“And don’t think I won’t gladly do it again.” She darted by him and opened the door. “Good evening, Lord Boor—I mean, Lord Burke.”
Still holding his smarting nose, Tristan could only watch her go in impotent shock. She had bested him and exited in triumph yet again. He ought not to have pushed her into this room, but he’d only meant to tease her a little and make her ask nicely for her package from the bookseller. Instead ... instead he was going to have a swollen nose and he still hadn’t put the Fury in her place.
Enough was enough. This meant war.
Chapter 6
Joan almost ran back to the ballroom, her heart galloping inside her chest and her lungs straining against her tighter-than-usual stays. Heaven help her if her mother discovered any part of that. Not only had she spoken to Tristan Burke, the Most Wicked Man in London in her mother’s eyes, but she’d punched him in the face. Although, now that she thought about it, Mother might approve that last part. Yes, she might well applaud her daughter fighting off the boorish attentions of a notorious rogue...
Not that Joan wanted to put it to the test by telling her mother.
At the ballroom door she slowed her steps, even though her pulse still thundered along, and tried to look proper and composed as she made her way back to her friends. Abigail Weston looked at her curiously as she rejoined them. “Where were you?”
“The retiring room,” said Joan.
“After that,” said Abigail, her eyebrows arching a little. “I went with you to the retiring room, but you left first and disappeared.”
Joan cast a cautious glance around. They were as ignored and alone as ever, but she lowered her voice anyway. “I was waylaid.”
Penelope, Abigail’s younger sister, gasped. “Really? By whom?” She seemed to have taken the wrong interpretation; her eyes were bright with interest.
“An addlepated idiot.” From the corner of her eye, Joan saw the idiot himself appear in the doorway. From this distance, he was almost unbearably mesmerizing, his arms folded over his broad chest and his mouth set in a faint but wicked curve. As she peered at him over her shoulder, his green gaze suddenly connected with hers, as if he’d been searching for her. Chin defiantly high, she turned her back to him. “Lord Burke, actually. But perhaps it was because I discovered him ravishing someone in the music room.”
“Ravishing?” breathed Penelope hopefully. “Truly, honestly, ravishing?”
“On a chaise with her skirts around her waist.” Joan knew she ought to mention that Lord Burke had been several feet away from the chaise, but held her tongue. It served him right for leaving the door wide open. Most likely he would have been ravishing Lady Elliot in another few minutes anyway.
“Oh, my.” Penelope turned wide blue eyes on her sister, who was studying Joan too closely.
“If he was occupied ravishing someone else, why—and how—did he waylay you?”
“He ran after me,” Joan said with a trace of indignity. “He grabbed my arm, pulled me down the corridor, andimprisonedme in a room. I had to box his ears to escape.”
Abigail’s eyebrows shot way up, then lowered suspiciously. “Really.”
“Yes, truly! Why would you doubt me?”
“Because it sounds much better to say you boxed his ears than that you made such a fuss, he let you go.”
“If you must know,” Joan retorted, a little haughtily, “I did not box his ears, actually.”
“I knew it,” murmured Abigail.
“I punched him in the face.” She turned around and looked directly at Lord Burke, who was—disturbingly—still watching her with those unnerving eyes. “See? His nose will be swollen like a ripe plum tomorrow.”
All three turned to look. Tristan Burke gazed back from across the ballroom, brazen and bold. He was just leaning against one of the pillars at the front of the room, hands clasped behind him, but somehow Joan felt his presence all the way back into the quiet corner where they stood. In fact, as she looked at him, he almost seemed to smile at her.
That could not mean anything good. She turned around and resolved not to look his way again.
“Was he really ravishing someone else in the music room?” asked Penelope. “Because he’s looking very intently at you, Joan.”
“She punched him in the face,” Abigail reminded her. “We shall protect you, if he approaches,” she added to Joan.
Joan gave her a limp smile. Fancy that; she needed protection from one of the biggest rakes in England, but not for the reason any other woman would. She ducked her head near Abigail’s. “Tell me the truth,” she whispered in her friend’s ear. “Do I look like a half-opened umbrella?”
Abigail frowned. “Who said that? You look—” Her gaze swept downward, and she blinked, a betraying hesitation Joan didn’t miss. “You look lovely.”
“Like a lovely, half-opened umbrella.” She ground her teeth and swung around to glare venomously at Lord Burke. Damn him. The man might be handsome and good at ravishing women, but otherwise he was a cad. “Why do all the ladies throw themselves at him?” she wondered crossly.
