Joan sighed, half in longing, half in regret. “Yes.”
Her friend was quiet for a minute. “It appears he wants to kiss you again, if he wagered he could make you enjoy it better next time ...”
“He only said that to tease me.”
“Are you certain?”
Joan just snorted in reply. They had reached the carriage, where Mr. Weston was helping Penelope up the step.
Instead of stepping forward to climb into the carriage behind her sister, Abigail turned to Joan. “Not wanting to be caught up in a scandal is sensible,” she whispered. “But holding out hope that a gentleman’s feelings might grow ... there’s nothing foolish about that.”
“With this gentleman, hoping for anything is foolish,” Joan replied with a bittersweet sigh, and she prayed she didn’t forget it.
Chapter 15
Tristan dismounted outside the Bennet house in South Audley Street and took his time tying up his horse. With any luck, this would be a brief visit, but he was beginning to wish he’d brought his own liquid refreshment. How was his visit—for tea, no less—supposed to add to the Fury’s enjoyment of the Season? If he’d had to lay money one way or the other, he would have wagered she’d rather not see him again.
For the hundredth time, he wondered how he’d let himself agree to this. When Bennet returned to London, there would be a reckoning. Look after my sister, he’d said; bloody Christ, he might as well have asked Tristan to catch a wild boar and ride it to York. The boar would have appreciated his efforts just as much.
He straightened his jacket and rapped the door knocker, bracing himself. The sooner he went inside and drank some tea, the sooner he could leave. Whatever she said to him, no matter how provoking, he must not respond. He would ask after her health; after her mother’s health; if she would like him to shoot her brother for subjecting them both to this farce; and then take his leave. The thought cheered him. A few polite minutes of meaningless conversation, and he would be done.
The butler admitted him and soon showed him into the drawing room. But only Lady Courtenay was waiting for him, smiling a little too broadly.
“Lord Burke! How lovely to see you. Thank you so much for calling.”
Tristan bowed, resisting the urge to peer out into the corridor behind him. If he’d had the abominably bad luck to call when Miss Bennet was out, he damned sure wasn’t staying. “The pleasure is mine, madam. I was most gratified to be welcome.”
“Oh, yes,” she said in amusement. “Won’t you sit down? My niece will return in a moment. We were just about to enjoy some tea and sandwiches. Would you care to join us?”
“That’s very kind, thank you.” He took the seat opposite her as the countess rang for a maid and instructed the girl to have more sandwiches and some cakes sent up with tea.
“Now.” Lady Courtenay smiled at him. “How is Douglas? I haven’t seen him in an age, and my niece tells me you are staying with him at the moment.”
“He’s gone to Norfolk, but he was in excellent health and spirits when he left, ma’am.”
“Very good,” she said warmly. “I remember him as such a rapscallion, always in pursuit of adventure and willing to break more than a few rules ... oh, but I mustn’t say so to you—he will never forgive me! I beg you to overlook the reminiscence of a fond aunt.”
“Of course,” Tristan murmured, feeling an unwanted bolt of envy for Bennet. If only his aunt had ever thought so well of him and his youthful escapades. Lady Courtenay showed no approbation, and even a little admiration.
“I must confess, he was a boy after my own heart,” his hostess went on. “I knew it the moment he skidded down the stairs of this very house with an atlas for a sled. Such an uproar it caused! His parents were hosting a fine dinner, and he upset it all by flying through the hall, shouting for all he was worth.”
“I defy any boy not to shout whilst sledding down a staircase,” said Tristan with a slight grin. “I might have done that myself a time or two.” He’d done it exactly three times, before getting caught and thrashed so hard, he almost squirmed at the memory.
Lady Courtenay leaned forward and lowered her voice, still smiling broadly. “Of course! I did it myself as a girl, once my brother showed me how. We were clever enough to wait until our parents were away, however.”
“Very wise,” he agreed solemnly.
The door opened, and a woman came in. “Lord Burke,” she said a little breathlessly, dropping a curtsy. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Tristan stared. He’d shot to his feet at the sound of the latch, but if Lady Courtenay hadn’t said her niece would be returning soon, he wouldn’t have believed it was truly Miss Bennet. She didn’t have a single flounce or shred of lace on her. In fact, she seemed shorn of almost all trimmings. Her dress was a muted green—damn, he’d been right that deep colors would suit her—and decorated only with a wide satin ribbon around the neckline. Instead of ruffles and puffs, her skirt was embroidered, and it swayed softly from side to side as she moved. And her hair ... all the ringlets were gone. Her chestnut locks were pulled back into a heavy-looking mass of soft curls that seemed to beg for a man’s hands to run through it.
“You changed your hair,” he blurted out.
She blinked. “Yes. A pin came loose and I had to repair it.”
For some awful reason, all Tristan could think about was pulling out that pin and all its brethren, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. He cleared his throat as she crossed the room and took a seat on the sofa. “Right. Well done.”
“We were speaking of Douglas,” said Lady Courtenay. “And what a scamp he was as a boy.”
