“Ahem.”
With a gasp she pulled backward, but couldn’t escape far because Tristan caught hold of her arms. Bradshaw wore an expression of supreme curiosity and surprise.
“Did I miss something along the way?” he asked, folding his arms.
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?” Tristan returned, his gaze not leaving Georgiana.
Seeing Bradshaw standing there reminded her that he wouldn’t be the only one speculating about her. She shuddered. “What about the wager?” she asked.
“It’s gone.”
Bradshaw frowned. “What do you mean, ‘it’s gone’? It’s on the books at White’s. Much as I hate to say it, those wagers don’t just go away, Tris.”
“This one did.”
“And how did you manage that?”
“I ripped it out of the book and destroyed it.” Tristan ran his fingers along Georgiana’s cheek. “Got myself banned from White’s in the process. That’s probably a good thing, when I consider it. I wouldn’t want to be a member of a club that would allow people like me through its doors.”
She chuckled, though it came out sounding a little soggy. “On behalf of myself and the other ladies involved, thank you.” Looking at Bradshaw, she scowled. “And shame on you.”
“I’ve learned my lesson, too,” he said. “And I’ll be remembering it for quite some time, I can assure you. Next time you pummel me, take off your damned signet ring, Dare.”
Tristan still looked more angry than conciliatory. Rather than let another fight break out, Georgiana pulled free from his grip and summoned Pascoe. “Would you gentlemen care to stay for luncheon?” she asked them.
Bradshaw started to nod, but Tristan looked abruptly uneasy. “What time is it?”
“A quarter past two, my lord,” the butler supplied.
“Damnation. I would like to stay,” he said, turning for the door, “but I have a previous engagement for which I’m very late.” He stopped, looking again at Georgiana. “Wycliffe’s hosting a dinner tonight. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
His expression still serious, he sketched a bow. “Then I’ll see you this evening.”
Bradshaw trailed after him, his gait a little stiff. He touched Georgiana’s shoulder as he passed. “I’ve never seen him like that. Thank you for forgiving me.”
She pursed her lips. “If he hadn’t blackened your eye, I would have, Bradshaw.”
“Fair enough.”
People would still speculate about the wager, especially now that Tristan had terminated it in such a spectacular manner. But he’d done it to protect her honor—and because it had upset her. Whatever else had happened over the past six years, one thing was becoming rather clear: Tristan Carroway had indeed learned his lesson.
Her relief when Bradshaw had explained the wager made something else equally clear: Her heart, her desires, and her dreams had ceased to listen to any kind of reason and sense. All she could do was hope that this time she and Tristan had set off down a different path, and that she would end up somewhere besides ruined.
By the time Tristan returned to Carroway House, swore Bradshaw to secrecy, changed clothes yet again, and climbed back on Charlemagne to head for the Johns residence, it was nearly three o’clock. Hopefully, if he managed to be sufficiently tactful with Amelia, nothing more would come of last night’s visit. And he was going to do his damnedest to be extremely tactful.
The Johns butler showed him into a downstairs sitting room close to the front door. It was beginning to look as though no one in London wanted him in the depths of their household today. That was fine with him; after his last encounter with Amelia, the closer to an avenue of escape he was, the safer he would feel.
Amelia entered a few minutes later, and he sketched her a shallow bow. “I owe you an apology,” he drawled with a smile. Charm generally worked with young ladies.
She tilted her head at him, and for once he couldn’t read her expression. When they’d first met, he’d thought her a naive, grasping little chit, hardly more than a girl and willing to sell herself for a title. As a wife she would have been petty, pretty, and easily ruled. What she’d attempted last night, however, had taken planning, courage, and determination, which made him distinctly uneasy. It had either been a fluke, or he’d been badly mistaken in his estimation of her character.
“We sat for luncheon without you,” she said, gesturing for him to take a seat.
“I’d hoped that you had. Again, my apologies. Something of…utmost urgency came up.”
He sat on the couch, allowing her to dictate the conversation for the moment. Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked, and he kept one eye on the doorway, just to be sure it remained open. She’d caught him off-balance once; he wouldn’t allow her to do it again.
