“You underestimate your appeal, Caro.”
She ignored her rapidly racing heart, reminding herself once again that Tristan had ulterior motives. He did not mean what he said. “In that case, I will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“On the contrary.” He seemed to lean closer, but she stood her ground. “You are meant to help me find a wife, I believe. We will neither of us be in debt to the other.”
He was correct. But when she considered the eligible women of her acquaintance, she couldn’t quite imagine any of them with Tristan. “I will continue to look for someone who can tolerate your attitude.”
“Thank you.” His smile grew wide. “I take that to mean you have a difficult time tolerating me?”
“Not at all,” she promised, dimpling up at him. “Though I would be greatly appreciative if I could finish my turn.”
“Of course.” Tristan stepped back, gesturing to where their balls sat side by side on the grass.
Caroline let out a whoosh of air, able to breathe again. She took a moment to allow her pulse to return to normal, then swung back the mallet and let it crack against the ball, hitting it toward the iron ring. For a moment she imagined it was going to roll through and finish the game, but it stopped just outside of the half-dome, to her dismay.
“Nearly there,” Tristan said, lining up to take his shot. He hit his ball, and it flew across the grass, colliding with Caroline’s and pushing it through the hoop.
“Thank you,” she said tightly, setting off across the lawn to retrieve her ball. She inhaled cool fresh air. Nothing about her interactions with Tristan were especially romantic, yet she could not help the increased rate of her pulse when she was around him.
Old, dormant attraction had been revived within her likean unwieldy hedge, and it took consistent effort to keep it trimmed and orderly.
She really ought to burn it down entirely.
“I’ll escort you to your mother,” Tristan offered, lifting his ball and walking beside her to return their mallets to the front. He offered his elbow once they’d been divested of their pall mall implements and she placed her hand there, plucking at her skirt as she looked for her mother. She spotted her near the table of refreshments speaking to a handful of older women.
The conversation centered around Kitty, it seemed, and whether she could expect a proposal from Lord Bengard. Caroline drew in a breath for patience.
“You do not wish to fly to Miss Fielding’s defense?” Tristan whispered, leaning close. There was a tone of teasing to his words that didn’t settle well in her gut.
She looked up at his smiling eyes. “I thought I had put the matter to rest between us.”
“Your vigorous defense of her character was noted, and I do not imagine she would easily be taken in by a cad, but Bengard is no ordinary cad. The man has age on his side and, subsequently, he has practice.”
“Practice?” she repeated, put out by the choice in words. “You mean to imply he has acted this way before?”
“On more than one occasion,” Tristan said.
“Do you refer to Miss Cartwright?” That was the name of the woman who had told Kitty stories of Lord Bengard, was it not?
“I haven’t any notion who that is,” Tristan said. “Honestly, I shouldn’t say anything about it, as all my information comes secondhand. We should return to my friends and allow them to speak on the matter instead.”
“I’d rather not,” she said quietly, tuning her ear towardthe matrons’ conversation. They were still discussing Kitty and Lord Bengard.
“The viscount won’t offer for her,” Lady Tilbury said now. “He’s too stuck in his ways. A man doesn’t reach the comfortable age of five and thirty without developing unbreakable habits.”
“If Mr. Fielding approves of the union, what are we to say to it?” Mother asked.
“She’ll nothavea union,” another woman said, fanning herself rigorously. Her graying curls were stuffed beneath an elaborate bonnet with a large plume bouncing on the front.
Mother adjusted her glove. “For Kitty’s sake, I hope you are all wrong.”
“I harbor the same hope as you, but far more cynicism.” Lady Tilbury opened her reticule, searching for something. She gave up, allowing it to swing freely from her wrist.
The women seemed to notice Caroline and Tristan, casting appreciative glances over Tristan’s form. He was handsome. His dark gray coat stretched easily over his broad shoulders and his hair was finely styled beneath his hat. His jaw was smooth, his eyes intelligent.
Caroline was very much in danger of developing a greater affection for him if she was not careful.
“Miss Whitby,” a man said behind her. She caught her mother’s widened eyes and knew at once this would be Mr. Dennison. As she looked over her shoulder, she found she was correct. He stood there, tall and slender, his lips pressed together as if waiting in anxiety.
