“What have you just done?” she whispered.
Tristan looked entirely too calm. That was intolerable. Her diplomatic machinery fired at once and found nothing to attachto. No precedent. No clause. No treaty. No useful category for a naval captain inventing matrimony under chandeliers. “One does not create relationships before the king of Naples. Do you realize that by making that statement, you all but married me in truth? You have just committed a—”
“A diplomatic faux pas,” he said.
“Faux pas is the understatement of the century. A faux pas is wearing the wrong glove to a reception. You told a fiction, a fairy tale, and you are not the Brothers Grimm, so you had no right.”
Fairy tales didn’t happen to women like her. And to be fair, the Brothers Grimm’s bland princes could not hold a candle to the green-eyed pirate duke standing before her with a satisfied expression, as if he had not just set half the court on fire.
“It would only be a fiction if I were lying,” he said. “And I never lie.”
“Why is it so hot in here?” she demanded, fanning herself too rapidly. “Naples has contrived to roast me.”
“The curtain is heavy.”
“The curtain is not the problem.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
“Do not be pleased. You are the problem.”
His smile deepened, and something inside her chest gave a dangerous, traitorous ache.
She looked away at once. Still, his scent pursued her. That was unfair. A man should not smell of salt and clean linen in a palace. He should smell of politics, preferably stale politics. He stood too close, tall and impossible, his shoulder blocking the edge of the curtain, his thumb caressing the inside of her wrist where her pulse was betraying state secrets.
She tugged.
He did not release her.
“Tristan.”
“I know you meant to marry an Italian,” he said.
Her eyes flew back to his.
“I know you wanted warmth. Jealousy. Noise. A man who speaks with his hands and makes public scenes in courtyards.”
“You have just made a public scene before a king. I hardly think you can claim deficiency in that area.”
“I can improve.” He tried to take both her hands.
She batted him away, or attempted to. Unfortunately, he caught one, then the other, and held them with such infuriating gentleness that she could not decide whether to slap him or weep upon his coat.
“I can speak loudly,” he offered.
“Do not.”
“I can use my hands more.”
“You have used them quite enough.”
“And if that is not sufficient, you may call me Tristano.” His mouth tilted again. “Or Tristero, if that pleases you.”
A laugh rose in her chest and broke before becoming sound.
“And,” he said, lower now, something fierce threading through the warmth, “I will be jealous of you.”
Her pulse leaped so hard it hurt.
