“Don’t do that,” he said, too quickly, his expression deepening to a scowl.
Georgiana stifled a smile. “Whyever not?”
“I haven’t—quite—exactly—proposed to her yet.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad we got this straightened out, anyway. Good night, my lord.”
As she continued up the stairs, she could feel his gaze on her back. Poor Amelia Johns. A broken heart would do Tristan Carroway considerable good, if only to teach him not to toy with other people’s dreams and hearts.
When she reached her room, she dashed off another letter to Lucinda and enclosed a second letter, in a harsher hand and written with a different pen, addressed back to herself. She hoped Lucinda would be a bit more conservative with the cologne. The scent of the first one still lingered in the air, and she could swear that it had turned the flames blue when she threw it in the fireplace.
Georgiana rose early. Thankfully for her exercise regimen, both Milly and Edwina tended to sleep late. After a night at the opera, no doubt she wouldn’t see them before noon. Summoning Mary and donning her riding dress, she hurried downstairs. Her cousin’s groom stood waiting outside, Sheba saddled and ready beside him.
“Good morning, John,” she said, smiling as he helped her into the saddle.
“Good morning, Lady Georgiana,” he answered, remounting his gray gelding. “Sheba’s up for a good gallop this morning, I think.”
“Glad to hear it, because Charlemagne feels the same way.” Dare, mounted on his splendid, rangy bay, clattered around the corner of the house to stop beside her. “And so do I. Good morning, John.”
“Lord Dare.”
Despite her annoyance, she had to admit that he looked very compelling. She could practically see her reflection in his black Hessians, and with his dark coloring and light blue eyes, his rust coat gave him an almost medieval grandeur. His black breeches didn’t have a wrinkle in them, and he sat Charlemagne as though he’d been born on horseback. There were rumors that that was where he’d been conceived.
“You’re awake early this morning.” Blast it, she wanted some fresh air to clear her head. Dare and a clear head were incompatible.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I gave up the attempt. Shall we? Regent’s Park, perhaps.”
“John will escort me. I don’t need your assistance.”
“John will escort me, as well. We don’t want me falling out of the saddle and breaking my neck, do we?”
She burned to hand him a cutting response, but the longer they argued, the shorter her ride would be. “Oh, very well. If you insist on coming along, let’s go.”
Sweeping a deep bow from the saddle, he clucked to Charlemagne. “How could I refuse that invitation?”
They set out at a trot for Regent’s Park, the two of them side by side and John a few yards behind. Flirt, she reminded herself. Say something nice. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. “Does Bradshaw intend to continue his naval career?” she finally asked.
“He says he does, but he’s already itching to be made captain of his own ship. If that doesn’t happen soon, we all assume he’ll become a pirate and steal a vessel.”
He said it in so mild a voice that she blurted a laugh before she could stop herself. “Have you informed him of your theory?”
“Edward has. The Runt wants to be first mate.”
“And will Robert go back to the army?”
His lean face became bleak for a moment. “No. I won’t allow it.”
His uncharacteristic tone and choice of words left her silent. Reconciling the two sides of Tristan Carroway was becoming confusing: He seemed so caring about his brothers and his old aunts, and yet when it came to women like Amelia, he behaved like a heartless rake.
Which of the two was the real Lord Dare? And why was she even asking that question, when she knew the answer? He had broken her heart and ruined her hopes for the future. And he’d never even apologized for it.
He was an idiot, Tristan decided. They’d been having an actual pleasant conversation, and he’d even made her laugh, for God’s sake, and then he’d blurted out his response about Bit before he could clamp his jaw around it.
Whatever she was up to, it seemed to involve being nice to him, and he certainly had no objection to that. But he knew very well how much she hated him, and he couldn’t think of a damned reason why she should have a change of heart about that now.
This game of hers would be easier to decipher if he wasn’t still allowing his lust for her to color every thought and conversation. Six years hadn’t erased the feel of her skin or the taste of her mouth from his senses, and he’d long ago realized that neither time nor an endless parade of lovers and mistresses would ever do so. It was deuced frustrating, and having her sleeping beneath his roof was making it even more so.
“Aunt Milly’s been improving since you arrived,” he said, attempting to change the subject before his overheated brain made him say something he would regret.
