Madeline flushed. “My father thinks I am at Charlotte’s.”
He pursed his lips. “Of course. I quite forgot that you and Lady Arkley are close. Well, don’t fret, Lady M. I shan’t betray you. But you must wait here, and I’ll summon one of my own coaches to take you home. I won’t have you walking around the streets at this time of night.”
A lump formed in Madeline’s throat. She hadnotbeen looking forward to that. He turned away, striding back toward the doorway that led into the main chamber.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so quietly she was not sure he heard. When she tore her gaze away from the toes of her own slippers, however, she found him hovering on the threshold, his gaze fixed on her, a line between his brows.
“A word of advice, my lady,” he murmured, his voice low. “Don’t sneak into the Devil’s parties if you aren’t ready to be caught by him.”
CHAPTER 2
It was hard to believe that it had been a whole week since that disastrous poetry night. Not that ithadbeen disastrous. If you asked anybody who’d been there, they would have said that it was a roaring success; probably one of the better poetry nights the club had hosted.
Tristan did not agree. To him, the night was a blur, and not because he’d imbibed too much alcohol. No, he could remember only a blurry sea of faces, endless meaningless words, and an incomprehensible medley of boredom and nonsense.
He remembered thinking that the night was never, ever going to end. He also remembered Juliana pursuing him through the crowd, and feeling rather like a hart being pursued by a hunting dog.
The only poem that he’d managed to remember was Lady Madeline Huxley’s. In truth, her poemhadmade an impression, shocking in its simplicity, boldness, and brevity. People had talked about it a good deal. She was one of only two ladies whohad recited poems, and the other woman—another opera singer—had recited a terrible poem of such lewdness that even Tristan felt that it was too much.
He could still see Madeline Huxley standing there, practically trembling on the stage, and yet determined to say her piece. It haunted him, that image, and the sheer fact that he could not get it out of his head made him irritable and short-tempered.
It wasn’t a pleasant thing for a man to admit that he could not control his own thoughts.
She had gotten home safely, of course. Tristan’s coachman had ensured that, and a couple of days later, the Society Papers had commented in passing that Lord Beaumont and his daughter, Lady Madeline Huxley, had arrived in London, ready for the Season. Tristan could have told them that days ago.
A pointedly cleared throat jerked him out of his reverie, and he glanced up to find his friend staring at him, eyes narrowed.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, Tristan, or shall I guess?” Isaac commented, swinging one leg over the other.
Tristan glanced up at his friend, who was lounging in a comfortable armchair and grinning at him. He raised his eyebrow and said nothing.
A footman arrived at that moment, carefully laying down a tray with several brandies on it between Tristan and Isaac.The club was not busy at this time of day, but it was neverempty. A handful of gentlemen played billiards on the table downstairs, and another scattered handful reclined along the mezzanine, having availed themselves of books from the library. Conversation was low and muted, the atmosphere lazy and comfortable.
Tristan did notfeellazy or comfortable. He felt vibrant, vigorous, andangrysomehow.
“There is nothing wrong with me,” he stated.
Isaac sighed. “So I’m to guess, then. By the way, Charlotte wants to know if you’ll come and dine with us on Thursday fortnight.”
“That depends. Who else will be there?”
“Really, Tristan!”
“I am only asking! I adore your company and Charlotte’s, but you know how I feel about society in general.”
Isaac pursed his lips, huffing. “If you must know, Beaufort and Madeline will be there. Charlotte doesn’t spend as much time with her old friend as she once did, not now that she is busy raising Tommy, and she feels guilty.”
“Well, I have been told that raising a child does change one’s life rather a good deal. I can’t make Thursday fortnight, I’m afraid.”
Isaac did not seem pleased. He leaned forward, snatching up a brandy, and took a long sip. A silence settled between them, and Tristan let it sit.
It seemed wise to avoid Madeline Huxley for a while. Tristan was vaguely aware of her father—a good-natured, cheerful sort of man with poor health and not a bad bone in his body—and if the fellow somehow found out that his daughter had been reciting inappropriate poems of her own composition at aTon’s Devil’sparty, it might kill him. Tristan did not care to have the blood of such a decent man on his hands, thank you very much.
At that moment, Isaac cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly. When Tristan glanced his way, Isaac nodded at something behind Tristan, and then dived behind his newspaper. Tristan twisted around, and his heart sank.
Juliana Bolt was walking toward him.
She’d chosen a long, well-fitted silver gown, dampened so that it clung to her skin, highlighting every generous curve. She had clearly taken pains with her hair, which was braided and curled most elaborately into a red torrent. She walked past a trio of men, all sitting separately and reading. Each of them glanced up as she walked by, eyes wide and jaws gaping, spellbound. She never glanced at any of them.
