince Radoslav said.
“Er—yes.” Tristan raked his hand through his hair, thought better of it, and dropped his hand to his side.
“And your wife shares your vice?” The prince raised his knife, and Tristan hoped the gesture was not intended to be threatening.
“Indeed.” Tristan forced his voice to emanate calmness. “She—er—won’t join us, I’m afraid.”
“I see our presence is not of sufficient importance to draw her from the comforts of her coverlet.” Prince Radoslav reached for the black butter. He slathered his toast and chewed thoughtfully, his gaze on Tristan.
Tristan lacked any urge to whistle now. Instead, he sat down.
“I doubt the earl desires to discuss his wife’s sleeping patterns,” Princess Natalia said.
“You are correct, my dear.” Prince Radoslav fixed his gaze on Tristan. “Perhaps we could discuss this...Hades’ Lair instead.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Tristan said smoothly. “After breakfast I can show you the financial projections I’ve made on it.”
“Good, good.” Prince Radoslav nodded rapidly and took another bite of his toast.
Tristan’s shoulders eased.
Perhaps Miss Carmichael’s presence would be preferable, but he was handling himself fine. His plan was everything he’d intended it to be: brilliant.
ANY HOPES IRENE HAD imagined her conversation with Celia last night vanished, when the duchess appeared the next morning.
“Oh, good,” Celia exclaimed. “You’re here. I would despise losing you twice.”
Irene gave her a tight smile.
Celia stepped into the room, and her full skirt brushed against the sideboard. “Please tell me you’ve abandoned this ridiculous notion of visiting the earl.”
“I haven’t.”
Celia fixed a hard stare at her. Irene may have quivered, but she didn’t avert her eyes.
“I made a promise,” Irene explained.
“You shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“I won’t be alone.” Irene raised her chin. “Princess Natalia was present the entire time.”
Practically.
“The worst form of chaperone is the one unaware she’s a chaperone.” Celia grumbled, but she settled into a chair and smoothed the net overlay of her dress. Rows of red ribbons highlighted the hem, and Irene suddenly felt old fashioned. The duchess’s eyes brightened. “I’m eager to meet the princess at the Christmas ball.”
“She’s lovely,” Irene admitted. “You’ll adore her. And she’ll adore you.”
Celia nodded, but her smile faltered. Perhaps her friend was remembering her past, when she hadn’t been able to attend any balls, when even a half-day off had been precious.
“I’ll have to feign illness,” Irene said. “I’m glad Mother will arrive after the ball.”
Celia nodded thoughtfully. “Feigning an illness might work. Though really, you shouldn’t do this. It could go horribly wrong!”
“It will appear most mysterious if he introduced a wife who suddenly disappears.”
“Oh dear. That would cause gossip.” Celia paced the room. “I’ll do my best to make certain you’re not caught.”
Irene tensed, pondering whether Celia might remove the key to the balcony window or bring out restraining devices. The latter would be uncharacteristic of Celia, but this entire situation was uncharacteristic.
Celia halted her pacing before I
rene’s wardrobe, then opened the door. She rifled through Irene’s dresses, pursing her lips into variously sized frowns.
“The problem with your clothes, Irene,” Celia declared, “is that they are entirely too dark.”
“Dark colors are practical,” Irene countered.
“But they don’t suit your face. You look sickly in them. You’re trying to pretend to be his wife, not his dying wife.”
Irene shifted her legs. “You’re not the first person to criticize them.”
“But I am the person who will convince you to make a change.” Celia said. “And your hems are too plain. This is not the early 1800s when everyone was pretending to be Greek statues. This is practically 1820. We want to celebrate the world. We have peace now. We want puffed sleeves and hems that jut out, not like a column.” She raised a finger. “And your hems should have flounces.”
“That’s a waste of material. It’s utterly unnecessary.”
Celia shrugged with the nonchalance of somebody certain she would soon get her way. “Well, that is my advice. I know fashion. Besides, your brother is a duke. You can have some flounces on your hems. This is Christmas, after all.”
“I suppose Christmas is supposed to be festive,” Irene admitted. “And they wouldn’t cause discomfort...”
Celia’s lips twitched, but she nodded her head solemnly. “An astute observation. And you can retain your other clothes, but you save them for when you desire to conduct your scientific experiments.”
“Very well.” Irene’s voice squeaked.
Celia’s eyes softened. “I had to have the same conversation with Frederick. The man is ever so absent-minded. He had all sorts of chemical stains on his attire. Most unsuitable.”
The duchess shook her head, but she smiled, and her eyes sparkled. Irene’s heart ached. Irene had always declared she would never want to marry, but Celia and Frederick were both so happy she sometimes wondered if she might be wrong. Playing Tristan’s wife last night hadn’t been entirely horrible. In fact, some moments had been quite nice.
Celia examined Irene’s pince-nez. “Do you really need to wear those to see?”
A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble Book 6) Page 5
