Bennet lunged out from under his refuge and across the bed to seize the pen and ink pot. Spattering ink everywhere, he dashed his signature across the bottom of the paper she thrust at him. “There! Will you leave me in peace now?”
She smiled in triumph and waved the paper in the air to dry the ink. “Of course! I told you I would go as soon as you gave your promise—and now Mother will see proof that I obtained it. Thank you, Douglas, it’s been a pleasure seeing you again.” She folded the paper and put it in her reticule. “Don’t forget: the ball is tomorrow evening. I should hate to have to come back to remind you of it.”
“Just go,” snarled Bennet, diving back beneath his pillows and blankets.
His sister just smiled again, wagging her head a little from side to side. Gloating. Tristan frowned. God save poor Bennet, growing up with her.
She got out of her chair and turned to leave, but paused when she saw him standing in the doorway. The pleased look faded from her face. “Pardon me, sir.”
“For badgering a poor man still in his bed? No, I will not,” said Tristan.
Her brown eyes narrowed. “You are blocking the door,” she said, in tones that questioned his mental competence.
He grunted. “You should have thought of that before invading the house.”
“Oh yes, I forgot you live here now—perhaps as the butler, questioning the guests?”
“You’re utterly charming,” he said.
“Is that why you don’t want me to leave?” she cooed, batting her eyelashes. “I confess, I never thought my brother would witness me beingassaultedandinsultedby a half-nakedman!” She raised her voice and gave each word a dramatic inflection worthy of Mrs. Siddons. “I vow, he’ll have to challenge you to a duel from theimproprietyof it!”
“Let her go,” bellowed Bennet from under his pillow. “For God’s sake, Burke, get her out of here!”
“Thank you, dear brother,” she told him, swatting the covers. “I shall see you in two nights’ time.”
This time Tristan stepped away from the doorway as she approached. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”
She gave him a sunny smile. “Isn’t it? Good-bye, Lord Burke.” She swept past him, leaving a wisp of fragrance in her wake. It was lovely—soft and warm without being insipid or sickly sweet. Tristan revised his opinion slightly: a woman who smelled good was a step prettier than someone who didn’t.
He transferred his gaze to Bennet, huddled in bed under a mound of blankets. He still felt mostly pity, for growing up with that virago in the house, but part of him also wondered why she clearly had more spirit and spine than her brother. Bennet, for all that he was a capital fellow, was easily led. Just witness how easily he signed that paper, indenturing himself to a night among the hungry lionesses of London’s marriage mart. Tristan would have torn up the paper and set it on fire as Miss Bennet watched, and he would have smiled at her while he did it. He could just imagine how she would respond to that...
“Burke.” Bennet’s voice sounded dazed, with an undercurrent of panic. “Burke, I signed that bloody paper.”
“Damned foolish thing to do,” Tristan agreed, dropping into the vacant chair by the bed.
“I can’t go to the Macmillan ball.”
“Malcolm ball,” Tristan corrected him.
Bennet sat up, throwing off his covers. “It’s the opening night of the new opera—there’s an entirely new ballet corps. From France.”
“So it is.”
“So you see I can’t possibly go to the bloody ball!” Bennet exclaimed. “The best girls will be taken by the end of the week.”
Tristan shrugged. “So don’t go to the ball.”
“No.” Bennet looked almost fearful. “You don’t understand. Now Joan’s got my promise in writing—if I don’t go to the ball, there will be severe consequences.”
“Your sister will come back?” Tristan was appalled. “Someone needs to rein her in—”
“No, it will be much worse.” Bennet shuddered. “It will be my mother. She’ll have me at tea. At balls. Cotillions. Musicales. Philosophical meetings.” He might as well have been describing the circles of hell, from his expression. Although, to Tristan’s ears, thosewerethe circles of hell.
“You should go to the ball, then.” Tristan got up and turned toward the door. This was not his problem, after all.
“God, no! I just need to get that paper back from Joan before my mother sees it.”
“You’d better run,” said Tristan dryly. The sound of the door closing had echoed up the stairs just a moment ago. “She’s already gone.”
