Page 45 of Courting the Country Miss

Richard glanced at Tristan to see if he would bid again, but Tristan made a wave of surrender.

Richard grinned, a regular occurrence since his marriage to Elizabeth. “Lord Bradbury, for the modest sum of five hundred pounds, you have won the supper dance with the incomparable Miss Wentworth.”

Laughter and applause rang out. A few more ladies stood, received bids, then Mrs. Hunter arose and lifted her chin.

Tristan gaped. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Wearing a scandalously low-cut gown of icy blue silk, Mrs. Hunter stood looking out over the crowd. Her eyes met his boldly, daring him to bid.

The bids flew then, and Tristan called out a few, so as not to hurt her feelings, but her bid reached well over three hundred pounds. Mr. Wynn came in as the highest bidder. She smiled and took his hand, avoiding Tristan’s gaze. Wynn grinned like the rake he was and in a scandalous move, kissed her hand, clearly hoping he’d won more favors than a dance and supper. She gave Wynn the same come-hither smile she’d used on Tristan a few weeks ago.

Tristan had probably ruined all his chances of ever taking the beautiful temptress as a lover. The thought should have bothered him—it had been too long since he’d had a woman in his arms. Instead, he felt as if he’d dodged a bullet.

The bidding ended and Tristan glanced about seeking Leticia. There. Next to Bradbury. She lit up all of London with her smile, no doubt delighted her evening had been such a successful venture. He couldn’t blame her for being happy; she’d created a heated bidding war. Surely her delight had nothing to do with being won by Lord Bradbury. Surely.

Shaking his head over his own reaction, Tristan laughed it off. If all progressed as it appeared to be, Leticia would be as disgustingly happily married to Lord Bradbury as Richard and Elizabeth. Then Tristan’s troubles would all be over. He’d be free to pursue whatever, or whomever, he wished. He’d be free.

Free and alone.

As the music began, Tristan moved off the dance floor while the winning bidders and their partners began the waltz. Leticia’s face glowed as she laughed at something Lord Bradbury said.

Tristan had the sudden urge to plant a fist in the center of Bradbury’s nose.

Kensington ambled over to Tristan. “A good bluff, Barrett. You took quite a chance, though.”

Shaking off his irritation, Tristan raised a brow at Kensington. “Chance?”

“If Bradbury hadn’t come through, you would’ve paid a pretty price for a dance with Miss Wentworth.”

Tristan shrugged. “Ah, well, good cause and all that rot.”

“You played the part of the outraged suitor.”

“All part of the act, old man.”

“You should take to the stage.”

Tristan eyed him but Kensington wore a mild expression.

“You played your part well, too,” Tristan said.

“As you said, a good cause. Since I didn’t win the hand of a fair maid for the supper dance, I shall have to make my donation in private.”

“Good of you.”

“She is pretty.”

Tristan followed his line of sight. Leticia waltzed by in the arms of Bradbury, blast the man.

Wait. Kensington admired Leticia now, too? “What about your being uninterested in marrying?”

Kensington’s mouth quirked. “Not saying anything about marrying—merely that she’s a pretty lady. She has the kind of quiet beauty that grows on a man, like a flower opening up from a bud into a vibrant blossom.”

Oh, so now Kensington waxed poetic? Perhaps Kensington’s nose ought to be rearranged as well.

Kensington seemed to come back to himself. “How is your sister? Selina, isn’t it?”

“She’s well.”

“Italy, right?”