She vibrated with life. As if Newton’s laws of gravity struggled to contain the buoyancy of her spirit.
Tristan’s parched soul ached to hold that joy. To soak in the sunshine of this woman's light. To glut himself on it.
Yearning uncurled within him, ribboning between his ribs and swelling his lungs.
Heaven help him.
He wanted her.
Not just as a bride for his political goals but for her brilliant self.
He wanted . . .them.
Answering his silent plea, she leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. “Ye see, my lord, I have now added a level of intrigue tae my aura, as it were. ’Twould be a pity tae make introductions and dispel the allure of the unknown.”
“Are you quite sure?” Unbidden, he matched her motion, bringingthem nearer to one another. Scarcely a foot of space separated them. Close. Almost scandalously so.
Babcock could return at any moment.
Tristan risked much if his father learned of this encounter.
Yearning—wanting—was a dangerous emotion. Kendall would scent it and use it to twist Tristan to his merciless will. His stomach clenched at the thought of this beautiful creature falling into his father’s snare.
“Oh, quite,” she replied, those lovely blue eyes sparking. “I would hate tae ruin your enjoyment of the chase. Now, ye shall have to launch an inquiry into my identity. Every gentleman deserves an amusing pursuit. I have granted ye one.”
“You assume I do not have other, more interesting, pursuits?”
He didn’t. Everything in his life abruptly paled before her dazzling radiance.
She couldn’t know that.
And yet, her smile turned enigmatic. “I shall take my leave of you, my lord.”
She dipped a polished curtsy, the motion exquisitely graceful. The sort of curtsy an aspiring Prime Minister would desire in a wife.
Before he could think the better of it, Tristan snatched up her left hand, desperate for one final thread of connection.
The soft touch scalded him, her hand slender and delicate in his larger one.
She inhaled sharply—eyes wide—as if he had finally broken through the surface of her flirtation. As if, possibly, this encounter impacted her as deeply as it did himself.
Holding her gaze, he bent and placed a fervent kiss to the back of her gloved hand. She smelled of citrus—an Italian lemon grove in full bloom.
“Until we meet again, my lady,” he breathed.
Expression as helplessly lost as his own, she squeezed his fingers.
It was all the encouragement Tristan needed. Instead of releasing her, he brazenly turned her hand over and pressed another kiss, lingering this time, to the sliver of pale skin exposed between her glove and the cuff of her sleeve.
She gasped at the contact.
“Aye,” shereplied, voice breathless. “Until then.”
Gently, perhaps even reluctantly, she tugged her hand free of his grip.
Tristan watched her walk away, the bell of her muslin skirt swaying.
Abruptly, like a phenakistiscope he had played with as a child—images spinning round until they appeared to move—the future spooled out in his mind’s eye.
