She tore it open. “It’s from Penelope Weston. She’s invited me to walk with her the day after tomorrow in the park.” It was a mild surprise Penelope could wait that long; she and Abigail must be desperate to know what had happened last night. Joan had half expected Penelope to break down the door at the first light of dawn.
For a moment her mother’s eyes closed. The Westons weren’t quite the society she preferred her only daughter to keep. Mr. Weston was an attorney’s son who had made a fortune in the canals, which wasn’t as bad as making it from trade but also wasn’t terribly refined. Still, a fortune was a fortune, and Mr. Weston had settled large dowries on both his daughters in the hopes of seeing them move up in the world. As a result, they were invited to all but the most elegant events; the hostesses of London hardly wanted to deprive their younger sons of any opportunity to catch an heiress.
And fortune or no, Joan had found kindred spirits in Abigail and Penelope. No matter how much Lady Bennet might wish they had better connections, she did acknowledge that Mrs. Weston was a woman of taste and sense, and her daughters were formed in the same mold. “I have no objection,” she said. “Joan ... did Lord Burke tell you he was acting on a wager last night?”
She paused, half risen from her seat. “No,” she said carefully. “I am only supposing ... I don’t think he truly wanted to dance with me. He certainly gave no appearance of pleasure.” She firmly blocked all memory of the last few minutes of their encounter from her mind. “He argued with me and then walked off without a word of farewell when the dance was done.”
Lady Bennet eyed her closely. Joan kept her face innocently blank. “It seems odd,” said her mother at last, suspiciously. “I hardly think you’re the sort of lady to interest a man such as he.” She hid another cough behind her handkerchief, and waved away Joan’s instinctive move toward the teapot. “Very well, you may go. But Joan dear, in the future, you must refuse, if he should ever ask you again. I don’t trust him.”
She let out her breath in relief and smiled. Never mind that her own mother didn’t think she was attractive to men—at least not to devilishly handsome men. She was going to escape serious repercussions, and that’s what mattered. “Of course I would refuse, Mother. Although I find it highly unlikely Lord Burke will ever seek me out again.”
Chapter 8
Tristan got up early the morning after the ball and went to the boxing saloon. He hadn’t been there in a while, but this time he stripped to the waist and spent almost three hours in the ring, taking on anyone who wanted to hit and get hit. He would have stayed there, too, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the thrill of each landed blow, but Bennet appeared and just stood beside the ring, glaring at him.
That was precisely what Tristan had hoped to avoid by leaving the house so early. After he’d walked away from Miss Bennet the previous night, leaving her flushed and flustered behind Lady Malcolm’s potted palms, he’d just kept walking: out of the ballroom, out of the Malcolm house, all the way across town into the narrow lanes behind Covent Garden where a man could lose himself in gin houses and gaming hells. Because he’d needed to be lost. Good Lord above, he’d gone and kissed the Fury—and his mouth still hungered for the taste of hers. Not even a river of spirits could quench it.
This was a serious error, and not one he was prepared to repeat. Nor was he anxious to face the inevitable questions from her brother. What the hell could he say, anyway? It would have almost been preferable to have let Jessica Elliot find him, no matter how peevish she’d sounded when she almost discovered him behind the potted plants with Miss Bennet. And he’d thought staying hidden would be the wise choice—which proved his instincts worthless, frankly.
He ignored Bennet while he finished his bout, but Bennet stalked around the ring when he ducked out and headed for the tub of water in the corner. Tristan leaned over it and poured a few ladles of water over his head and chest. A servant held out a length of towel, and he draped it over his dripping hair. “What?” he said once his face was safely hidden.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” snapped Bennet. “What the devil were you thinking to dance with my sister?”
Still toweling his hair, Tristan shrugged. “I felt sorry for her. She didn’t dance a single dance.”
“That’s hardly your fault! I daresay she doesn’t like to dance anyway, being taller than most of the men in the room.”
Bennet didn’t know his sister well, if he thought the woman didn’t like to dance. There had been a kind of excitement in her face, a delight that was both wistful and determined, as if she meant to enjoy every moment of the dance no matter who her partner was. That expression had kept him awake far too long last night, and in fact was partly behind his quest for punishment today. She wanted to dance—longed to dance, even—and he hadn’t been a very charming partner. “It’s not her fault she’s tall. She didn’t have to accept when I asked her.”
“But why the devil would you ask her at all?” Bennet demanded. “You were the one who said she was trouble and ought to be avoided; now my mother wants to tear a strip off my hide for exposing her to you! She accused me ofwageringyou into dancing with Joan—horrid thought, risking money on anything involving my sister!” He grimaced. “She’d do whatever it took to make me lose, I’ve no doubt.”
Tristan tossed aside the towel. “Are you here to defend your sister’s honor, or to mock me for dancing with such a harpy? You’re not making sense, Bennet.”
His friend followed him into the other room. “Both, unfortunately. Mother came to my door herself this morning to give full vent to her spleen when she learned you danced with Joan—and a waltz, no less.”
“Everyone waltzes. In fact, I thought I saw you with a fetching blonde in your arms during that same waltz.”
Bennet flushed. “Well—yes—Mother insisted I lead out Miss Drummond again.”
Tristan uncorked a jug of cool water and took a long drink. He was still avoiding facing Bennet, which was cowardly but damned if he felt like changing. “Was I not supposed to dance, while you were swanning about the room yourself? You made me go to the blasted ball.”
“Not to dance with Joan,” growled Bennet. “Blast it, Burke—” He stopped, and ran his hands through his hair. “You know my mother never warmed to you,” he went on more calmly.
“Not because of anythingI’vedone,” Tristan said pointedly, finally spearing a hard look at the other man. “You know damned well she blames me for all your vices, without pausing to wonder how you manage to carry on at them even in my absence.”
Bennet flushed darker red. “Fair enough. But there’s no arguing with her now; she’s fixed her mind against you. So for both our sakes, leave Joan be.” He gave a rueful grin. “It shouldn’t be that hard. You said yourself she’s trouble. I’m doing you a favor, really—should you ever encounter her, you have my permission to run the other way.”
Tristan just grunted and snapped his fingers at the boy to fetch his clothes. Trouble, yes; but even more dangerous than Bennet suspected. Because Tristan didn’t want to run the other way when he saw Miss Bennet, as vexing as she was. He wanted to best her, to leave her speechless; he wanted to hear her confess that she was wrong and he was right, about anything at all. And most worrisome of all, he wanted to kiss her senseless when she did so. Maybe even before. He must be cracked in the head.
“So are felicitations in order?” he asked, trying to change the subject so Bennet wouldn’t keep talking about her. “Do I need to remove myself to a hotel so your bride can redecorate?”
His friend scowled. “Damn it, Burke, I’m not betrothed—”
“Two dances with the same woman? It won’t be long.”
“It was to appease my mother,” growled Bennet.
The servant had come back with his clothing. Tristan took his shirt and pulled it over his head. “I vaguely remember your mother. She wasn’t the most dreadful woman. Why, pray tell, does she inspire such terror in her children’s hearts that they cannot twitch without fearing her retribution?”
