“What do you tell people, when they ask why we seem to hate each other so much?”
Tristan’s quiet voice came from the shadows at the front of the garden. He approached slowly, stopping beside the tree to lean against the worn trunk.
“What do you tell them?” she countered.
“That I only got as far as a kiss when you found out I was after your stocking for a wager, and that you weren’t happy about being the object of any kind of wagering.”
“That’s close to what I tell them, except I add the part about me punching you in the face when you tried to lie to me about it.”
He nodded, his gaze wandering the garden in the moonlit darkness. “That was six years ago, Georgiana. What are the odds you’ll ever forgive me?”
“Very low, if you keep mentioning odds and wagering in my presence,” she returned, her voice sharp. “I just don’t understand, Tristan, how you could be that…unfeeling. To anyone. Not just to me.”
His eyes met hers for a moment, dark and unreadable. Then he straightened. “Come inside. It’s cold out tonight.”
She swallowed. The air did bite at her flesh through her thin evening gown, but something had happened this evening. Something aside from the first civil, honest discussion she and Tristan had shared in six years. Something that made her look at his lean profile as he stepped closer and offered her his arm.
Folding her hands in front of her so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him, she stood and led the way back to the house. This absence of anger unsettled her, and she wasn’t certain what to say next.
“Would it make any difference,” he said quietly from behind her, “if I apologized again?”
Georgiana faced him. “Apologized for what? For making me think you cared for me, or for getting caught at lying?”
Anger touched his gaze for a moment. Good. He was easier to deal with when he wasn’t being sensitive and considerate.
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” he said, motioning her to continue along the walkway. “If it makes a difference, though, on that night…hurting you was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t mean to do that, and that’s what I’m sorry for.”
“That’s a good start,” she said, her voice not quite steady as she climbed the steps to the front door. “Or it would be, if I believed you.”
Another letter arrived for Georgiana the next day. Tristan took a reluctant sniff, but whoever perfumed them had apparently used the entire bottle of cologne on the first few missives.
Glancing up at the door, he slit the wax seal and opened it. “‘My dear lady,’” he read, “‘I have debated the contents of this letter for several days now. Despite your—”
“My lord?”
Tristan jumped. “What is it, Dawkins?” he asked, lowering the letter to his lap.
“The picnic basket is ready, my lord, and the curricle is in the drive just as you requested.”
“I’ll be out in a moment. Close the door, please.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lifting the letter again, he skipped his eyes to the bottom. Westbrook—so she was receiving correspondence from male acquaintances. He’d half thought she’d been sending letters to herself. Well, he’d opened it, so he might as well finish reading it. “‘Despite your kind acceptance of my apology for my poor behavior at Regent’s Park, I feel I owe you a further explanation. I have long known of your animosity toward Lord Dare, and I fear I sprang too quickly to your defense when I overheard his cutting remarks to you.’”
Tristan narrowed his eyes at the letter. “Cutting remarks? I was being nice, you swine,” he muttered. “‘Please know that I only interceded because I hold you in the highest regard, and will continue to do so. Your servant, John Blair, Lord Westbrook.”
So Georgiana had a suitor who wasn’t interested in her money. Tristan didn’t know the marquis well, though he’d seen him at White’s and the Society a few times. Westbrook’s wagering was far more conservative than his own, and other than a passing encounter or two, their paths rarely crossed. Neither did they share the same politics. They did seem to have one thing in common, however.
Tristan looked at the letter for a long moment, then folded it again. Rising, he put one corner against his desk lamp, under the glass. The missive smoked and curled into flame. Once it was well engulfed he tossed it into his trash and dumped the contents of the nearest vase in after it.
Tristan gave a grim smile. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t about to let Georgie win. All was fair in love and war—and this was definitely one or the other.
Tristan stood at the near wheel of his curricle as he handed Amelia Johns to the ground. It had taken better than a week of halfhearted attempts, and some unexpected maneuvering around Georgiana, but he’d managed to make it to Johns House and arranged for a picnic with Amelia.
“Oh, it’s so lovely here,” Amelia cooed, swishing her yellow muslin skirt over the ankle-high grass. “Did you choose this spot in particular for us?”
He lifted the basket down from the back of the vehicle while his groom led the curricle and the horses a short distance away. “Of course I did. I know you like daisies.”
