“I think you are afraid,” he whispered, “because you enjoyed being with me.”
Oh, no. “That is not it. Let me go.”
He did so immediately. “You decided to hurt me before I could hurt you again.”
“Nonsense. I’m walking away now. Don’t follow me.”
“I won’t—if you’ll save a waltz for me.”
She stopped. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to go crawling off to Amelia Johns and be a good husband. She needed to be sure he understood that the lesson she’d dealt him wasn’t just about revenge. If that meant dancing with him tonight, so be it. “Fine.”
“Good.”
Chapter 12
Troilus You have bereft me of all words, lady.
Pandarus Words pay no debts, give her deeds.
—Troilus and Cressida, Act III, Scene ii
He’d expected gloating, or smugness, or aloof arrogance. Instead Georgiana had trembled. Beyond his anger at her presumption—she’d actually thought she could teach him a lesson—Tristan had to admit that the more entangled their lives became, the more interesting he found it all.
He watched as she rejoined her friends, studying her gestures, the way she held herself. She was hurt, which didn’t make sense, since he hadn’t left her and hadn’t asked her to leave. He’d been verging on asking her to marry him. It had seemed perfect: all of his money problems gone, and a woman he desired, in his bed. Obviously he’d missed something, and Georgie held all the answers.
He’d studied her short missive until he had every smudge, every swirl memorized. It all meant something, and he would figure out what.
“You look like you want to eat her,” Bradshaw muttered from behind him, “and not in a good way. For God’s sake, look at someone else.”
Tristan blinked. “Did I ask for your opinion? Go annoy an admiral or something.”
“You’re not helping anything.”
The viscount turned and looked at his younger brother. “What, precisely, am I supposed to be helping?” he snapped.
Bradshaw raised his hands. “Never mind. But if this explodes in your face, just remember that I warned you. Be more subtle, Dare.”
Before Tristan could reply, Shaw vanished toward the staircase. He took a deep breath, trying to relax the tense muscles across his back. His brother was right; six years ago he’d nearly killed himself keeping the rumors under control, and tonight he was stomping around like a bull in heat.
“Good evening, Tristan.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Amelia. Good evening.”
She curtsied, dainty and delicate in a blue gauze gown. “I have decided to be forward and ask you for a dance,” she said, dimpling.
“And I thank you, but I don’t intend to stay tonight. I have some…business to attend to.”
The excuse sounded pitiful but he wasn’t in the mood to come up with a better one, or to listen to her inane chatter. Instead he offered her a stiff bow and stalked off to shadow Georgiana.
She seemed to be making every effort to stay away from him, huddling with her friends at the far end of the room and now and then giving a nervous laugh as though to convince everyone that she was enjoying herself. He knew better.
Finally, Lady Hortensia called for the orchestra, and the scattered pockets of conversation migrated toward the dance floor. Tristan didn’t know whether anyone else had asked a dance of Georgiana, though he would assume so. He didn’t care, except that the first waltz was his.
He had to wait through two quadrilles and a country dance, watching her twirl about the room with Lord Luxley—apparently forgiven for his accident with the orange cart—and Francis Henning and then Grey. The only positive note was that Westbrook had yet to make an appearance.
When the orchestra launched into a waltz she was standing with her cousin and his bride, Emma. Tristan made himself stroll at a normal pace to her side.
“This is our dance, I believe,” he drawled, holding his hand out to her and trying not to look as though he was contemplating dragging her off and demanding an explanation.
