Page 117 of Courting the Country Miss

“Do not let yourself to be persuaded by the practiced flirtations of a rake. Allow me the chance to show you how I ardently love you.”

Sorrowful but firm, she shook her head.

He arose and pulled her to a stand next to him. “Kiss me—once—and listen to your heart. If you feel nothing at all, then I will be a gentleman and step back.”

“I can’t do that.”

The imploring in his eyes smote her straight to her heart. “I know I am asking much, but for once, let your heart rule your head. My words are inadequate; allow me to show you.”

He lowered his head and kissed her, tender and soft. It was all for naught. His kiss awakened none of the love or passion that kissing Tristan had. None of the wholeness encompassed her the way it had when Tristan kissed her. Her heart remained unmoved except for a yearning for Tristan’s touch.

Lord Bradbury drew back, his eyes sad. With almost desperate entreating, he said, “I’m willing to wait until your feelings…”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I love Tristan and will only have him.”

Lord Bradbury released her hands and stepped back. He drew a long breath. “I hope he deserves you.” He sketched a proper, if somewhat hasty bow, and left.

She had hurt a good man. Remorse stung her eyes. She hugged herself and bit her lip.

Nothing changed the fact that she loved Tristan, and she trusted him. Nothing would ever make her question Tristan’s heart or devotion.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Shocked and numb, Tristan stood watching Leticia and Lord Bradbury kissing. Kissing!

He’d returned for his gloves, but instead found the unthinkable—Leticia betraying him. Leticia and Lord Bradbury stood, bodies pressed together, sharing a long, lingering kiss of lovers.

Tristan froze, alternating between rage and hurt. His first impulse hit like a blast of wind; to spin Bradbury around and punch him in the face. Then challenge him to a duel. But Leticia…

Leticia had made her choice. Tristan was a fool to believe he would be worthy of love—the kind of love promised by poets and songwriters and dreamers.

He stumbled backward and felt his way to the street. Somehow, he trudged through the fog around his vision and wound up in a hackney.

“Where to, guv’na?” sang out the cheerful jarvey.

Tristan rubbed a hand over his face and managed to croak out the school’s location. He fell against the seat and sank into his hands.

It was like watching his mother drive away all over again. A familiar, aching hollowness swallowed him—the reminder that if he were a better person and not such a blatant disappointment, she would have loved him enough to stay with him. He had wanted to run after Mama, beg her to stay, vow to be good enough. In the end, it was not enough. He would never be enough.

He barely registered the jarvey’s cheer as he paid the man and got out. The searing pain in his heart blinded him to all else but one horrifying truth; Leticia had kissed Lord Bradbury.

As he stood on the street, rain pattered him, waking him up to his surroundings. He rubbed his hand over his face to wipe off the rain dripping down his cheeks mingling with tears. The charity school stood in front of him. Darkened windows stared at him like the sightless gaze of a blind beggar hoping for a few meager scraps before he gave up and died. The front door hung crookedly and blew back and forth in a breeze. Broken. Abandoned. Forgotten.

Tristan let out his breath in disgust at his maudlin thoughts and pulled himself together. In case the assailant, should he be alive, was hale enough to put up a fight if he were reckless enough to have lingered, Tristan palmed his gun. He pushed the door open, squinting in the semi-darkness for any sign of threat. His ears strained for moans or breathing. All remained silent. He prowled the main floor and then went down to the ground level. Inside the kitchen, he found an overturned table, a broken chair, along with few drops of blood, but no signs of the intruder.

“Who’s there?” An unfamiliar male voice echoed from the front of the school.

Tristan tensed, but chided himself. The attacker would not announce himself. More likely, the constable had arrived.

“I’m Barrett!” Tristan called, retracing his steps. “I’m here to help.”

A lean young man wearing the distinctive scarlet waistcoat of a Bow Street Runner stood framed by the doorway. “Ah, Barrett. Mrs. Tallier said to expect you.”

“I didn’t realize this was Bow Street’s jurisdiction,” Tristan said.

“Your friend is a most insistent old—er, lady.” The Runner, who spoke with an accent that placed him as educated, if not of noble birth, grinned at him. A day’s growth sprouted on his chin and hair black as coal curled around a hatless head. The man didn’t look much older than Tristan but his world-weary eyes suggested he’d seen his share of hardship.

“Old lady?” Tristan asked.