Page 101 of Courting the Country Miss

She folded her arms and looked down. Her condemnation knifed though him.

He fisted his hands. “You are so eager to give another chance to those who live in the streets, to champion change for them. It seems I don’t get that same opportunity.” He whirled around and rushed out, nearly trampling Peter outside.

“Y-your carriage is here, sir,” Peter stammered.

Tristan said, “Drive it home. I’ll walk.”

He headed down the street and walked and walked until he found himself in a secluded area of a park. Alone, he broke into a run and ran until his legs weakened and his lungs ached. Twilight fell, enshrouding the city. At least, the growing darkness would help conceal his state of dishevelment. His anger and pain faded to an empty hopelessness.

She would never forgive him. To her, he would always be a rake.

A drinking song serenaded him, guiding him to a tavern. Lights shone from the windows and laughter beckoned. What did he have to lose?

He opened the front door, seeking its familiar, mind-numbing diversion. Inside the tavern, the blend of tallow candles, smoke, unwashed bodies, and beer greeted Tristan like an old friend—familiar, and yet somehow foreign. Men gathered in groups, drinking, singing bawdy songs, and playing cards. Women of loose morals and an abundance of cleavage wove among them, some sitting on laps, offering samples of wares they were willing to sell.

In a nearby table, a man in a drunken stupor snored and drooled on the table while one of his companions relieved him of his purse. Others traded jests and far-fetched stories while laughing at their own wit. The general gaiety should have slid on him like a familiar coat. Instead, it shifted, unreal, strange, and distant, like revisiting a painting he’d viewed years before and finding that the truth didn’t quite match his memories—the colors brash instead of bright, the subjects hideous instead of handsome, their games tiresome instead of titillating, and their intent calculating instead of congenial.

Had he changed that much, or did he merely see the truth now that he viewed the scene with a mind undimmed by the fog of alcohol and a devil-may-care attitude? And worse, did Tristan appear this way to Richard all those years? His conscience shouted a resounding yes to all.

Disgusted by the revelation, Tristan returned to the quiet outside. A lamplighter worked his way down the street, chasing away the shadows with his light. Fog crept through the streets, sending a chill through Tristan. He reached to turn up his collar but his fingers encountered a tailcoat, not a greatcoat. He paused to get his bearings. White’s would be closer than his bachelor’s rooms, and he could find warmth and food there.

After a brief ride in a hackney, he strode into the club and paused. Gentlemen sat in small groups or alone, talking quietly, sipping port or brandy. Some sat alone reading the newspaper. Two wrote in the famous White’s Book where gentlemen logged their wagers both great and small. From the dining room came the aroma of savory meat, the clink of glasses, and the scrape of silverware. The scene felt wholesome and serene in comparison to the tavern. He found a seat and ordered a beefsteak.

“Dining alone tonight?” Captain Kensington appeared next to him. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Kensington. Another painful reminder of all the ways Tristan fell short. His appetite fled. Still, he gestured to the empty seat. “Please.”

Kensington sank into the chair and made small talk for a few minutes, all the while, Tristan trying to quell his irritation at facing a rival for Leticia’s affection. Tristan used to genuinely like the fellow, and they’d certainly enjoyed some good times, as well as a few scrapes, together. But now, with so much at stake…

Kensington had spent his last ten years serving King and Country, not as a wastrel. Perhaps he deserved Leticia. Still, Tristan had no intention of stepping aside. He was nowhere near that noble.

After a few minutes, Kensington fell silent, toying with the stem of his wineglass. “Tristan…” He let out his breath. “When you suggested that I court Leticia…”

Tristan stiffened. No. No, not yet. Not before Tristan had a chance to prove himself to Leticia.

Kensington continued, “I did it as a favor to you, for the most part. She is a delightful girl. But…”

Tristan raised a brow and held his breath.

“I do not wish to pursue a courtship with her.”

Tristan leaned forward.

“It’s not that I couldn’t be happy with her. I probably could be content, but I do not love her, and after knowing—” He broke off and then tried again. “It is inappropriate to continue to see her and raise her expectations. Since Lord Bradbury is also calling upon her, I think it best that I step aside.”

Tristan let out a sigh of relief. “I see.”

Kensington’s next words came out rushed. “I have not given her any reason to believe my heart is engaged, nor do I believe hers is, either, nor did I kiss her, or…anything.”

“I should hope not.” If Tristan learned Kensington had kissed Leticia, he might have to rearrange the man’s face.

But no, her kiss, while sweeter than anything he’d ever experienced, revealed without a doubt that she’d never had such an experience, despite her earlier taunt. That thought made him want to puff out his chest, as well as give her more experience in the art of kissing.

“I know you are old friends,” Kensington said, “Rather like a brother to her, I should think. Since the idea of my courting her was yours, I thought it best to tell you my intention, or lack thereof.”

Tristan tried to affect a calm demeanor. “Very sensible of you. I appreciate your candor.”

Kensington eyed him. “You aren’t angry with me?”