How the Scoundrel Seduces (39 page)

She gave him an encouraging smile through the tears stinging her eyes.

“I know I have no right to you as a father. You’ve got a fine one right there already, a good man who knows what’s what. Not a bully of a lord, like Lord Rathmoor was. And I swear I won’t bother you none, or let any of your people know who you are to me. I just want the chance to see you from time to time, you know? But if you don’t want me to take the position his lordship has offered—”

“It’s fine.” She rose and offered him her hand. “You saved the life of my love. You will always have my thanks for that.”

Hucker took her hand in a hard grip, his eyes misting over. “And you will always have me. However much you’ll take of me.”

For a moment she glimpsed what Drina must have seen, a man who hadn’t yet been warped into a hard, cynical creature by the manipulations of his master. A man capable of choosing the right path, given another chance.

Then he drew his hand from hers and bobbed his head. “Guess I’d best go tell the viscountess about her husband’s death.”

As he clapped his hat on his head and headed for
the door, Tristan roused from his trance enough to call out, “Hucker!”

Hucker halted to look warily at him.

“Thank you for doing what was right. I will never forget it.”

Hucker nodded. Then he left.

Tristan faced Zoe, his eyes intent on her, then spoke to Papa and Dom. “Could the two of you give me a moment alone with Zoe?”

“Of course,” Dom said. As he passed Tristan, he paused. “You had no choice with George, you know. He would have killed you. Or her ladyship.”

“I know.”

Papa headed for the door with a glance at her. “Don’t be long.”

“We won’t, Papa.”

As Tristan approached her, a wave of dread struck her. Until now, his only words since George’s death had been to the magistrate, a clipped recitation of the events, leaving out only the parts about her connection to Hucker.

He looked terribly solemn as he took her hands in his. “It has occurred to me that you are finally free. I’m fairly certain that Hucker will never speak of your past. George can no longer hurt anyone, and Milosh has no reason to stir up trouble. If Keane proves true to his word, then you can marry whomever you please. Your secret is safe. So if you don’t wish to marry me—”

She could hardly breathe. “Do you not wish to marry
me
anymore?”

He looked stricken. “Oh, God, no. I mean, yes, of
course
I want to marry you.” His gaze was filled with such yearning that it reassured her. “But I will always be a bastard, a former thief, and a man who killed his brother. You deserve better.”

She clutched his hands to her chest. “I will always be a bastard and the natural daughter of a rather questionable character. I will always be living a lie, and if you marry me, so will you. So perhaps
you
are the one who deserves better.”

“There can be no one better than you,” he said with such intensity, it warmed her soul. “I love you, Zoe.”

“You . . . you do?”

A smile broke over his face. “How can I not? You’re the sun and the moon, the flame to my candle, the bread I need to live. I cannot survive without you.”

Her heart felt as if it might burst from her chest. With joy ripping through her, she cupped his head in her hands. “Then we
have
to marry. Because I wouldn’t want you to die for lack of me.”

With a low moan, he dragged her into his arms and kissed her deeply, sweetly, a promise of many kisses to come.

When he drew back, she whispered, “Do you realize that if Hucker and Drina had been allowed to marry, you and I would have grown up here together?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. Clearly we were meant to be together from the beginning.” A grin crossed his face. “Though it was probably just as well we
didn’t
grow up together. Because somehow, I don’t
think Hucker would have refrained from killing me if he’d found you in my bed.”

His eyes gleamed at her. “And he would have found you there, you know. Because I would have seduced you the moment I saw you turn into a fetching Gypsy princess of eighteen or so.”

“Always so sure of yourself,” she said archly. Taking his hand, she headed for the door. “But I suspect if I had grown up with a strapping fellow like you,
you
would not have been the one to do the seducing.”

When he burst into laughter, she drew him out the door and into her life. Because, as he’d said: one way or another, a princess always got to have whatever she wanted.

E
PILOGUE

Winborough, Yorkshire

May 1829

T
HE MUSICIANS PLAYED
beautifully, a smattering of people danced a Scotch reel most enthusiastically, and champagne flowed like a river from a miniature fountain on Winborough’s lawn. But the group near the hedges were too absorbed in their argument to pay heed to Winborough’s annual Whitsun festival, at which servants, tenants, and lords mingled in merry celebration.

Tristan was very decided in his opinion on the topic and fully expected his brother to agree. “Will you please tell my wife that elder is by far the most effective plant for hedges?”

Zoe, who looked most fetching in a dark blue evening gown, scowled at Dom and Tristan. “I don’t care what you think. I wish to try holly. I’ve heard good reports of its success.”

Lord Olivier jumped in. “But dear girl, every time we planted holly in the past, it didn’t take. It’s our cursed Yorkshire soil.”

“Nonsense,” Dom surprised Tristan by saying. “It’s the season you choose for transplanting the seedlings that affects how it grows. Everyone tries to do it in winter, but holly must be transplanted in summer.”

Zoe beamed her triumph. “Exactly! I have been trying to tell these two obstinate fellows that very thing, but they’re stuck in their ways and will not listen to me.”

“I would listen to you more often, princess,” Tristan said, “if you didn’t always raise the subject when you’re dressed in something with dash, like that gown, which shows your fine . . . er . . . figure to full advantage.”

Though she self-consciously adjusted her mother’s scarlet scarf, which she wore as a fichu, she still scowled at him. “Don’t try to distract me with compliments, sir. You just always agree with Papa.”

“Not always,” Tristan said. “I hate his preference for port over Madeira.”

But it was true that the two men agreed more often than not. It was a bit disconcerting. Every time Tristan chafed at the Major’s overbearing aristocratic manner, the man went and did something sensible that destroyed another of Tristan’s biases.

“I must admit, however, that I have deferred to him on the subject of hedge planting,” Tristan went on as Jeremy Keane approached them, “but only because your father showed me his records of his lack of success with it.”

“Good God,” Keane said, having overheard Tristan, “are you four discussing hedge planting
again
? I swear, you have to be the most boring aristocrats in England.” He glanced at Lord Olivier. “Excepting his lordship, who occasionally tells stories about the war.”

Dom laughed. “What would
you
have us talk about, Keane?”

“Art? Racing? Women?”

“I’m too old for talk of women,” Lord Olivier said.

Tristan slid his arm about his wife’s waist. “And I’m too married.”

“You most certainly are,” Zoe said with a sniff. “And don’t you forget it.”

Keane turned to Dom. “You’re a bachelor, sir. Don’t you have any salacious tales of opera dancers with which to entertain me?”

“Dom with an opera dancer?” Tristan chuckled. “That’s rich.”

Zoe got a gleam in her eye. “Jeremy, ask Dom to tell you about his former fiancée. The very pretty one who’s presently visiting her cousin, his brother’s widow, at the dower house on his estate. And who’s engaged to another man, yet hasn’t married him yet.”

“That’s not amusing, Zoe,” Dom growled.

“I suspect it wasn’t meant to be,” Tristan said. “Zoe’s been spending a bit too much time with our sister, and they’re both bent on marrying you off to Jane.”

“Run, Manton,” Keane drawled. “Run fast and far. There’s nothing more dangerous than female matchmakers. I’ve been dodging them for years.”

“Thank God,” Tristan said with a heated glance at his wife. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have this fetching armful to warm my bed.”

Keane laughed, her father cleared his throat, and Dom rolled his eyes, but Zoe stretched up to kiss him on the cheek—exactly the reaction he’d been looking for.

Aunt Flo approached, clucking her tongue. “What are all you young people standing about for?” She shooed them. “Go dance! For heaven’s sake, how are we to get the hoi polloi dancing if you do not?”

With a laugh, Zoe told Tristan, “Perhaps we
should
take advantage of the fact that they are now playing a waltz.”

“Absolutely.” Tristan squeezed her waist. “Dance with me, princess.”

“That’s all?” she teased. “Just a dance?”

“For now,” he murmured, delighted that she’d caught his reference to their very first dance.

As soon as he’d drawn her off, he added in an undertone, “You were hoping for more, were you?”

Her smile turned coy. “Absolutely. But later.”

He gave a mock sigh. “Oh, very well.” Though they hadn’t quite reached the other dancers, he took her in his arms and began to waltz there, so he and she could talk more freely.

It was a glorious night. The stars glittered their approval, and the moon hung high in the cloudless sky. It accentuated Tristan’s impression that he was living a dream.

Because, in truth, he was. His entire family was together again in England after all these years. Indeed, they were all here tonight—Lisette and Max taking their first few days away from the baby, and Dom enjoying a short respite from his responsibilities as viscount.

More important, Tristan finally had a real home, a place in the world. He had Zoe to tease him, teach him about estate management, warm his bed . . . to love him. And in some months he would have a child to dote on and worry about and love, too. What more could a man ask for?

“Did you notice Hucker dancing with your lady’s maid?” Tristan asked Zoe.

“I did, indeed.”

“Do you mind?”

“No. She’s a lovely woman, and he deserves a bit of happiness after all these years without Drina, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. I still have trouble thinking of him as anything other than George’s lackey. Even though he has proven to be a model gamekeeper.”

They always referred to Hucker and Drina by their names. For her, “Papa” and “Mama” would forever be the Keanes. But sometimes Tristan caught her in conversation with the gamekeeper and knew that they were speaking of the life that might have been.

Hucker had been true to his word. Not a breath of the truth about Zoe had risen anywhere in the county or beyond. It helped that none of George’s men had
really been able to make out the conversation that night.

It also helped that Dom now paid their salaries and had given them a generous raise, one he could ill afford. George had left the estate in dire straits, and Dom had his hands full trying to keep it going.

Especially since he was still involved with Manton’s Investigations. Victor had taken over most of it and was hiring replacements for Tristan and Dom, though the brothers still helped from time to time when needed. But Tristan found himself less interested in that by the day. His home and his work were here now, and he couldn’t be more content.

Fortunately, Keane was still adamant that he had no desire whatsoever to be Lord Olivier’s heir, so they had nothing to worry about on that score.

Which reminded him . . . “When the hell is Keane returning to America?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.” She glanced over to where Keane was deep in conversation with the duke, who’d gone from being an admirer of Keane’s art to being a friend and advisor. “Does it seem to you that perhaps he’s running from something at home?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. His exhibition ended a month ago.”

Zoe laughed. “He’s only at Winborough for a week this time, so why do you care if he stays in England longer? Does he annoy you that much?”

“He certainly did when he visited in April to paint Milosh. Those two did
not
get on. Milosh thought
Keane was a pompous oaf, and Keane found Milosh ‘too ordinary.’ I spent half my time playing mediator before Keane happened upon a more apt subject for his depressing paintings—some village ratcatcher with an interesting face and a bloody net.”

She laughed. “I had no idea! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tristan scowled. “You’d just learned you might be bearing my son. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Your daughter, you mean,” she said with a grin. “And it wouldn’t have upset me. Jeremy would get on anyone’s nerves after a while, and Uncle Milosh is cranky on the best of days.” She glanced about. “Speaking of him, is he here?”

“Somewhere.” The Whitsun celebration was traditionally held for everyone involved with the spring planting, even Romany workers. “He said they’re breaking camp in the morning. Now that the planting is done, they’re going north to attend one of the larger horse fairs.”