Now he was beginning to grin. “Debauchery! You strike fear into my heart—and yet a small amount of curiosity as well. What sort of debauchery do you think I had planned, some ten feet from Lady Malcolm’s guests? I prefer more privacy than a pair of potted palms offers.”
“Lady Elliot would be astonished to hear that.”
He laughed, a low, lazy sound unafflicted by any of the nerves that gripped Joan. “She’s the one who left the door open—not that I was debauching her in any way. But enough teasing. I did mean to apologize and return your little story.” He leaned closer, still smiling. “Here,” he said softly—almost tauntingly. “Take it.”
Joan squeezed her hands together. Under no circumstances could she slip it under her garter in front of him. “I can’t. You have to keep it.”
He sighed. “Spare me women of no imagination. Turn around.”
“Why?” Before she could protest further, he had taken her by the shoulders and spun her around to face the wall, then crowded up against her until she must be quite invisible to anyone passing by. Joan braced her hands against the plaster, struggling to keep enough space to breath. Great heavens—she could feel him behind her. His foot had slid between hers, and his chest was right at her back. She shuffled her feet, trying vainly to inch closer to the wall, and felt the brush of his knee on the back of her leg. And then she felt his fingers at the fastenings of her bodice, plucking loose the lacing that held it closed.
She was as stricken as Lot’s wife, immobile at the wickedness before her. Or, rather, behind her. The most notorious rake in London was unlacing her gown.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured next to her ear. “Your virtue is safe with me tonight.”
Her virtue, perhaps, but not her imagination. She gulped for air as her bodice grew loose. Joan closed her eyes, trying not to wish he did have designs on her virtue. Not because she wantedhim, of course, but because she had never been the object of anyone’s uncontrollable desires, and had certainly never been pressed up against a wall by any halfway desirable man. And however boorish Tristan Burke might be, even Joan couldn’t deny he was desirable.
“Good Lord—how tightly did you lace this corset?”
A flush of humiliation burned up her throat at his murmur. Trust him to notice that. “Never mind,” she said through her teeth. “Just hurry ...”
He stopped her wriggling with one hand on her waist, his fingers splayed over her hip. “If you’re going to lace it up tightly to display your bosom, you ought to forgo all this.” With his other hand he flicked the elegant fall of lace that frothed over her gown’s neckline. “What good is a delectable display of bosom if no one can enjoy it?”
“My bosom is none of your concern!”
There was a pause before he replied. “Of course not.” She felt his fingers sliding along the loosened back of her gown, and then a crinkle of paper. He was putting50 Ways to Sindown the back of her bodice. “I hope you trust your maid.”
“I don’t have any choice now, do I? Lace me up!” she hissed.
He laughed very quietly, his nimble fingers tugging at her laces again. Joan glared at a thin crack running down the wall in front of her, wishing she didn’t feel every stroke of his fingers on her back, even through her stays, which seemed to be growing tighter with every moment. She tried to think of what fantastical story she would tell if someone burst upon them; it seemed they had been in this alcove for an hour or more.
She spun around as soon as his fingers lifted away from her. “Thank you, now let me by.”
Instead of moving aside, he only propped one elbow beside her head, blocking her in. “Why are you so controlled by your mother?”
“Controlled by ... ?” This time she did roll her eyes. “Let me see. Because I am an unmarried female with no fortune of my own, no property of my own, and no rights of my own. Unlike you, I am not at liberty to rendezvous in secluded corners, even with someone who has no interest in my virtue, because it would be improper. Ruinous, even. Not that anyone has shown the slightest interest in besmirching my virtue, but appearances, you know, are so important for a young lady.” She said the last in a creditable imitation of her mother’s voice, but then sighed. “I don’t suppose your mother cares about your reputation, but mine cares a great deal about mine. I really don’t want to spend the rest of the Season locked in my room just because you couldn’t manage to apologize in a normal and genteel manner, so please let me pass.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Who said I had no interest in your virtue?”
Joan gaped at him. “You—you did!”
“No, I said it was safe with me tonight.” He pinched one of her ringlets. “There’s a difference.”
She paused, watching him warily, but he certainly gave no sign of being overcome with passion and falling upon her in a craze of lust. Not that she should wish for such things anyway, at least not from him. She snapped her mouth shut. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t puzzle out that subtlety at the moment.”
His mouth crooked. “Still impertinent.”
“You have no idea how much,” she told him.
“Believe me, I don’t doubt—” He broke off, lifting his head as though listening to something, then abruptly ducked and crowded her back behind the potted palms.
“What are you doing? Is someone coming?” She tried to push him aside.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Shh.”
Joan blanched. “My mother?” she whimpered.
“Shh!” He wasn’t paying attention to her at all, but was clearly listening for something, his expression fierce yet distant.
