“You have quite outdone yourself, little minx.I do not deserve such a thoughtful gift.”His tone was light, but his eyes revealed a more serious sentiment.
She tilted her head, studying him.“Why ever not?”
He hesitated.“I am not accustomed to such genuine gestures from the fairer sex.I am afraid my reputation proceeds me, and as such women do not look for lasting ties.Nor have I sought true affection.”
She reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.“I see the man beneath the legend, Tristan.”
Her earnest words resonated deeply.He entwined his fingers with hers, the warmth of her palm against his own, chasing away the lingering shadows.
“You are too good, my dear.”His voice grew husky.“I do not know that I can ever be the man you deserve.”
Her breath caught at the vulnerability in his handsome features.She leaned closer, her free hand coming up to caress his jaw.
“You underestimate yourself, Tristan.Any woman would be fortunate to call you hers.”
Tristan turned his head, brushing his lips against her delicate wrist.The touch ignited sparks along her skin.Emmeline knew this moment—a shared glance, a handkerchief, a touch—would remain etched into her memory, a moment she would cherish for all time.
Just as she was about to speak, the tranquility shattered with a cacophony of shouts and splashes.They both turned sharply toward the commotion, instinctively leaning over the side of the rowboat.
“Good heavens!”Emmeline gasped, witnessing the sight of a boat overturned, its former occupants flailing in the water.
Shrill screams rent the air as four heads broke the water’s surface - three young ladies and a gentleman.They thrashed about, struggling to stay afloat.
“Help us, please!”one lady cried frantically.
“Stay here,” Tristan commanded, his voice laced with urgency as he shed his coat.With deft movements, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms that spoke of a hidden resolve.
“Be careful,” Emmeline called out after him, her words tinged with concern as she clutched the edges of the rowboat.She watched, pulse thrumming, as Tristan maneuvered himself over the side.The muscles in his back tensing as he made haste for the water with a grace that belied the urgency of the situation.
Emmeline clasped her hands together.Her focus narrowed on Tristan—his sandy brown hair slicked back from his face by the water, the determined set of his jaw as he navigated the turmoil with powerful strokes.
The cool façade of the dispassionate rake had fallen away, revealing a man of action and courage.Her heart swelled within the confines of her chest, admiration mingling with an emotion she dared not yet name.She watched him reach the upturned boat, his movements sure as he assisted the first of the young, sodden victims grasping at the sides of their capsized vessel.
“Tristan,” she whispered to herself, the sound barely above the lapping of water against the hull of their own steadied craft—her voice was a wisp of sound carried off by the breeze.Such bravery, such disregard for his own state.It spoke volumes about the man he truly was beneath the veneer of scandalous charm.
There, in the tumult, he directed the individuals with calm authority, his presence a balm to their scattered nerves.Emmeline observed the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt, now plastered to his body, each contour speaking of strength not just of form, but of character.
“Be at ease,” she heard him call out to the group, his tone commanding yet laced with reassurance—a contradiction only a man like Tristan could embody without effort.
Her gaze followed his every move, the rescue unfolding before her like a scene from the most thrilling of novels.But this was no fiction; this was the man to whom she found herself inexorably drawn—a man who would plunge into depths both literal and figurative for the sake of others.
As the last of the party clambered into the safety of their re-balanced craft, Emmeline released a breath she had not known she’d been holding.Tristan had saved them all.
Water cascaded from his form as he hauled himself back into the rowboat with masculine grace despite the sopping state of his clothing.His hair, now slicked back from the water’s touch, revealed the full breadth of his striking green eyes, which twinkled with a prideful glow.Emmeline’s breath hitched at the sight, her heart thrumming in rhythm with the steady droplets that fell from the ends of his sleeves.
“Your gallantry knows no bounds,” she said, her voice lilting with undisguised admiration as she reached out a tentative hand to assist him.
“It is merely a trifle,” he replied, his lips curving into a roguishly triumphant grin, while the wetness of his garments did little to diminish the allure of his debonair presence.
“Is everyone quite all right?”she asked, her heart hammering.
“Quite,” Tristan assured her, water droplets scattering as he ran a hand through his damp hair.“A bit soggy for the wear, but unharmed.”
“Your bravery is… remarkable,” she said, the words imbued with admiration.
“I am no hero.I have swam this pond hundreds of times.Besides, any gentleman would have done the same,” he replied.
“Perhaps,” Emmeline conceded, allowing herself a small smile.“But not any gentleman would hold my esteem as you do now.”
