Bloody hell. The mere thought of making love to her brought a sweat to his brow and an aching hardness to his groin. He tried to tell himself the thought of making love to any woman would do the same, but each woman he tried to picture on that imaginary hearthrug somehow looked like Joan, with coffee-colored eyes glinting with gold, long chestnut hair spread around her, and the finest bosom he’d ever dreamed of, like a feast of berries and cream.
Still, he didn’t need to get married. He didn’t need a wife’s dowry. He could bed any number of willing women if he set his mind to it—not Joan, it was true, but there were other women with lovely bosoms and sparkling eyes. Just because he didn’t feel like searching out any of them meant nothing. Besides, he had done his duty by calling on her and taking her ballooning. In fact, he probably had done more than enough and didn’t need to see her again. After a few days he would forget all about removing the Fury’s unmentionables, let alone kissing her to reclaim his shilling.
The next night he purposely avoided the Martin soiree, where Lady Courtenay had mentioned they would be, and went to a gambling hell instead. He invited a buxom blonde to sit on his knee, and then promptly sent her away when she giggled at everything he said. He lost over two hundred pounds at faro. He drank too much and arrived home in a hack, barely able to walk but consumed with wondering if she had looked for him that night.
The next day he tried the boxing saloon, but not even a pounding in the ring distracted him. The day after that he went to the horse auctions, and ended up bidding on a sweet bay mare he didn’t need; it was a lady’s mount, taller than most mares but with a smooth gait and a gentle disposition. In the nick of time someone outbid him, and then he was furious at himself for being disappointed to have lost the horse. He tried the theater, but his preference for outrageous wit played him false, and he heard every saucy line as if Joan Bennet had murmured it in his ear. He spent hours and hours at his house, overseeing the builders, and found himself wondering far too often what she would think of the glass dome over the stairs or the new conveniences he’d installed.
That was the final straw. When he found himself curious to know her thoughts on plumbing, he gave up the pretense of disinterest. The next day he went to South Audley Street.
He still planned to be as dull as possible, reasoning that his usual behavior seemed to provoke her to respond in kind. Perhaps if he acted in the complete opposite manner, so would she. Then she would seem like any other respectable young lady, ordinary and uninteresting, no longer posing any sort of challenge. It would also help if she wore one of her more unflattering dresses, with enough lace to cover her entrancing decolletage. He was not used to being so consumed by thoughts of one woman, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
Lady Courtenay received him alone, to his disappointment. He bowed and took the seat she indicated, trying not to watch the door. Perhaps Joan was coiling up her shining hair, pinning it into that alluring arrangement that displayed her slender neck so well. Perhaps her garter had come untied, and she was pulling up her skirt, exposing her long legs to tie it...
“How kind of you to call again,” said his hostess. “I’ve wanted a chance to have a word with you, sir.”
Tristan guiltily jerked his gaze back to her. “Indeed, ma’am?”
She fixed a stern eye on him. “Ballooning?”
He brightened. “Did she tell you about it? I hope Miss Bennet enjoyed it as much as I did.”
Her brow arched. “How much did you enjoy it?”
“Enormously. I’ve been funding Mr. Green’s experiments with new burners. He strives to make it easier and safer, and he was accommodating enough to take us up for a view of the countryside.”
Lady Courtenay smiled faintly. “How very daring it sounds! I’m not certain I could watch the earth recede so far away from me, with only a thin balloon of silk to hold me up.”
He grinned. “Yes, Jo—Miss Bennet said much the same thing. But I never would have asked her to go up if I weren’t completely satisfied it was safe.”
“And you are persuaded it was safe?”
“Absolutely,” he confirmed.
“In all ways?” Something about the way she said “all” caught his attention. Tristan narrowed his eyes and tried to think what she really meant. At his silence, Lady Courtenay sat forward, her expression serious. “I presume you are aware of your own reputation.” He nodded warily. “Good. I have trusted that you are a gentleman, gossip notwithstanding, and will act accordingly, but I must tell you that inviting Joan to go ballooning will create the appearance of ...” She paused delicately. “Intentions. Take care not to create any expectations you don’t plan to fulfill.”
“Are you warning me off?” he asked. His muscles had tensed until he felt as stiff as a board.
Lady Courtenay looked surprised. “Not at all! Rather the contrary. Merely letting you know the scope of the challenge ahead of you.”
“What challenge?” he growled, but the door opened before she could reply, and Joan walked in.
The question faded from his mind, along with almost everything else. She wore a dress of brilliant turquoise that seemed deliberately wrapped around her curves, and without a shred of lace to hide anything. Tristan managed to bow, but couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“What a surprise to see you again, my lord,” she said.
He watched, fascinated, as she took the seat opposite him. The dress was trimmed with gold cord that snaked over her shoulders, coiled just below her bosom as if to highlight the lush bounty of her breasts, and then went around her waist. It put him in mind of a sacrificial virgin, bound and ready to be given to the god. “Surprise? How so, Miss Bennet?”
She smiled. “It seems I’ve lost my wager with my aunt.”
“Oh?” He tried to shake off the pagan images streaming through his mind. “I thought you disapproved of wagering.”
She widened her eyes innocently—as if he hadn’t learned by now to be on guard when she looked like that. “By chance, I found a stray shilling, and couldn’t resist risking it.”
He shouldn’t respond, he knew it, and yet ... ”Are you certain that was wise? One should never wager what one cannot afford to lose.”
She waved one hand in careless dismissal. “I doubt I’ll notice the loss.”
Oh Lord; he was being drawn in again. Tristan ignored the little voice in his head warning him to sit back and nod like a dullard. “Tsk, tsk. It’s never good to purposely embark on a losing streak.”
