She may never stop groaning.
So, this was how it felt to have opened Pandora’s box?
Chapter Nine
Three days later
The sun pouredheat into a countryside unencumbered by a single cloud in the sky. Tristan let it soak into him as he allowed his silver bay to alternate between a trot and a canter according to its own mood. This was the sort of day one left England for.
Only this morning, he’d received an invitation from Lord Archer to join his party for an outing in the Chianti Hills.
It will be a lark, and there will be opera singers.
Tristan had snorted and thought about tossing the invitation into the rubbish. After all, he was a known recluse, his refusal would only be expected. Further, he wasn’t particularly keen on joining a Windermere party—with opera singers—in the countryside. Not in the plural sense, anyway.
But in the singular—as in one particular Windermere…
He was very much interested.
It had been three days, and he couldn’t get the blasted woman out of his mind. He’d tried sculpting her from memory—the elegant column of her neck…the delicate line of her clavicle…the exquisite turn of her wrist…and other parts, too. Parts only a lover would know. The feminine indent of her waist. The subtle flare of her hips. The firm curve of her derriere. The sweet perfection of her breasts. His tongue could still taste the salt of her.
He’d thought he could sculpt the memory of her into submission. But it refused to submit, instead insisting on dominating his every waking hour, and his sleeping ones, too.
He’d had no choice but to accept her brother’s invitation. He must see her again, if only to rid himself of the memory of her. Or…
Was it to form new memories of her?
Was he truly so weak?
It was entirely possible.
For here was the thing: he’d taken her virginity.Thathad been weakness, of the mind and body, no matter that she’d had a choice in the matter. He should’ve known better. Hedidknow better.
So, why was he actually here?
To right a situation that had gotten out of hand?
Bloody hell.
The bay topped the hill they’d been climbing this last quarter hour, and Tristan tugged the reins to take in the view. The Chianti Hills rolled soft and green and brown all around him, some hills wild with tall grasses and woodland, others tamed by the grape vines that the hills gave their name. Though the area lacked the hustle and bustle of the city, no few people passed him on his ride. The odd donkey cart. Pairs of women on foot, walking to the nearest village or visiting a neighbor.
This was the pace of life for Tristan. When he returned to England in just a few months, he’d decided he would be spending the majority of the year at the family seat in Gloucestershire. He rather thought he would enjoy it, too. Italy had taught him something about the pleasures in life. It wasn’t one’s physical location that mattered as much as what one carried inside them.
Or was it someone who had taught him that?
“Ripon!” came a shout.
Not a hundred yards distant, in the middle of a field, lounged Lord Archer, waving, his curls shining platinum beneath the unrelenting sun. This must be the Windermere picnic spot. He could see why with the view of rolling hills and even the white glint of the Florentine duomo in the distance. Tristan dismounted from his bay and handed over the reins to a servant before walking over to Archer and his friend Lord Kilmuir. Tristan knew the latter as a nodding acquaintance from Eton many years ago, not much more than that. But even he could see the man had taken a turn for the morose, which Archer seemed utterly unbothered by.
Woman troubles, no doubt.
Tristan glanced around and found no sign of anyone else. Had he misunderstood Archer’s invitation?
“Any trouble finding us?” asked Archer, already extending a cup of something surely intoxicating toward Tristan.
“None at all.”
He continued to cast his gaze about. Toward the nearest grove of olive trees. Across the plain of tall grass stretching down the hill. Not a trace of another Windermere.
