“Yes, Papa.”
“Good night, child.”
“Good night, Papa.”
He tousled her hair gently and left, closing the door quietly behind him. She listened to his footsteps die away, then hung over the side of her bed. “You go away now, Douglas.”
Her brother crawled out, a relieved smile spread wide across his face. “You’re an angel, Joan,” he said fervently. “This is Tristan Burke, by the by; he’s a mate of mine from school.”
The boy got to his feet, too. He was taller than Douglas, and looked even skinnier next to her strapping brother. He bowed awkwardly, and Joan giggled. “Tristan Burke, miss, at your service.”
“Why are you hiding?” Joan asked them. “And what are you doing running about in the middle of the night?”
Douglas looked sheepish. “A wager.”
“Who won?” she wanted to know.
For the first time Tristan grinned. His eyes lit up, and a deep dimple appeared in his cheek. “I did.” There was no small amount of pride in the words.
Douglas scoffed. “You cheated. Must have done.”
Tristan’s grin turned positively cocky. “Prove it.”
Douglas grumbled under his breath, but said nothing more of cheating.
“What was the wager?” Joan asked. This was interesting enough to keep her from thinking about her rumbling stomach.
Tristan held aloft the rose, now a bit squashed from the fight and the cramped quarters under the bed. “I got a rose.”
Joan waited, but he said nothing more. “From where? Why? That’s a silly sort of bet, to get a rose. What’s it for?”
Douglas growled. “Nothing. It’s not for anything. Let’s go, Tris.” He tiptoed over to the door and eased it open, looking up and down the corridor.
Tristan glanced at Douglas, then back at her. “It’s for you,” he whispered, handing her the flower. “For saving us from a thrashing.”
She took it, mildly pleased but recognizing a dodge when she saw one. “Why did you make a wager?” she asked again, but Tristan had joined Douglas at the door. After a moment, they slipped out, with one last whispered thanks from Douglas. Joan put the rose beside her pillow and flopped back down with a sigh. Her stomach grumbled loudly. A flower was lovely, but if he’d really wanted to thank her, he might have brought a teacake at the least.
The second time she met Tristan Burke was several years later. True to her first impression, Tristan had turned out to be wild, too wild for her mother to countenance inviting him back. Joan would never forget the trouble he and Douglas got themselves into during that holiday; the wager over the rose, which turned out to have been over who could get a rose from the garden without opening any doors, was by far the tamest thing they did. Mother declared Tristan Burke a bad influence within three days’ time, and after that she took care to keep Joan out of the boys’ path. Aside from suppers, she almost never saw him.
Of course Mother’s disapproval did nothing to prevent Douglas from being firm friends with Tristan, all through Eton and university. Joan heard of him in letters from Douglas, and the occasional story about some adventure that usually ended abruptly with Douglas realizing he was telling her things a girl ought not to hear of. She had a feeling Tristan Burke was even wilder than she could imagine.
The fall of Joan’s sixteenth year, Lord Burke died, and the family went to pay their respects to Tristan, now the new Viscount Burke. She knew him at once, a tall, thin young man standing with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. While her parents went to condole with his aunt, Lady Burke, Joan sidled closer to Tristan, who was watching everything with a dark, moody expression.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said softly.
Without looking at her, he snorted. He still looked slightly unkempt, his long dark hair now bound in a queue. His clothes, though of respectable quality, hung loosely on him. Joan didn’t know how to interpret his response, and hesitated.
“They hate me,” he said suddenly, with quiet malice. Joan followed his gaze; across the room Lady Burke sat regally stiff and upright on the sofa, dressed in unrelieved black and accepting fresh handkerchiefs from her similarly clad young daughters at her side. She bowed her head as Joan’s parents offered their sympathies. Joan rather thought she looked as though her world had ended. “Aunt Mary. My cousins. They think I’m a heathen wastrel, unworthy of the title, ready to throw them all into the street.”
“Why would they think that?” Joan could have bitten her tongue as soon as she asked the question; that was not proper, she told herself. She had been trying very hard of late to act like a proper lady, in order not to embarrass herself in her Season next year.
“Because they listen to gossip and read the scandal sheets.” Finally he turned to face her. His eyes were a glittering green, and she almost recoiled from the intensity in his gaze. “Do you, Miss Bennet?”
“Of course,” she said pertly, wanting to rattle him. His gloomy brooding-poet air was annoying. He obviously didn’t care about his uncle’s death—all he was thinking about was how much his aunt disliked him. “They’re great sport, don’t you think? Everyone knows they’re complete fiction.”
He stared at her. “Not everyone.”
“Well, everyone with all their wits,” she said. “No doubt they’ll realize it—”she nodded toward his aunt—”once they see you do not throw them into the street.”
