“Then he must attend the Malcolm ball tomorrow night.” Mother smiled as if that settled the matter. “Send word to him this morning, before he makes other plans.”
Before he finds a solid excuse, Joan thought.
“Better yet, go tell him yourself, dear,” added Lady Bennet, spreading jam on her toast. “He cannot ignore his own father’s request.”
That finally got the baronet’s attention. “What, what? Of course I won’t. Douglas is a grown man. By all means send him a note about the ball, but I refuse to order him about.”
Mother’s face grew stern. “George,please.”
“Marion,no,” Papa replied in his final voice before turning his attention back to his newspaper. Mother pinched her lips together and said no more, but her face was a study in thwarted will. Joan knew that look too well. Mother would sit and ruminate on it like a kettle building up a head of steam, until eventually it grew too much to bear and she would explode—most likely at Joan, who, unlike her lucky brother, was still living at home and couldn’t escape their mother’s temper. There were two choices open to her, neither appealing, but she had faced this before and dutifully screwed her courage to the sticking point.
“I could call on Douglas,” she said, “and ask him if he plans to attend.”
“Joan, that is very sweet of you,” said Mother at once. She was still glaring at her husband in frustration, and he was still impervious to it. “I would go myself, but I’m sure he will be glad to see you instead.”
Because he can say no to me, Joan thought. “It’s no trouble at all. You’ve only just got over that cold, and I do adore dropping in on Douglas unannounced.”
Mother looked suddenly alarmed. “Why, dear?”
Joan shrugged. “Oh, I might find him still green and buffle-headed from the night before, and extract any number of promises from him.”
Mother closed her eyes briefly, then apparently shook off her qualms. She must have her heart set upon seeing Douglas wed to Felicity Drummond. “Then get him to promise he’ll attend tomorrow. Without getting foxed beforehand!”
Joan had started to rise from her seat, but now she sank back down. “Oh, that is too much. I was willing to wheedle attendance from him, but sobriety? Mother, you cannot be serious.”
Papa snorted with laughter, and even Mother smiled, though with annoyance. “Go on, you saucy girl. I declare, I always thought you were the biddable child!”
“But I am,” she protested with a grin. “I’m going to see Douglas, am I not? Douglas, who would otherwise continue drinking and gambling his way through London instead of dancing with Felicity Drummond at the Malcolm ball tomorrow night. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Don’t speak of such things, Joan,” said her mother automatically. “And tell him to be prompt!” The last was called after her as Joan went out the door, blowing a kiss to her father, who winked at her in return.
Papa, Joan reflected as she went upstairs, was the source of Douglas’s only hope; not only would Douglas someday inherit Papa’s title and fortune, he would grow into Papa’s easygoing ways as well. At least, everyone devoutly hoped so, since Douglas had shown no sign of their mother’s iron-willed determination. According to legend, Papa had been just as unrestrained a hell-raiser as Douglas before Mother caught him and tamed him. Now he was the most wonderful man Joan knew, and if her brother could somehow outgrow his outrageous, rakish habits and become like Papa, so much the better for everyone in the world.
But until then, Joan meant to take advantage of every opening her brother’s wild ways afforded her.
Since he was sure to be sleeping late under the effects of brandy or port, she dressed quickly. The earlier her call, the more desperate Douglas would be to get rid of her; the more desperate Douglas was to get rid of her, the sooner he would promise anything and everything she asked; and the sooner she secured his promise—perhaps in writing, which would be a nice touch—she would be free to do what she liked before her mother missed her. Her mother wouldn’t insist on a maid accompanying her just to her brother’s house, which meant this was an excellent chance at a little independence. Young ladies weren’t allowed nearly the same freedom as young men, and her opportunities to slip out for an hour alone were few and far between.
Although, Joan thought a little morosely as she walked the few blocks to Douglas’s house, she was hardly a young lady anymore. She was twenty-four. After four Seasons without a single marriage proposal, and three more Seasons of just being in London, she also wasn’t quite tied down. On the contrary, she had a surfeit of freedom, to her mother’s despair. For a moment Joan had a terrifying vision of her future, running her mother’s errands because, really, what else would she be doing, with no husband or children of her own? There was only so long one could justify new gowns and shoes before it became a joke. Spinsters didn’t need to look beautiful, and Joan didn’t look beautiful even with new shoes and gowns. If they hadn’t landed her a husband by now, how likely was it that they would get her one as she grew older and even less pretty?
Unsurprisingly, her mood had grown rather sour by the time she reached her brother’s town house. It was really unfair, she groused to herself as she stomped up to the door and rapped the knocker with a vengeance. Douglas was twenty-eight, and Mother had only just started to hint that he think of marrying. She had all but stopped mentioning Joan marrying, even though Joan was four years younger.Unfairhardly began to cover it. When the door didn’t open after a minute, she lifted the knocker and banged it several more times, hoping each clang struck her feckless brother directly in the forehead.
“What?”
Her mouth dropped open as the door suddenly flew open, and the question was shouted at her. The man holding the door was not a butler, or even a footman. He was barely clothed. Although, she thought with reviving interest, that wasn’t such a bad thing. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest before, and now here was one, right at eye level. It looked to be a fine specimen as well, lean and rippled with muscle—nothing soft or squashy about it—and with a thin line of dark hair running right down the middle into his trousers.
“What?” the man growled again. She tore her eyes off his nipples—goodness, she’d never thought about menhavingnipples before—and looked him in the face. “Are you trying to wake the dead?”
She considered it. “Perhaps. But if he is dead, I have to kick his body personally to be sure. My mother will insist.”
A variety of odd expressions flickered across his face. Shock, amusement, pain, and finally comprehension. “You’re looking for Bennet.”
“Indeed I am.” She knew who he was by now. It had been a while since they’d met, but she’d heard plenty of him in the meantime. Tristan, Lord Burke, was infamous. There was no bigger rake in all London, no more profligate gambler, no greater womanizer ... and no greatest object of interest to the gossipmongers. And now he was standing in her brother’s doorway, wearing only a pair of half-buttoned trousers that threatened to slide down his lean hips at any moment. How very intriguing. “Do ladies come by every day, asking to kick Douglas?”
He glanced behind him into the house. “Not every day, no.”
She smiled thinly. “No. I expect they come to do something else entirely.” And they weren’t ladies, either. If she happened to walk in on her brother in bed with a strumpet ... she would never,ever, let him hear the end of it.
Tristan Burke hadn’t invited her in, but she was tired of standing on the front step like a bill collector. When he leaned backward a little bit more, obviously trying to look up the stairs, she squeezed past him into the narrow hall.
