The baronet surveyed the room. “Joan tells me you’ve filled your Hanover Square house with innovation. Will you show me?”
For the second time, Tristan blinked in surprise. “You want to see the house?”
“Of course.” Sir George got to his feet. “I knew we would end up here, you know. As soon as my daughter grew eloquent about water closets and coal dumbwaiters, I knew she’d given you her approval, and it was only a matter of time before we had this talk.” He cocked his head. “And, I understand, you even consulted her about the paint and the carpets.”
“She has excellent taste,” he muttered.
“Like her mother before her.” The baronet pulled out his watch and checked it, then tucked it back into his waistcoat. “Let’s go, young man. I expect this is the last peaceful morning either of us will have until after the wedding.”
Chapter 27
The wedding day began promisingly—but perhaps it only seemed that way to Joan because it meant an end to the week of horror.
A shocking number of people, it turned out, had noticed Joan’s disappearance with Tristan at the Brentwood ball. There was little doubt that only Lady Bennet’s personal friendships with the more avid gossipmongers had prevented a storm of scandal. The wedding announcement that appeared in the newspapers the day after Papa called on Tristan also probably helped. And although Mother had decided the wedding would be held soon, she refused to let it appear hasty or ramshackle. To that end, Joan was kept busy from morning until night, writing invitations, planning the menu, ordering items for her trousseau, and receiving all the well-wishers who appeared in the drawing room, ostensibly to offer congratulations but really, in Joan’s opinion, prying for scandalous details.
Douglas arrived back in London the day before the wedding. Joan braced herself, but her brother must have got over any astonishment on the journey back to town. He murmured his congratulations and kissed her cheek, and didn’t say a word about how she came to marry his friend. She wondered who had warned him away from the subject, her father or Tristan himself.
Tristan was permitted to call once. Lady Bennet sat beside Joan on the sofa, a stern gaze fixed on him, and only withdrew for a few minutes to allow him the pretense of proposing. Tristan eyed the door, left partially open behind her, and cleared his throat.
“I didn’t want things to happen this way.”
She had longed to talk to him, and now didn’t know quite what to say. She imagined her mother overhearing every word. “How did you want them to happen?”
His green eyes were no longer bright and mischievous, but somber. “I had hoped to speak to you before everything was settled.”
“Well, now you have your chance,” she said with a faltering smile.
“Right.” He glanced at the door again. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
As a declaration, it was a bit wanting. She had hoped for more, or at least for the usual easiness between them. Was he pleased about this? Did he want to marry her, scandal notwithstanding? They both already knew the answer to his question. “Yes,” she murmured, trying not to be let down.
For a moment his usual grin flashed at her. “Good,” he whispered. “Then I can do this.” He caught her wrist and pulled her forward to kiss her. It was heart-stopping and urgent and over in a moment. Joan fell back on the sofa, gasping for air when he released her. “The rest will have to wait for later,” he added in the same sensual murmur.
“I trust you’ve made your proposal,” said Lady Bennet, almost at the same moment. She stood in the open door, and Joan desperately hoped her mother hadn’t seen any part of the kiss.
Tristan bowed. “Yes, ma’am, and happily Miss Bennet has accepted. Shall we fix a date?”
“Friday next,” she replied.
“Very good. Until then.” With one more bow, he was gone, and Joan was left to wonder whether the scorching kiss or the dispassionate proposal had reflected his true feelings.
But finally the day arrived. Abigail Weston arrived before Joan had even risen from her bed. Abigail would be standing up with her, and was permitted to help her get dressed.
“Are you happy?” was the first question that burst from Abigail’s lips. They hadn’t had a moment since the Brentwood ball to speak without witnesses.
“Of course. I’m getting married, aren’t I?” She got out of bed and put on her wrapper. Her dress—the beautiful gold silk dress that had started all the trouble—lay over a chair, pressed and ready for the wedding. She hoped today ended on a happier note than the last time she’d worn it.
“I know.” Abigail closed the door. “And so I brought you something. Pen and I ransacked the house, and even got Olivia to help us. We felt you needed something to inspire you, now that you’ll be able to do more than just read about lovemaking.” She opened her prayer book and pulled out six issues of50 Ways to Sin. “None of them are new, but we thought you should have them,” she whispered.
Joan barely had time to shove them into her own prayer book before Polly came in with the warm water for her to wash. “Thank you,” she mouthed at her friend, who nodded gravely, as though Joan was embarking on some dark and dangerous mission, fraught with peril, from which she might not return alive.
To be honest, at moments that seemed an apt description. Did Tristan love her? He wanted to kiss her and make love to her, and he was willing to marry her, but did he feel anything more tender? If only Mother had allowed them more time together. Joan had great hopes for her marriage, but she also had some fear.
In remarkably short order, she was bathed and dressed, her hair arranged and a veil of fine lace arranged over it. She stared at herself in the mirror as Abigail fastened a string of pearls around her neck and Polly fluffed the folds of her skirt. Papa knocked on the door just as they finished.
“Are you ready?” His eyes softened as she nodded. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, kissing her cheek as Abigail and Polly slipped from the room. “Burke had better appreciate his good fortune.”
“Do you think he does, Papa?”
