He added it to the rapidly-growing list of things he liked abouther.
“And are you, then? A marriage-minded miss?” The question tumbled, unbidden, from his lips.
Tristan hadn’t intended the words flirtatiously, but the young lady arched her eyebrows and flicked a gaze over his person invitingly.
“I could be, I suppose.” She tilted her head, that same vivacity twinkling. “For the correct gentleman, that is.”
Devil take it.
She was flirting with him.
Now what?
Tristan had never flirted. Not once. He had no need. As the heir to a powerful dukedom, ladies generally fell over themselves to capture his attention.
Granted, until this moment, he had never wished to flirt.
But for her, he would try.
“Ah.” He gave a hint of a smile, his mind rapidly shuffling through possible responses. He landed on, “And what would one have to do to become that gentleman?”
Her eyes widened, and then a slow, delighted grin creased her cheeks.
Tristan’s heart quite literally skipped in his chest, as if abruptly remembering that it needed to beat and sustain life.
Heaven help him.
He feared he would do a great many things to earn more of her smiles.
She tapped a gloved finger to her plump lips. “Mmm, a lady never shows her hand.”
She was not a classical beauty in the Grecian sense, Tristan realized. Her eyes were too wide-set, her mouth too lush, her cheekbones too pronounced.
No, hers was the beauty of the unexpected. An oak tree in autumn coated in reds and golds standing amid still-green poplars. Or scudding clouds abruptly catching the last vivid rays of sunset.
She reminded Tristan of Allie, the twin sister torn from him a decade past—magnetic, clever, brimming with life.
Whowasthis young lady?
Had they been introduced, he would have remembered.
Tristan resisted the urge to look for Babcock. His protection officerwould be returning soon. The man adored cheese, but it caused him severe intestinal distress, necessitating a rather lengthy trip to the water closet. Consequently, Tristan tempted Babcock with cheese at every opportunity.
Anything to garner a few precious minutes of freedom.
Only the Queen and prime minister had protection officers, but the Duke of Kendall insisted on one for his heir. How else was His Grace to ensure that every last thing his son said and did was inventoried and reported back?
Tristan did not want his tyrannical father to learn of this encounter. Not yet.
“A lady?” he asked, echoing the title she had given herself. “Is that how I should address you?”
“My ladywould be appropriate.”
Maddeningly, she provided no further explanation, but her arched eyebrow encouraged him to pick up the clue she had offered.
Only the highest-ranking, unwed women merited the honorific of “lady.” But then, her rank was to be expected, Tristan supposed, given their location.
They stood on a small terrace in the Duke of Montacute’s extensive gardens, partially hidden behind a pair of rhododendron bushes bursting with fuschia flowers. Below, guests strolled alongside a serpentine pond—gentlemen in tall hats, ladies twirling parasols.
