Her head came up sharply. “For me? You, sir, are completely barmy if you expectmeto lie down on the chaise and show you my—”
“Hardly,” said Tristan, trying not to think about it. He didn’t want to see under the Fury’s skirts, nor imagine her gleaming eyes gone soft with desire, and he really didn’t want to wonder how her penchant for unpredictability would show itself in bed. “I have something of yours and wanted to return it.”
She gave him a look arch with disbelief. “Indeed. What is it?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I can’t think of anything you might have that I would want.”
He leaned closer, relishing how her coffee-colored eyes widened, the golden striations seeming to glow. “Nothing? Are you certain, Miss Bennet?”
Some of her condescension faded. “Yes, quite certain,” she said, not sounding very certain at all.
“Interesting,” he murmured. Her blush was a dusky rose, not bright pink at all.
Suddenly she flinched, and the blush faded. “You must excuse me, sir,” she said quickly. “I must go.”
Oh, no. He wasn’t letting her go that easily. “Why the hurry?” He’d only come to this damn ball to see her. “Don’t you want it?”
“Not now,” she whispered, looking nervous. “You may keep it.” She tried to duck around him and back into the corridor that led to the ballroom.
He put his hand on the wall, blocking her escape without thinking. “Not so quickly. I have a few things to say to you—”
“My mother is coming!” she hissed. “Let me pass!”
Indeed. The only thing Tristan clearly remembered about Lady Bennet was the frigid glare she had given him ever since the one school holiday he’d been invited home with Bennet. He’d been only twelve, but clever enough to see that he wouldn’t be invited back. It had struck him as a bit unfair; most of the escapades that earned her enmity had been her own son’s idea, but he doubted a mother would turn her son out when there was a much easier focus of blame. More than once in the years since, Bennet had remarked in passing conversation that his mother still didn’t approve of Tristan. He hardly cared, but now...
“Are you afraid?” he asked, not bothering to hide his amusement as Miss Bennet tried to shove past his arm.
“Yes!” And she did look it.
He ought to let her go, just raise his arm and allow her to slip past him. Instead he turned the knob of the door beside him and pushed her through it, following hard on her heels and easing the door closed behind him just as a pair of older ladies went past the broader corridor. “Then you should hide.”
He could barely see the pale shape of her arm before she slapped his shoulder. “Why did you do that?” Her whisper seethed with shock. “Are you a complete idiot?”
“I see. You are completely unafraid of defying propriety by invading your brother’s bedchamber, or by slipping off to a slightly disreputable bookseller, but the approach of your own blessed mother strikes fear in your heart.”
“And it would in yours as well, if you had any brains in your head,” she snapped. “Whatdoyou want, Lord Burke? Your charm has only grown smaller since our last encounter.”
“No doubt. But I have something of yours.” He drew out her package, still bound in the bookseller’s paper and string, and waggled it at her. “Don’t you want it?”
His eyes had adjusted enough to see her jaw drop, gratifyingly. Finally, it seemed, he had rendered her speechless. “Did you open it?” she asked in a choked voice.
“No, as you can see.” He picked at the string. “There’s still time, of course ...”
“Stop,” she said quickly. “Please don’t.” Tristan smiled. “But I can’t take it now,” she added. “Where would I put it?”
For the first time he really looked at her gown. It was light blue, with a terrifying amount of lace bristling at her bosom. Even worse, the skirt stood out with no less than four full flounces at the hem. His gaze traveled up. The feather in her hair actually concealed a pearl tiara that surrounded a high, tight knot of braids. But most appalling of all was the profusion of ringlets curled at her temples. In the dim moonlight, it looked like she had a bunch of grapes at each temple.
“Have you something against flattering fashion?” he asked.
Her eyes all but ignited. “This is very fashionable!”
“But not flattering on you,” he said bluntly. “Even a darker shade of blue would be better. You look like you’re wearing a half-opened umbrella.”
“You insufferable ... !” She drew back her fist. “Let me leave, or I shall punch you.”
“Really?” He couldn’t help grinning at the thought. “I’ve never been punched by a—ow!” The last came out in a howl as her fist connected with his nose. Rather well, truth be told; Bennet must have taught her how to do it. “You struck me!”
