“I believe you told me in that same conversation that I wasn’t to approach her again,” Tristan shot back. “On your mother’s orders, even. Now your revered parent is away from town and you set me to dancing attendance on your sister? Do I look that big a fool to you?”
Bennet’s ears turned red. “Nothing foolish about it! You don’t have to dance attendance on her, just ... do as I might do for her.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “And what the bloody blazes would you do for her, if you were in town? Last time I saw the two of you in the same room, you were howling curses down upon her head.”
“Yes, well.” Bennet cleared his throat. “That was before. Things have changed. Of course I would keep watch over my sister in my father’s absence. See that she goes out, and doesn’t get up to trouble. Visit her for tea and listen to her chatter. That sort of thing.”
“Bennet,” said Tristan with perfect honesty, “that is the most idiotic idea you’ve ever had.”
His friend grimaced. “But the thing is, there’s no one else I can ask. Dunwood is an ass, Hookham is a drunkard, and Spence ... I don’t want Spence near my sister under any circumstances. You, on the other hand, already danced with her and didn’t run mad from the experience. You’re—you’re inoculated against her, don’t you see?”
Tristan squeezed his hands into fists even as his heart sped up—from apprehension, he told himself, and not from anticipation. “You’ve run mad if you think I want to spend the rest of the Season being scorched and flayed by her tongue.”
“Try charming her.” Bennet grinned suddenly. “She outmaneuvered you once on that score; surely you want to return the favor. I’ll wager ten guineas you can tame that temper of hers inside a fortnight.”
He scowled and made a very rude reply.
Bennet’s smile turned cocky. “Twenty guineas!”
“Sod off,” growled Tristan, wishing Bennet had merely wanted to go a few rounds in the boxing ring. This—thiswas much worse. Dance attendance on Miss Bennet? Waltz with her again? Subject himself to her tongue again? And all without kissing her again, because he had sworn that was never going to happen. No, indeed. Bennet must be the one cracked in the head, if he thought this was a decent or good idea. Bennet, of all people, knew how Tristan liked his women: widowed or married, adventurous and willing. Lady Bennet would have an apoplexy if she heard what her own son had proposed.
“Burke.” Bennet quit laughing and grew sober. “Damn it, Tris. My father isn’t here to look after her. I won’t be here. Joan can be troublesome, but she’s not vile, and in the end, she’s my sister; I don’t want her to come to any harm. There’s no one I trust as much as I trust you. I’ll be forever in your debt if you do this for me.”
Tris.He closed his eyes at the childhood nickname. Bennet had been his friend for almost twenty years, through hardship and misadventure, never once abandoning him like the other mates who’d come and gone. It must surely be considered a mark of that friendship that Bennet didn’t see this as setting a wolf to guard a sheep—not that Miss Bennet struck him as a defenseless lamb ... more like a surly old ewe, unafraid of anything. But Tristan was very much afraid his instincts toward her tended toward the wolfish nonetheless.
“Very well.” He drew another deep breath and opened his eyes. “I’m just to keep an eye out for her. If she orders me away, I will obey her wishes. Agreed?”
Bennet’s face eased. “Agreed.” He stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”
Hoping he hadn’t made an enormous mistake, Tristan clasped his hand. “Remember you begged me to do this.”
“Of course I will.” Bennet turned back to his packing. “I’ll ask her not to be too sharp with you.”
That wasn’t what I meant, Tristan thought. He gave a nod, and took himself off before he fell into any more traps.
Chapter 11
The next day Joan got a better idea of what life with Evangeline would be like.
Her aunt’s trunks arrived, along with her maid, Solly. Solly turned out to be a tall, statuesque African woman. She was missing two fingers on her left hand and spoke with a melodic accent that seemed to make her words flow like honey. She smiled and laughed with Evangeline in a familiar way that would have sent Janet into fits.
But Joan was most dazzled by her aunt’s wardrobe. Evangeline’s dress upon arrival had been no exception: everything she owned was bright, daring, and unconventional. And she invited Joan to examine all of it, promising they would call upon her dressmaker that very day.
“Be sure to let me know if you see something you particularly like,” Evangeline told her as Solly unpacked, laying out a veritable rainbow of finery. “Federico will decide what he wants to make for you—that’s how he is, vexing man—but if he refuses to listen, Solly can alter any of my gowns to fit you. We’re of a height.”
That was true, although Joan was fairer than her aunt. She touched a luxuriant vine embroidered across the bodice of a deep red gown. Most of Evangeline’s gowns were in colors and styles far too bold for an unmarried woman of Joan’s age. That didn’t stop her from wishing she could wear them, but if her mother heard she was wearing orange or scarlet around London ... “How did you discover Mr. Salvatore, Aunt Evangeline? I’ve never heard of a man modiste before.”
“He is Sir Richard’s tailor. We met in passing, and a few days later he sent me a sketch of a gown. He hadn’t much liked what I’d worn when we met, so he suggested a better design.” Evangeline laughed. “I thought it highly amusing, so I ordered the gown—and oh my, it was so much more flattering! Sir Richard agreed, and I’ve patronized Federico ever since.”
“Isn’t it ... immodest to discuss such things with a man?”
Her aunt made a face. “Immodest! He doesn’t require you to stand in your shift. He’s got a perfectly respectable and accomplished female assistant. And what is modest, anyway? Ten years ago girls your age wore sheer white dresses that would hardly be sufficient for a shift now, and more than one lady’s modesty was violated by a strong breeze. And you must know gentlemen talk about ladies’ garments. I daresay they think about them almost as much as ladies do.”
You should wear gold, echoed Lord Burke’s voice. You look like a half-opened umbrella.Joan flushed. “Yes, I suppose they do,” she muttered. “That doesn’t mean they know anything.”
“Federico does.” Evangeline rose. “Let me write to him now. And do ask Solly to show you anything you want to see.”
Solly proved herself a willing accomplice. She shook out and displayed morning dresses and evening gowns, pelisses and shawls. There was a wonderful variety to Evangeline’s clothing, quite unlike Joan’s own wardrobe.
