“Imustspeak to her,” he repeated.
Dorothea sighed. “You can, of course, do as you wish, Tristan, but here is my advice. I do not know the details of what has happened here, but there may well be blame on both sides. Let her cool off, and you can straighten all of this out later.”
Tristan wavered. His mother spoke sense, and perhaps it would do him good to calm himself before speaking to Madeline. The woman had a knack for riling him up in every way imaginable.
He sank slowly into his seat, conscious of eyes on him. Not just his mother’s and cousin’s eyes, but eyes all over the opera. This was what people did at opera-houses—they looked at each other. What happened on the stage was secondary to what everybodyelsewas doing.
People would note who was here and who was not; into whose boxes Miss So-and-So or Lady Somebody scuttled during the intermission. It was not uncommon to look up during the show and find a dozen or so opera glasses aimed toward one, all glinting in the candlelight.
Tristan hated the showiness of it all. Why couldn’t they enjoy the opera for its own sake?
There were quite a few opera glasses leveled his way now. No doubt it would be commented upon in the scandal sheets that the Duke and Duchess of Tolford had slipped away from their box during the first act, and that the Duke returned alone at the intermission. It would be casually mentioned that the Duchess had not returned at all.
Tristan closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He had to calm himself. His instinct told him to chase after Madeline at once, but what good would that do? She wouldn’t return. She wanted space, and he ought to give it to her.
“You are right,” he said at last. “I’ll talk to her later.”
Surely with time, Madeline would understand that he had no ill intentions.Surely.
The music started up once more, a sure sign that the intermission was nearly over and the program was about to start again. Tristan pointedly angled himself toward the stage, fairly certain that he would not take in a single thing about the show. He felt eyes on him and glanced up to find James looking at him with a thoughtful look on his face. James said nothing, however, so Tristan averted his gaze and waited for the opera to begin again.
Enough was enough. Madeline had not appeared at breakfast. Tristan had gone down early and sat at the table until it wasclear that Madeline was not coming down, and the footmen were itching to clear the table.
He knew she had returned safely last night and, after checking on Adam, had retired straight to bed. Taking his mother’s advice, Tristan had decided to wait until the morning.
The plain fact was that she was right. Julianahadintroduced him to that little room. The opera singers and opera-dancers were ever popular with various gentlemen, and many operas had discreet nooks and rooms where an amorous couple could go for some privacy. The workers at the opera knew not to barge into those rooms without first checking that they were empty.
But he honestly had not thought of Juliana when he brought Madeline there. How could he, when he had Madeline in his arms, all soft and sweet and pliable? He recalled how she’d gasped in his ear, her voice thick with pleasure, and how she’d clung to his shoulders as if to prevent herself from swooning away.
He swallowed, shifted his position, and tried to put away these thoughts. Notyet.
He rose abruptly and strode out of the dining room. Behind him, the butler and footmen descended on the table, relieved to get breakfast over with so that they could get on with their day. He climbed the stairs two and three at a time, and hurried along the corridor which led to Madeline’s room. Knocking smartly on the door, he stepped back and waited.
The door creaked open, and he stepped forward at once, ready to say what he had planned.
The words died in his throat—a maid had answered the door. Behind her, he could see another maid tidying and making the bed.
“Where is Her Grace?” Tristan managed at last.
The maid blinked nervously. “She’s gone out, Your Grace.”
“Goneout?”
The girl nodded hard. “Yes, Your Grace. Early, before breakfast. She took young Master Adam.”
A cold sensation swept through Tristan’s chest. He swallowed repeatedly, trying to moisten his mouth.
“And… And where has she gone?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“I see. Did she pack a bag?”
The maid frowned at what was a decidedly odd question. “I don’t know, Your Grace. I didn’t see one, and she didn’t ask me to pack one.”
“Of course, of course. And you are sure you don’t know where she’s gone?”
The maid, now looking thoroughly worried, shook her head. “I’m sure, Your Grace. Am… Am I in trouble?”
