“I’m very angry with you,” she said, taking the seat opposite him.
“I don’t doubt that. I’m not entirely happy with you, either.”
The butler stepped through the door. “Shall I bring tea, miss?”
She smiled. “Would you like tea, Lord Dare?”
He would have preferred whiskey. “Tea will be fine. Thank you.”
“At once, Nelson.”
“Yes, miss.”
Her smile remaining, she folded her hands in her lap, the very vision of a prim, proper debutante. If he hadn’t seen her disrobed in his bedchamber last night, he never would have believed the tale. And that, he sensed, could become a very large problem.
“I want to ask you a direct question.”
“Please do.”
“Are you going to ask me to marry you, Tristan?”
“No, I’m not.”
She nodded, not looking the least bit surprised. “Why not?”
“I had at one time considered a marriage with you,” he said slowly, trying to spare her feelings and realizing that he was doing it because of Georgiana’s damned annoying little lessons, “but after coming to know you, I think I would make you a miserable husband.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one to make that decision?”
“No, not really. I’m twelve years older than you are, and my experience is far greater. I—”
“I think you should ask me anyway,” she interrupted, her prim hands folding into fists.
Tristan shook his head. “In six months, when you’re happily married to any of a hundred other gentlemen who would be exceedingly pleased to have you as a wife, you will thank me.”
A footman scratched on the open door and entered, a tea tray in his hands. Amelia’s smile reappeared as if by magic, and Tristan wondered that he’d ever thought her guileless and innocent. As soon as the servant left, the smile disappeared again.
“I understand why you think I might be happy elsewhere, but I really do have my heart set on becoming the Viscountess Dare. It has a very nice sound to it, don’t you think? Dare is a 260-year-old title, and a very well respected one.”
“You’ve done your research.”
She nodded. “I have, on all my beaux. And after careful study, I have selected you.”
Now he was beginning to wonder whether she was unbalanced. Tristan glanced at the teapot. It probably had arsenic in it. “Amelia, I value your admiration and your friendship, but you and I will not be married. I’m sorry if you misunderstood my attentions. That was very shoddy of me. And now, I think I should leave you to more pleasant contemplations.” Tristan stood.
Her voice rose. “I have your letter.”
He continued toward the door. “Unfortunately, Amelia, in my long and lamentable past, I have written letters to quite a few young ladies. On rare occasion, even poetry has crossed my pen.”
“Not a letter you wrote to me. A letter written to you.”
Tristan stopped. “And which letter might that be?”
“Well, it’s not precisely a letter. More of a note, though it is signed. It’s rather crumpled, as well, I’m af—”
“What does it say?” he interrupted, pure fury running through him. She couldn’t have that note. Not that one.
“I think you know what it says,” she answered in a calm tone. “I have the little gifts she left you, as well. You may not have wanted me sharing your bed, but I know who was there, Tristan. And here you had everyone thinking you two were enemies.”
