“Well, I must confess it made you easier to track just now. I could see those stripes from two streets away.”
Joan knew she wasn’t pretty. Her dress had looked so fetching in the dressmaker’s sketches, and then somehow so ordinary on her, no matter what her mother said. But it was the height of indignity to havehimpoint that out. Never mind her previous fascination with his bare chest, or the way he loomed over her like a lover. He was an ass. Even worse, he had spoiled all her joy at being free for a few stolen moments. The shopkeeper had vanished, and not even50 Ways to Sinwas worth spending another moment with Lord Boor—and for costing her that, she could have smacked him. “Thank you for that unsolicited and unwanted observation,” she said through her teeth. “I hope you and Douglas drive each other mad. And you may tell him I will see him at the Malcolm ball tomorrow evening.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door, pulling it shut with a slam behind her.
Tristan scowled as she marched away from him for the second time that day. Bennet had obviously gone wrong decades ago with her; his sister was clearly set in her willful ways. Worse, the way her eyes sparkled when she defied him conveyed a gleeful pride in her obstinacy. His first thought about her was absolutely correct. She was a Fury and should be avoided.
He tried not to wonder what she would have done if he’d attempted to persuade her in earnest.
His gaze fell to the book in his hand. What had brought Miss Bennet into this shop? he wondered. It was a far cry from Hatchard’s selection of dry improving works and silly Gothic novels. He decided she’d probably had no idea and wandered in by chance, and turned to replace the book of very prurient poetry on the shelf. For a moment there, he’d been dangerously tempted to read her a selection, just to see how brightly pink her fine complexion could turn.
“Here you are, madam.” A short, balding man in a shopkeeper’s apron came from the office behind the counter, a package in his hand. He stopped short and glanced about. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
“The lady had to leave,” Tristan said.
“Indeed!” The fellow looked surprised. “Well, I daresay someone else will want it.” He put down the package. “May I help you, sir?”
Tristan’s eyes rested on the package. So she hadn’t come by chance, but for something particular. It was flat and thin, tied in string. What had she been after? “I’ll take it for the lady.” He held out the book he’d been about to replace. “And this.”
The shopkeeper took the book with a knowing look. “Yes, sir. Very good. Shall I wrap it?”
“No need.”
The man bowed his head and Tristan counted out the coins. He took both books and went back into Bond Street, wondering where Miss Bennet might have gone. He strolled the length of the street rather aimlessly, scanning each shop for a flash of pink stripes, but never saw it.
He didn’t want to admit that he felt a touch of guilt for making her storm off without her purchase. No, that was largely her own fault. If she’d been a more reasonable woman, she would have handed over the blasted note her brother had so foolishly signed. Tristan would have thanked her politely and gone on his way, with no reason to speak to her again.
Instead he would have to see her again, even seek her out. First, because he never abandoned a contest in defeat, certainly not to a woman. And second, because now he had her book and wanted to see her face when he presented it to her. He wondered if her blush was bright scarlet, or a dusky rose.
By the time he returned to Bennet’s town house in Halfmoon Street, Bennet was already there. He rushed into the hall at Tristan’s entrance. “Did you get it?” he demanded.
“The paper? No.” Tristan tossed his hat at the hook behind the door. It missed and rolled under a table.
Bennet swore and plunged his hands into his already rumpled hair. “Curse Joan! Why the devil did you let her into the house?”
“You didn’t warn me not to.” Tristan retrieved his hat and paced back to his original spot. He eyed the hook, and threw the hat toward it again. It missed, again.
“Did I need to?” Bennet exclaimed. “A woman calls at the break of dawn, and you let her stroll into my bedchamber?”
Tristan fetched his hat once more and retraced his steps. “If it had been a different sort of woman,” he said, adjusting his stance and staring down the hook, “you would have called me out for turning her away.”
“It must have been excruciatingly obvious she wasnotthat sort of woman.” Bennet frowned. “You’re cheating; that’s a full six inches nearer than before.”
“It is not.” Tristan took a step backward anyway. “A pound I can make it from here.”
“A guinea you cannot.”
A wild and exhilarated grin touched his mouth. He bent his knees a little, turned the hat around, and let it fly once more. It sailed neatly through the air and caught the hook, swinging precariously for a moment before settling into place. Tristan made a fist of triumph as Bennet uttered another halfhearted curse.
“Take it off my board.” Tristan peeled off his gloves and handed them to the servant who had belatedly come into the hall. “And I advise you to give your sister a wide berth. That female is trouble.”
“As if I haven’t known that for twenty years.” Bennet stalked back into the drawing room and sprawled in one of the few chairs. Tristan followed, waving aside Bennet’s offer of a glass of brandy. “My thanks for trying to find her, Burke.”
“I found her. Murdoch, bring some coffee and bacon,” he shouted into the hall before taking another of the chairs. “If we’re to be up at this hour, we might as well have breakfast.”
“You found her? Then why don’t you have the paper? I thought you could talk any woman out of anything you wanted from her!”
“Good Lord, Bennet, you make me sound like a confidence man.”
“Only where ladies are concerned.”
