“Well—why—friendship,” she stammered.
“Friendship.” He flicked his fingers. “How ordinary. Where’s the verve in that?”
“Oh, yes; you must have verve in everything. But my mother—my mother blamed you for all the trouble.” Her eyes kindled with indignation. “She ought to have blamed Douglas! He invited you solely to see what trouble the pair of you could cause!”
Tristan’s mouth twisted in mingled amusement and bitterness. It was nice to hear, after almost twenty years, but it certainly didn’t change anything now—although he did enjoy the sight of Joan in a fury that wasn’t directed at him. “I don’t fault her. No one else wanted me around, either.”
Her lips parted, and her eyes filled with sorrow. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to make her pity him. He cleared his throat, but she spoke before he could. “Did you throw your aunt and cousins out of this house?”
“What?” He scowled. “No. My aunt informed me two months ago she was done with this house; it was too dark, too outdated, too small to host a proper Season. She moved out the day after she told me she was leaving. I never asked her to go, to say nothing of coercing her to go.”
“Then why did she ask to come back?”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “I see she spoke to you about it.” Somehow the thought that Joan had listened to Aunt Mary’s bile, and believed it, rankled even more than knowing Aunt Mary was telling lies about him.
“Actually it was your cousin Alice,” she replied, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “She said you had callously refused to let them return, even when your aunt begged.”
He opened his mouth to defend himself, and then closed it. “I’ve been a cross on her back for years,” he said. “Why stop now?”
Her eyes flashed. “I didn’t believe it! I only wondered why she would stop complete strangers in the millinery shop to tell them such things. Evangeline said—“
“Yes?” he prodded when she snapped her mouth closed.
She bit her lip. “Evangeline said Lady Burke is a prickly, mean-spirited woman, and that she’s never liked you—that she never liked your father, either.” Joan turned to take in the room once more while Tristan stared at her in amazement. “She wants to come back because the house is so much better, doesn’t she?” she murmured. “Because you’ve made it better than she ever could have. Although I expect the greatest improvement was her departure.”
For some reason a grin tugged at his mouth. “I concur.”
Joan was irrationally pleased by the incredulous smile hovering on his lips. He looked so startled, and so pleased, by her words, as if she’d shocked him right out of his normal brash mien. His eyes had the same expression as when he said he could never insult her face, and instead of being unsettled by it, she found it thrilling—because she thought it was the most honest glimpse of him she’d ever had.
And now she understood why he showed himself so rarely. It made her heart hurt to picture him as a lonely little boy, made to feel unwelcome in his own family, desperate for any sort of affection or loyalty or even just companionship. For years Douglas had spoken enviously of Tristan’s freedom to do as he wished—and Joan had blithely agreed—but now she understood the other side of that freedom. He had no parents to punish him, to scold him, to restrain him ... or to comfort him, to applaud him, to love him. Of course he’d wanted to go home with schoolmates on holiday, if his only choice was to live with a woman who openly despised him. And that was when he’d learned to say anything, and dare anything, to achieve what he wanted. Any consequences only came later.
“Enough of that topic,” she said, sick of talking about the hateful Burkes. “Will you show me the rest of the house?”
“Of course.” He offered his arm, and she took it, letting him lead the way into the rear parlor, a small room with diamond-cut mullioned windows and a vaulted ceiling. “The most modern of conveniences,” he said, sweeping open a narrow panel set in the side of the fireplace surround.
“What is it?” With a quizzical smile, she leaned down. There were some ropes hanging inside the void, but nothing else.
Tristan went down on one knee and began tugging one rope. “It’s a dumbwaiter,” he said. “For coal. It can be filled in the cellar below and then retrieved as needed, with no need for servants to carry heavy scuttles on the stairs.”
“How ingenious!” She bent lower, craning her neck to peer into the cavity in the wall as a metal bin finally appeared. “Did you think of it?”
He took his time replying. Joan glanced at him and realized her posture was indiscreet; his gaze had dropped to the neckline of her dress, which was right in front of his face, affording him a clear view down her bodice. All she had to do was stand up straight, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. There was no mocking, no teasing, no cynical amusement in his expression now. His eyes were dark with raw desire, and suddenly Joan knew exactly how Lady Constance felt when her lovers looked at her. Now she knew why Constance risked so much for her affairs; it made a woman feel reckless and bold andeagerto have a man’s attention fixed on her this way.
Slowly Tristan’s gaze traveled up her throat, as bold as a physical touch, and her skin seemed to grow taut. She remembered the feel of her own fingers caressing that same path. A soft sigh rasped between her lips at the thought of his fingers doing the same. Evangeline had vanished into another room, and only the distant sounds of hammering reminded her they were not utterly alone.
“Yes,” he murmured. “It was my idea.” Deliberately, openly, he looked back down at her bosom, which prickled and warmed under his intense regard. “I have many, many ideas.”
“A—a coal dumbwaiter is brilliant.” She had to grope for an intelligent thought.
“Do you really think so?” With one finger he traced the gold lacing that edged her neckline. “It’s not even my favorite idea.”
Joan knew she must be on the verge of fainting. It was the only explanation for why she felt unsteady on her feet, as if she might lose her balance at any moment. Everything seemed to recede except him, still on his knee before her. His finger brushed the skin of her shoulder, and she shivered. His green eyes were unguarded for once, and he raised his chin as if he meant to lean forward, just a little bit, and kiss her...
A loud crash echoed behind her. “Oh, bloody—beg pardon, m’lord.”
Joan jerked upright. Two workmen had come in from the dining room. One was stooping to pick up the hammer he’d dropped and the other was ducking his head uncomfortably.
Tristan got to his feet. “No trouble. We’ll go upstairs so you can work.” He offered her his arm again and they went back through the hall to the stairs. “If you’re impressed by a coal dumbwaiter, we may need smelling salts when you see the upstairs.”
