The Duke and Duchess of Montacute only invited the highest echelons of Polite Society to the annual garden party on their sprawling estate outside London. It was the only reason Kendall had permitted Tristan to attend.
Therefore, this lady had to hail from some prominent family or another.
Hope, an imprisoned beast within his chest, rattled the bars of its cage.
Tristan never rebelled openly against Kendall. Lessons in obedience and compliance had been, quite literally, beaten into him at a young age. Thankfully, his father was too old to physically harm Tristan anymore.
But like a bloodhound, Kendall had an eerie ability to sniff out wantsand desires—emotions he ruthlessly extorted to blackmail others, even his twenty-year-old heir.
It was why Tristan had relinquished all sentimental attachments—sister, mother, friends. If he appeared to want nothing, if Kendall had nothing to hold ransom, then he and his father would maintain their stalemate.
Tristan’s sole goal was to obliterate his father’s memory after the bastard’s death. To accomplish this, Tristan aimed for nothing less than the Prime Minister’s office and a seat at the right hand of the Queen. Such a rise to power would ensure the brilliant luminosity of his own star relegated his father to the shadows of history.
The correct bride—highborn, elegant, charming—was crucial to his plans. And now this glorious woman appeared.
He glanced around again for Babcock.Please do not let Kendall learn of this encounter, he silently pleaded. Tristan required time to conduct reconnaissance on the lady—to determine her parentage and the extent of her political connections—before Kendall inserted his caustic will.
Tristan merely needed to know her name.
“You have me at an advantage, my lady,” he said with a smile. “I would love to know with whom I am speaking. Surely, we do not need to stand on ceremony.”
The beautiful Scot raised an eyebrow in reply. “But where would be the amusement in making introductions?”
Her gaze was guileless, Tristan noted. Every emotion and feeling skipped across her expression—interest, delight, mischief.
“Amusement? Do you always base your decisions on their potential value as entertainment?”
“Do ye not, my lord?” She clasped her hands coyly behind her back, looking up at him through auburn-tinged lashes.
Tristan’s pulse had migrated outward and now thrummed at the tips of his fingers, as if begging him to reach for her.
“Not generally.”
“How tragic.”
The faux innocence of her tone startled a laugh out of him. “Perhaps I am beginning to see the wisdom in it.”
“A lady must guard her air of mystery, after all.”
“Is that so?” Tristan mimicked her position, clasping his own arms behind his back. Was it his imagination, or did her eyes dart to his shoulders as if she found him attractive, as well? The thought filled his veins with champagne bubbles. “But what if mystery should turn to boredom?”
She chuckled, throaty and delighted. “Something tells me ye aren’t bored, my lord.”
“Not yet.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “But mystery requires substance to thrive.”
“That is your opinion.”
“Hardly. It is a fact.”
“I utterly disagree. Surely ye have studied the classics, my lord? ‘Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion.’”
“Democritus?” Tristan gaped in astonishment. “You blithely quote ancient Greek philosophers?”
She shrugged, that same teasing grin playing about her mouth. “We could move on to Shakespeare, if that is more tae your taste?”
Beautifulandwell-read.
Tristan stared, utterly disarmed.
