Instead of the woman’s own brother? If only Caroline had been allowed time to inform her mother of Tristan’s foolish proposal and Caroline’s subsequent dismissal. He could have offered to go in search of James, but that would waste time, and Caroline still looked pale. “I’m happy to assist.”
“I knew you would be,” Mrs. Whitby said.
Caroline still frowned.
Swallowing his reservations, Tristan put his hand out for her. “May I help you to stand?”
“I can stand well enough on my own, thank you.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman in the turban said. “But the young man seems quite willing, and you wouldn’t want to swoon again.”
“She makes a fair point,” Tristan said quietly. “I’m very willing.”
Caroline glared at him before putting her hand in his and squeezing hard. If she was trying to punish him for his comment, she had missed the mark. He rather liked the feeling of her hand in his, silk gloves and all.
He pulled her up, sliding his other hand behind her back to support her. “Shall we walk to your carriage?”
Her hand tightened again, making Tristan’s stomach dipin a strange way. Why did setting her back up give him the oddest sense of satisfaction? Evidently, he enjoyed getting a rise out of Caroline.
Well, that wasn’t new. It had just been years since he’d been given the opportunity. Instead of chasing her up trees and cheating mercilessly at jack straws, his weapon of choice now was verbal quips.
She walked with him toward the door, ignoring the hushed, feverous whispers coming from the women they had left behind. Mrs. Whitby took their leave of the three other women in the room and followed Tristan and Caroline down the narrow corridor toward the front door.
Once the cool March air hit their skin, Caroline drew away. Torches lit the street and glowed on the exterior of the Whitby coach. Wheels rumbled loudly on the cobbled road as a hired hack drove away from the house.
Tristan followed her down the steps and put out a hand to help her into her carriage, which she accepted, sighing heavily as she did so.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he said, before offering his hand to her mother.
Mrs. Whitby paused, one shoe poised on the step. “Thank you for your assistance this evening. If you see my son inside, will you inform him that we’ve gone home?”
“Of course. I am happy to help.”
“You are a dear.” She gave him an affectionate smile, her dark blonde hair glinting in the torchlight from the side of the carriage. She peered at him with distinct understanding. “Your mother would be proud of you, Mr. Shepherd.”
A jolt ran through his chest.Wouldhis mother be proud of his offhand proposal to a woman after ruining her carefully constructed relationship? Tristan might have believed he’d inadvertently helped Caroline dodge an unhappy marriage,but that was truly no business of his to begin with. It had been an accident, however, so he would do his best to forget it forthwith.
“Good night, Mrs. Whitby.”
She nodded once, allowing him to help her up the step. As he stood on the paving stones and watched their carriage rumble away, he let out a long sigh that felt entirely out of place. There was no reason for him to feel wistful, surely. Yet that was precisely what was buzzing about his stomach like a pair of active bees.
Putting Caroline to the back of his mind, Tristan returned to the ball. He still needed to find a wife.
The followingmorning arrived too quickly. It was nearly noon, but Tristan did not feel as though he had slept enough. Lady Petunia’s ball had been an utter waste. He danced with half a dozen young, eligible ladies, each of whom bored him immensely. He found his mind consistently turning back to the way he’d royally mucked up Caroline’s engagement.
It did not help that the women who had watched him carry in a swooning Caroline had soon after gone to the ballroom and told many willing ears that she had left the ball in a state. When one of Tristan’s dance partners relayed the information to him as though they had an interesting tidbit to share, he’d decided he was finished for the evening.
Now he sat at the breakfast table in his quiet house, eating ham and rolls and considering how he could have acted differently. As far as carrying her—no, he’d had no other choice. In regard to ruining her engagement, there had been no way for him to know he was revealing vital information she wanted to keep from Dennison. Whether shewanted to begin a marriage under such false pretenses was no business of his.
The bread in his mouth grew claggy, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to accomplish much today until he’d made it right. Short of offering for Caroline again, he wasn’t certain what he could do. Visiting Dennison was outside of the bounds of appropriate behavior. Tristan had no right to do something so drastic.
Unless he had Caroline’s permission.
Or, better yet, herbrotherhad her permission to see what could be done.
Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and rose.
“Will you need a carriage, sir?” Miller asked, accurately surmising Tristan had the look of a man with purpose.
