“In Italy?”
That wasn’t part of her plan.
At all.
“With me.”
Oh.
“Stay…in Italy…withyou.” The words refused to sink into her brain. “As what? Your mistress?”
He sat up and reached for his trousers. Her hoyden side wished he wouldn’t, but her sensible side sensed the coming conversation called for a few articles of clothing. She slipped the chemise over her head. Clad in his trousers, he faced her. She tried to keep her gaze on his, but his bare chest was calling out to be gazed upon and adored.
“You could be my mistress if you like,” he said.
Outrage should be tearing through her, but…it wasn’t.
“You could cultivate a bohemian reputation,” he continued. “You’re nearly there if half the gossip about your family is true.”
“You listen to gossip?”
He snorted. “Listen might be a stretch.”
Of a sudden, she understood something. “I don’t want to be your mistress.”
Her refusal changed nothing between them. If anything, the look in his eyes told her he’d expected as much.
“Would you prefer to be my wife?”
Before the import of the question could sink in, he continued, “You were a virgin, and I’ve come to my senses.”
“I rather think it was our senses that got us carried away.”
His gaze remained serious. “No word play,” he growled.
She supposed he was right. How quickly a frolic in the woods could turn into serious business. She reached for her stays, and he for his shirt.
Awife. The wife of aduke…
Wasn’t that what she wanted? Wouldn’t it assure her place in society?
But like this? It seemed so…
Shabby.
She shook her head. “Not your wife.”
He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Then what do you want, woman?”
She inhaled and reached for her sketchbook. A slip of paper slid from the back pages. “I’ve had a plan, and it’s finally worked,” she said and handed the paper over to him.
He gave the contents a quick scan. Contents she’d already memorized. At last, all of her efforts to reclaim her and her siblings’ place in society had borne fruit. They were now in possession of the most exclusive invitation of the London Season: the Marchioness of Sutton’s season-end ball.
Tristan let the paper fall onto the stretch of blanket between them. He looked wholly flummoxed. “You’re returning to England to attend a ball?”
“It’s more than a ball.” She slightly resented having to explain this to a man who would never understand. “I’ve been working on securing this invitation for nearly a year.” She didn’t sound happy about it. In fact, she might sound wretched.
He snorted.
