“He’s still a boor,” she said at once, “but perhaps ... well, we might have made peace.”
“And he’s going to bring you wicked stories.” Abigail’s eyes gleamed with mirth. “After he wagered money over whether you would enjoy it if he kissed you again. Oh, that I could strike such a peace with a handsome viscount!”
“You sound like Penelope.”
The other girl laughed. “Poor Pen! She would love the story.” She sobered. “Do you think Lord Everard could be Lord Burke?”
“No!”
Olivia Townsend turned around at Joan’s exclamation. Both girls immediately assumed cheery expressions and waved at her, but Abigail said, through her bright smile, “That was emphatic.”
Joan did not want to think of Lord Burke’s hands on Lady Constance. Unfortunately, the rest of the description fit him; he was big and strong and definitely untamed. Would he spank a woman, and ask her to beat him in return? It certainly seemed he had enjoyed it when Joan punched him—at his command, no less. Would he arrange a rendezvous with a woman for one night of pleasure without any thought of further attachment? He’d firmly said he wasn’t consorting with Lady Elliot, but the fact remained that she took off her pantalets for him the night of the Malcolm ball. The mere thought of Tristan Burke being Lord Everard completely soured Joan’s enjoyment of the scene. If he hadn’t consorted with Lady Constance yet, it was probably only a matter of time before he did...
She scowled. “Lord Everard is much more likely to be Lord Hammond. He looks like a bear and I don’t know how any woman could be intimate with him if she weren’t allowed to whip him. Let’s go to Madame Carter’s to see if she has any new bonnets.” She walked away without waiting for Abigail to reply, telling Mrs. Townsend they wanted to look at bonnets.
In the shop, she wandered away from her companions, who were drawn to the most fashionable bonnets with high crowns and plumes. As Joan knew all too well, those bonnets made her look twenty feet tall. She studied the plainer bonnets on the shelves, wishing she dared suggest they visit Mr. Salvatore’s shop. She’d been so pleased with the day dress he made for her, she’d ordered several more, but they weren’t ready yet. Papa could withhold her pin money for the next two years if he disapproved; Joan had finally found a dressmaker who knew how to flatter her, and she wanted more. If the one green day dress could improve Lord Burke’s opinion of her looks so greatly, what might happen in a ball gown from Mr. Salvatore? She hoped she would have at least one more flattering dress by the time Lord Burke decided to take her driving.
Of course, a pretty dress would be covered by her pelisse, while her bonnet would be right in front of his face. Joan tilted her head and stared at a simple straw bonnet with a flatter brim and lower crown. Perhaps that one, with a silk ribbon and just a small flower...
She looked around, but the shopkeeper was assisting Abigail and Mrs. Townsend. Joan knew Abigail tried to buy small gifts for Mrs. Townsend whenever they went shopping, but it always took her some time to persuade the widow to accept them. Joan thought it might be easier this time, as Mrs. Townsend was trying on a very beautiful bonnet that suited her heart-shaped face perfectly. Abigail was effusing over it, and the shopkeeper, anticipating a sale, was nodding and smiling in agreement.
The shop assistants were all attending to an older lady with her two daughters, who seemed to be quite demanding customers. The two young ladies were as alike as Joan had ever seen two people be, slim and petite with shining blonde curls and sky-blue eyes. Their dresses, lavishly trimmed in the latest fashion, were marvels of striped pink silk and blond lace. The pair of them looked like an Ackermann’s illustration come to life, and in spite of herself Joan couldn’t keep back a tiny sigh of longing. As much as she loved her new green gown, and even felt somewhat attractive in it, why couldn’t she have been born looking like one of those dainty angels? Then any bonnet in the room would have looked lovely on her.
One of the girls looked up and saw her watching. Joan nodded politely and turned back to the straw bonnet, but to her surprise the girl walked right up to her. “Miss Bennet, I believe,” she said. “You’re angling for Viscount Burke, aren’t you?”
Joan blinked at the blunt accusation. “I—what? Er, no, of course not.”
“You’re a fool,” the girl replied. Her voice was surprisingly strident for someone so delicate. “You’re a fool to want him, and you’d be a far sorrier fool if you got him.”
Oh dear. Had this girl set her cap for him? Joan had never been the focus of another girl’s envy over a gentleman’s attentions. Although it was somewhat flattering that someone thought her capable of being a rival—and over Lord Burke, no less—she didn’t know what to say. She glanced around in discomfort, but Abigail was still occupied with persuading Mrs. Townsend to accept the bonnet. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t recall making your acquaintance ...”
“I’m Alice Burke. Lord Burke is my cousin.” A wash of pink stained her cheeks, making her look quite fetching even though her eyes flashed ominously. “And I hate him.”
Ah yes, now she remembered. The Misses Burke were a few years younger than she was, and were considered two of the handsomest young ladies on the marriage mart this year. Rumor was that their mother had refused to allow them to marry anyone lower than an earl. They didn’t generally move in the same circles the Bennets preferred, and as they were beautiful, they never languished in the corners of ballrooms, like Joan and the Weston girls did. Joan knew who they were, but she hadn’t been formally introduced to them.
And nothing about this meeting was making her sorry she hadn’t become acquainted with either Miss Alice Burke or her sister, Kitty. “How do you do, Miss Burke?” she said brightly. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Surely Abigail would notice and come save her—then again, perhaps not. Abigail, unlike Penelope, was not one to thrust herself into an uncomfortable moment.
“I’m sure your mother would be horrified if she could see the way you’re throwing yourself at him,” went on Miss Burke, as though she hadn’t heard. “My mother can barely speak to him, even though she’s forced to.”
Joan wondered who on earth could possibly think she was throwing herself at Tristan Burke; if anything, she had tried to avoid him. Just her luck that people would form the exact opposite impression. “Oh? Who on earth would force her to speak to him?”
“Pray your father doesn’t die and leave you at the mercy of reprobates.” Miss Burke’s mouth trembled as if she would cry. “Mama’s had to face Lord Burke regularly for several years now, since my father died and that horrid man inherited everything.”
“How dreadful,” said Joan sympathetically. “I do pray for my father’s continued good health every night, thank you.” Though if Papa died, leaving Douglas as head of the family, Mother would keep Douglas even more firmly under her thumb. She wondered if Miss Burke spared any compassion for her cousin, who had lost both his parents at a far younger age. “It must be so dreadfully difficult for you, unable to go out in society for fear of meeting him.”
Her brow creased in revulsion. “As if we would be cowed by him. He’s the one who ought to avoid us! I’m sure no one wants him about anyway!”
“That would explain why he’s invited everywhere,” Joan murmured.
“He’s a horrible person,” Alice Burke repeated. “I only wanted to warn you.”
She blinked. “Horrible?” It was one thing to dislike a man’s manner, but to think him truly horrible? “How so, Miss Burke?”
“He forced us out of our home, and he won’t let us return. Mama begged him—pleaded with him—and he only laughed and said no. What sort of man does that, Miss Bennet?”
“I thought the roof collapsed on that house.” She frowned a little, racking her brain. She had twitted him about living in Douglas’s house, and he’d said he had no choice, that his house was a ruin. “He can’t even live there himself.”
The other girl sniffed in scorn. “It’s nearly repaired. My sister and I grew up there—all our memories of our dear papa are there—but he won’t let us return. I had always dreamed of having my wedding breakfast in the dining room there, but now it shall be utterly impossible. That’s the sort of man you’ve been dancing with, Miss Bennet.”
