Spence frowned and turned to scrutinize Joan. Her gown tonight was far too simple for the latest style, it was true, but it did show off her figure, especially her trim waist and spectacular bosom. If one forgot about current ladies’ fashion, Tristan thought she looked nothing short of alluring. It was as if she’d brought out one of the thin gowns of a decade ago, but woven of sunshine and cleaved to her curves instead of falling in a straight column. In this deceptively plain gown, anyone could see just how unlike a man she was.
“She’s still too tall,” muttered Spence.
He shrugged. “You’re too short.”
Spence’s mouth thinned. “So you’re declaring your intentions, are you, Burke? I assume Bennet will be pleased beyond endurance to hear that.”
“Spence, you’re an idiot,” said Tristan bluntly. “Always have been. Bennet might not worship his sister, but he’ll beat you bloody for insulting her. Go on,” he said as the other man stared at him. “Ten guineas, that you wouldn’t dare repeat to him half the insults you’ve made tonight.”
Spence’s gaze turned venomous. Bennet would thrash Spence within an inch of his life, and they both knew it. “I haven’t insulted—”
“Not pretty? Too tall?Mannish?” He snorted. “And we mustn’t forget the implication that she’s aiming to become a whore.”
His companion flushed brick red. “I never said that ...”
“I daresay there are some who wouldn’t appreciate the imprecation on Lady Courtenay’s name, either.” Tristan nodded at Sir Richard Campion, who had joined the ladies across the room. If there was anyone in London with a reputation that preceded him, it was Campion. While Bennet’s reputation came from his fists, however, the explorer was known for the brace of Swiss pistols he allegedly kept in his carriage or on his person at all times.
“Very well,” said Spence hastily. “Very well, indeed. I see how things lie.”
“Good.” Tristan flashed him an ominous smile. “Don’t forget it.”
“No,” said the other man. “I won’t.” He gave Tristan a long, measured look before he turned on his heel and walked away.
Tristan turned back to watching Joan. God above. She was beautiful tonight. Not just the gown, although it suited her perfectly, but because she glowed. She smiled and talked with her friends, and as he watched, she nodded and gave her hand to Campion. Tristan would have bet his last farthing that Campion’s interest lay solely with Lady Courtenay, but the sight of the man holding Joan’s hand and leading her into the dance set his teeth on edge because he was jealous. Insanely, desperately jealous of Campion, just for dancing with the woman he loved.
Loved.
Tristan held very still, turning the unexpected word over in his mind. He loved the impish look in her eyes when she had him in a twist. He loved the breathless joy in her face when they hovered above the city in a balloon. He loved that she wasn’t shocked by his deliberate provocations, and even answered them in kind. He loved the way she listened to him and refused to accept his self-effacing answers. Everyone had believed him a wild, uncaring rogue for so long. Only she pushed him to explain himself, and confronted him on his more foolish actions.
And most of all he loved that she wanted him to kiss her. He wanted to see her in his bathing room, naked and wet. He wanted to see her in his bed, and discover how unpredictable she could be. He wanted to feel her arms around him and know she cared for him—not for his money, not for his house, not for his title, just for him. And he thought, with a little persuasion, she just might do all those things...
He wasn’t sure if love was the proper term for his feelings. There hadn’t been much love in his life. He only knew he needed Joan, craved her company, and if she were to care for him, he would probably shout aloud in triumph, as if he’d won the biggest wager in his life.
That, more than anything else, brought his thoughts into clarity. Wagering, as he had once told her, made things more interesting—more important. Lady Courtenay had warned him to consider his intentions, and tonight he realized exactly what those were. He lingered a few moments, waiting for any sort of alarm or doubt, even apprehension of being trapped, to surface. Instead all he felt was the overpowering urge to walk across the room to Joan’s side. And so, with very little qualm, he gave in to it.
Joan had looked forward to the Brentwood ball for several days, but it didn’t begin as a roaring success.
She thought she looked rather well—almost lovely, in fact—thanks to Mr. Salvatore’s latest creation. Every time she and Evangeline had visited him, she had brought up the idea of a gold gown, and every time he’d brushed her query aside. But one day, to her surprise, he had sent her a swatch of fabric, a shimmering gold brocade with a pattern of leaves and flowers woven into it, saying he’d found it in a silk warehouse and was willing to make it up into a gown with some ivory satin if she still wanted it. Since Mr. Salvatore had never missed yet, in her opinion, Joan sent back an acceptance the same day. And when the gown arrived two days later, she’d almost gasped in joy. It was lovely; it made her hair look darker, her skin paler, and really needed no ornamentation at all. And best of all, the cut emphasized her waist, making her look slimmer.
Evangeline had lent her a pair of white satin slippers with an arched heel. Joan felt very daring wearing them, but she held her head high as she walked into the room. As her aunt had pointed out, Tristan was tall enough that she could wear raised heels and not tower over him, and he was the only man she really wanted to dance with. The kiss in his bathing room had branded itself on her mind so hotly that she’d given up pretending she didn’t want his attention. She wanted him to notice her, she wanted him to be stunned by how lovely she looked, and she wanted him to kiss her again. And if it led to one of those moments all spinsters dreamt of, when a gentleman got down on one knee and confessed his undying love and asked her to marry him, she was prepared to say yes.
She didn’t expect it, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t imagine it.
But the gown didn’t make quite the difference she thought it might. Abigail looked surprised, and Penelope’s eyebrows nearly went into her hairline.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as her aunt turned aside.
Abigail seemed mesmerized by the neckline of the gown. “It’s very low cut, don’t you think?”
Joan took a good look around the room. “No more than that gown, or that one.” In fact, some gowns seemed designed to display the wearer’s bosom. Her gown completely covered hers.
“Perhaps it appears lower than it really is because there’s no lace or trim at all. It looks as simple as a chemise.”
She resisted the desire to look down. “But it’s not. Don’t you like it?”
“It doesn’t look like anyone else’s dress,” said Penelope.
“Everyone else’s dresses don’t suit me very well.” Joan lifted a fold of her gleaming skirt. “If you didn’t know me, how would I look to you?”
