Oh God. Even if it wasn’t Mother, it might be anyone who loved a good gossip. Joan pictured a year in exile in Cornwall, away from her friends and the shopping of town, which would surely be her punishment if she was caught practically in Tristan Burke’s embrace. Her only hope was to put some distance between them. She pulled against his grip. “Let me go, or I shall scream.”
“Hush,” he whispered. “For the love of God, woman, hold your tongue for once.”
“Why? Who is coming? You must know it would give the completely wrong impression, if someone were to see you embracing me—”
He looked down at her in disbelief. “Can you never do as anyone asks? Are you totally mad?”
Joan set her jaw. She was a very reasonable person; he was the one at fault here. He had forced her into a dark room, withheld her pamphlet, and then confronted her in full view of everyone at the ball. Now he had her pinned against the wall behind the potted palms, and even though her pulse was leaping and something awfully like excitement had set her blood surging at the way he held her, she had to get out of here. Her gaze locked with his, she drew a deep, deliberate breath to cry out.
“Damn,” she thought he muttered, and then before she could make a sound his mouth came down on hers. Joan made a startledeepand almost fell before his arms tightened around her.
She had been kissed before—or rather, she thought she’d been kissed before. But compared to this, those previous experiences were mere pecks on the cheek. Tristan Burke held her in a way that left no doubt of his intentions; she could feel every inch of his body pressed against hers, hard and unyielding. His arm curved around her waist, and his hand—shockingly—curved around her hip, holding her body against his. His other hand was around the back of her neck, keeping her from retreating. Which, of course, she would have done at once, if only he hadn’t been holding her so and kissing her so and then his tongue ran along her lips and she started to protest and then ... he made a sound like a starving man in sight of a feast ... and she felt the same way...
It might have been a year later that he lifted his head. Joan would have sworn an age had passed. As it was, she had to hold on to him—actually, she was already holding on to him; when had that happened?—and struggle to breathe again.
“You—you kissed me,” she managed to gasp. Her tight stays seemed to have cut off all her air. She groped for her fan, trying desperately not to faint.
He was staring down at her, still holding her tightly, but at her words he gave a small shake of his head. His arms loosened. “I had to hear myself think for a moment.”
That stung. She glared at him, even though her heart was still leaping about inside her chest. “There are other ways—”
He leaned closer, looking intent, and Joan snapped her mouth closed. Was he going to kiss her again? And if so, should she slap him now ... or kiss him back this time?
“This way worked,” he whispered. “Don’t think I won’t do it again.”
And he turned and walked away, leaving her—for once—utterly speechless.
Chapter 7
Somehow, Joan returned to the ballroom, hoping no one would be able to tell by looking at her what had happened. She didn’t evenknowwhat had happened; the mere facts of the story didn’t begin to explain it. Tristan Burke had danced with her. She could reason that away as part of his plan to torment her at every turn. He had apologized for saying she looked like an umbrella, which was surely just some vestige of good manners, even if it was done in his usual arrogant way. But then he had called her bosom delectable and implied he would like to see it. He hinted that her virtue might not always be safe with him. And then he kissed her, the way a rake would kiss his lover. The way a man would kiss his wife after a year’s absence. The way Joan had dreamed of being kissed for the last eight years.
If it had been anyone else, she would have been floating on air. Since it was Tristan Burke who had kissed her so thoroughly and so passionately ... she wasn’t sure. And she really had no idea what to tell her friends, who would have noticed that Lord Burke whisked her around a corner and out of sight for several minutes. There was no way on earth they would believe he had simply been handing her the copy of50 Ways to Sinin that time.
Fortunately she was saved from Abigail’s and Penelope’s curiosity by her father. “Joan, we’re going now,” Papa asked, catching her just before she reached the Weston sisters. “Mother’s unwell.”
“I—really?” Over her father’s shoulder, she could see Penelope almost dancing on the spot with impatience. Even Abigail was watching her with naked curiosity. A fiery inquisition awaited her. “That’s—that’s dreadful. Is she very ill?”
“Well, I hope not, but she needs to rest. Are you terribly disappointed to leave early? I could ask Douglas to bring you home—”
“No, no,” she said quickly. Douglas had given her a dark glare when he saw her dancing with his friend. She didn’t want to have a scolding from him, of all people. “I’ll come now.” She raised her hand in farewell to her friends, ignoring Penelope’s outraged look, and followed her father from the ballroom. They found her mother resting on a sofa in a small salon off the main hall. Lady Bennet looked pale and tired, and she coughed as they came into the room.
“Mother!” Joan forgot her anxiety over Lord Burke. She wasn’t used to seeing her poised, fashionable mother laid low, and certainly never in public. “What happened?”
Mother smiled. “A spasm, dear. I’ve got a sore throat and can’t seem to stop coughing. Your father was worried, but I don’t want you to miss the ball—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she replied hastily. “But it’s more than a scratchy throat. You’ve been coughing for days now!”
“Do you see?” Her father stepped up, his arms folded across his chest. “Joan’s noticed. Marion, you must see a physician.”
Mother flipped one hand. “He’ll tell me to sip warm tea and rest. I shall be fine, George.”
“ThenIneed to see the physician, so he can prescribe me some physick that will keep me from worrying about you,” returned her husband. “I’ve already sent for him.”
Mother sighed. “Very well. But you must stay here so Joan needn’t miss the ball. She looks so lovely, George, and took such time over her hair—”
How long it did take to make these ringlets?echoed Lord Burke’s wicked voice in her head. “Nonsense,” cried Joan. “To tell the truth, Mother, I was a bit tired and don’t mind leaving at all.” She leaned forward to take her mother’s hand, and felt a crinkle along her spine. Oh yes; there was also that. Funny how she hadn’t thought once of reading50 Ways to Sinsince Lord Burke kissed her.
A footman came to tell them their carriage was waiting, and Papa helped Mother to her feet and led her out to the street. Lady Malcolm came hurrying up to wish Mother a quick recovery, and Papa thanked her. Joan gave a quick curtsy and murmured her own thanks, and then they were on the way home.
