She stared at him, her lips parting slightly. He could not force his attention away from them, the thought circling his mind that if she was to agree to his mad scheme, he would be granted the opportunity to kiss those lips. He imagined Caroline kissed with the same earnestness she operated under in general.
“No.”
Tristan blinked. “No?” he repeated, surprised.
“I thank you for the…civil…offer, but I would sooner marry a toad.”
He’d not thought she could surprise him further, but it would appear her anger was stronger than he had realized.
Caroline took a step closer to him, her chest rising and falling swiftly as though she struggled to contain her frustration. “In fact, I would be most obliged if I never had to set eyes upon you again, Mr. Shepherd. You would do me a grand favor…” Her words became breathy, her gaze unfocused. “A favor…”
No sooner had the word slurred from her lips than her eyes fluttered closed, and she collapsed.
Tristan’s arms darted out, catching her before she could fall to the marble floor. Her head rolled against his shoulder as he scooped her into his arms, her gloved hand flopping out.
“Caroline!” Mrs. Whitby exclaimed, rushing down the corridor toward them. Had she been hovering unseen? Watching them? Or had Tristan been so caught up in Caroline’s lips he hadn’t noticed her mother standing nearby?
She gave him a wild-eyed look of fear.
“A retiring room, perhaps?” Tristan suggested. “Smelling salts will be just the thing.”
“Two doors that way,” Mrs. Whitby said. “I have no salts, but I know someone who will.”
She disappeared into the ball, leaving Tristan alone with a woman in his arms. A woman who despised him, evidently. He carried her toward the door her mother had indicated and found a fire built up in the hearth and two women seated on the sofa, deep in quiet conversation. One of them he recognized to be their host, Lady Petunia.
“Goodness,” she said, her hand fluttering over her heart. Her gray hair was styled high, her gown the latest mode despite her age.
“Miss Whitby has had a good deal of excitement.” His arms strained against the woman in them. “Is there a place I might lay her down?”
“Just here,” Lady Petunia said, rising immediately. Her partner did as well.
Caroline’s head lolled to the side as Tristan laid her on the sofa. With her eyes closed, her lashes fanning against pale cheeks, she looked innocent and sweet. She was just as lovely now as she was when she argued with him.
Gads, what had gotten into Tristan? One beautiful woman spiked his heart rate and he had started seeing romance where there was none?
She’d rather marry a toad.
“The poor dear!” Lady Petunia said, clutching at the elaborately jeweled necklace over her chest.
“Her mother has gone in search of smelling salts,” he told the women.
The door opened and Mrs. Whitby blew in, brandishing a small vial, an older woman in a feathered turban on her tail. Uncapping the vial, Mrs. Whitby held it beneath Caroline’s nose.
She stirred, her nose wrinkling before she blinked her eyes open slowly. When they settled on Tristan, Caroline groaned. “Not the toad.”
Did she not esteem toadsabovehim? He supposed it was not the time for semantics. “Forgive me, Miss Whitby, for distressing you with my warts. I hoped to ensure you were well before taking my leave.”
She frowned. “What happened?”
“You’ve had too much excitement, darling,” Mrs. Whitby said.
Caroline looked to her mother. “Dennison,” she whispered, as though everything had occurred to her once more. That was confirmed when she angled her glower toward Tristan.
“The carriage is ready,” Mrs. Whitby cut in. “When you feel prepared to walk, we’ll take you home.”
“We?”
Mrs. Whitby looked to Tristan. “I hoped to engage Mr. Shepherd’s assistance.”
