Chapter 12
What had he done? What the hell had he done?
Tristan escaped the house as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. He forgot everything in his haste; hat, gloves, coat…pride. He only knew he had to get as far away from Rosalind Merriweather as he could.
Rosalind. Damn, he had never thought of her in such terms, had always held tight to Miss Merriweather. As if it were a lifeline to sanity. Now her name wound its way around and through him like a creeping vine, twining around his heart, forcing its way into his soul.
He ran a hand through his hair, walking blindly. Damn and blast, what had he been thinking? Had he actually thought kissing her would be a good idea? But she had gotten under his skin, and then had thrown that damn gauntlet, and he had been unable to resist teasing her. Then teasing had turned to daring, had turned to something quite different entirely.
But he was being a coward, to blame her for what happened. For while she had infuriated him, it had been he and he alone that had pushed at the end. He was the one who had not been able to let her comments go, who had brought it to the next level. She had certainly never asked to be kissed. She had been very vocal that she did not want it at all.
But she had responded in the most delicious way, a voice whispered in his head. And with that came a vision of her, head thrown back, skin flushed pink, her little bow of a mouth swollen from his kisses and opened on a gasp.
He groaned and stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he fought to erase the image from his mind. But nothing could banish the sweetness of it, nor the remembrance of the breathy sound of her voice moaning his name.
He had to find something to distract him, for it would not do to walk down the street in the aroused state he was in. He peered around, hoping for inspiration. To his surprise he saw he was on Brook Street. And Willbridge’s house was two houses down.
In that moment he knew he had never needed his friend more. Willbridge would know what to do about this debacle he had gotten himself into. Or, at least, he would have a stiff brandy he could imbibe to help make the memories of Rosalind and her too smooth skin and delicious mouth a fuzzy memory instead of the active torture it currently was.
And Willbridge’s home would provide a safe haven for him for the foreseeable future. The less time he spent at his own home the saner he would be.
But when he entered the house minutes later he found utter chaos. He spied two footmen carrying a heavy trunk down the stairs and knew with a sinking heart that there would be no easy escape from Rosalind and her tempting mouth. For Willbridge was leaving town much sooner than planned.
The man himself appeared then. His face was tense, his copper hair tousled, his cravat askew. He saw Tristan and started.
“You must be a mind reader, for I was about to send you a note,” Willbridge said.
“Well, now you have saved yourself a bit of correspondence.” Tristan looked up as two maids came hurrying down the stairs, their arms full of hat boxes. “You are leaving town ahead of schedule, I assume? Though,” he continued, taking in Willbridge’s strange somberness with cautious eyes, “it does not appear to be a pleasure trip.”
“No, I’m afraid our visit to Emily and Morley must be postponed. For we have just received word from Frances, Imogen’s sister.”
“Lady Sumner?” He knew of the woman, of course. Imogen’s sister had married the Earl of Sumner years ago, had an infant daughter, and lived a stone’s throw from Willbridge’s Northamptonshire estate, Willowhaven.
She was also one of the unhappiest women in existence.
It was no wonder. Her husband was a selfish blackguard who was not above using people to get what he wanted, his wife included.
Willbridge nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid we’ve word from Northamp-tonshire.”
“Their babe is not sick, I hope?”
“No, it is Lord Sumner. The damn fool has gone and hurt himself in a carriage accident.”
“Not gravely?”
“Banged up a bit, but nothing serious from all accounts.”
Tristan quirked a brow. “Hardly cause for you to go flying back home, then.”
Willbridge’s lips twisted, though not with amusement. “Unfortunately it seems there is more to the story. Much more.” He paused, as if to find the right words. Then, seeing no other way around it, he shrugged and said, “It seems the man was not alone. He was with a woman who was most decidedly not Lady Sumner.”
Instantly Tristan understood. “His mistress, eh?”
“Yes. And to make matters worse, the woman did not survive the crash.”
“Damn me,” Tristan said low. “As if the bastard has not caused enough grief to Lady Sumner.”
“Needless to say, Imogen wishes to get to her sister with all haste. Though,” Willbridge said, a spark of humor lighting pale gray eyes, “she’s more furious than aggrieved over the scandal. I do believe I will have quite a job keeping her from beating the man over the head with one of those gothic novels she’s taken a liking to lately. At the very least she will have strong words for him. And coming from Imogen, you can be assured that, quiet as she is, they will be all the more potent for it.”
