She waited for him to be half-undressed before she told him, in case, she thought mordantly, it was the last time she was able to feast her eyes on that view of his stunning torso. When he twisted slightly, there was a slight gap between his taut waist and his trousers, and it made her head go light. She always wanted to slip her hand into it. She could now, anytime she pleased. One of the millions of benefits of being a wife.
And that’s when she told him about what had just happened and what she and Angelique planned to do.
He stood, shirt dangling in one hand, and listened. His jaw dropped. “Bloody hell, Delilah. It’sValkirk.How can you even... I just... he must have been sorely provoked.”
“He was indeed a little provoked.”
“There you have it.”
“Even so.”
That “even so” contained “she’s just an opera singer on the rise and he’s a bloody national treasure and should know better.”
And Tristan knew it. He mulled this. “That man won a battle when he was wounded and had only two hundred men and the French had...”
“I know.”
“And he’s never asked for anything in return, and yet he...”
He trailed off at her limpidly sympathetic gaze. Of course. Everyone knew this about the duke.
He sighed heavily and dropped his chin to his chest. “Damnation. I think you and Angelique are right. I think he ought to apologize to Miss Wylde.”
“I’m sorry to have to scold a hero, Tristan.” Her husband was a hero to many, too. She knew the men he truly admired could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and he needed those.
He sat down on the edge of their bed. “Speaking as someone who transgressed here at The Grand Palace on the Thames and nearly paid the ultimateprice . . . I am just so grateful I never have to leave. Perhaps he’ll feel the same way.”
“Ah, but you haveincentivesto behave,” she murmured, looping her arms around his neck.
He kissed her, and he spent the next two hours thoroughly appreciating those incentives.
Valkirk had regretted it at once. He’d felt as though he’d stood up in the parlor, pulled out a pistol, and gratuitously shot a sparrow from the sky.
For the remainder of the evening, the room had been silent, dense with reproach and wondering amazement. Some of that wondering amazement was his own, directed at himself. He knew what he’d done was beyond the pale. He’d won a certain quiet respite. And no one could truly argue he hadn’t been provoked.
But it didn’t justify what he’d done.
Miss Wylde was never to know it, but in so losing to him she had, in fact, done something that very few people would in a lifetime: bested him at something. Even if it was the stupidest contest of wills ever conducted.
Because it wasn’t so much the ridiculously competent little song that had somehow sprung from her brain while everyone sat there, misty-eyed in the throes of a ballad. He begrudgingly admitted that this was true talent.
It was the cumulative effects of every night walking into that pleasant, familial room and being told he was cold.
Nevertheless, he knew he was going to need to apologize.
The following morning, as he crossed the foyer intent on a brisk walk, he was stopped by Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand, who were standing together in the reception room.
“We’d like a brief word, if you would, Your Grace. If you would be so kind as to join us in here?”
He’d no compelling reason to say no.
“Please do have a seat,” Mrs. Durand said pleasantly.
Warily, he lowered himself to the settee opposite them.
There was a little silence. Then Mrs. Hardy took a breath. “As you’re a man who appreciates the value of time, we’ll come right to the point. We feel you have been...”
She turned to Mrs. Durand.
