Love and Other Scandals (12 page)

He really didn’t understand that. She was no beauty, although he liked her better as she was today, with her hair smooth and soft, even if she still wore a dress that hurt his eyes. She had a nice mouth, he reluctantly allowed; very lovely, soft and pink, and dangerously tempting. And the way her eyes could sparkle was rather attractive—or would be, if he didn’t know they sparkled in anticipation of spiting him. Still, he had left her wide-eyed and speechless twice now, and that was a triumph no man could overlook.

Just as he reached the hall, where a footman darted for his hat and gloves at his approach, another woman appeared. For a moment, he thought it was the Fury herself, somehow springing up for one last jab, but almost immediately he realized it was a much older woman. She had the same figure as the Fury, but wore a gown that displayed it to advantage. Her dark hair, threaded with silver, was fixed in a simple way that included not a single ringlet. And her eyes—in fact, her whole face—brightened with interest when she saw him.

This must be the aunt sent to act as chaperone, the one Bennet had said needed watching as much as his sister did. Tristan stopped and bowed. “I presume I have the honor of addressing Lady Courtenay.”

“You do,” she replied, not bothering to hide her amusement. “And you . . . ?”

“Viscount Burke, madam, at your service.”

Her smile grew. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. You must have called upon my niece.”

For some reason Tristan felt his neck grow warm. He tried to quell it; he’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t touched Miss Bennet, let alone ravished her. He’d only come because Bennet tricked him into promising to do it. “At her brother’s request. He bade me inquire after her health and contentment while he is out of town.”

“Contentment!” Her eyebrows went up a fraction. “How very good of you. And did you find her contented?”

He cleared his throat, wondering what the Fury would say. She’d seemed well enough when he arrived. “Tolerably well, ma’am.”

“Excellent.” Lady Courtenay was laughing at him, he could tell. He fought back the urge to scowl. “I hope she will remain so. I’ve taken her under my wing in her parents’ absence, as my nephew might have told you. I plan to see that she goes out often, to keep her mind diverted from worry.” She paused. “Perhaps you will come to tea.”

Damn it. “Perhaps,” he said, already crafting an excuse. He hated tea.

“Lovely.” She smiled again. “I do so look forward to becoming acquainted with my niece’s and nephew’s companions. You would be very welcome the day after tomorrow.”

His mind blanked. “Er.” He coughed. “What?”

“The day after tomorrow,” she repeated. “If you intend to squire my niece about, you must come to tea first. Good day, Lord Burke; until then.”

“But . . .” His voice trailed off as she bowed her head, still smiling, only now that expression looked wily and satisfied. He cleared his throat yet again, knowing when he was beaten. “Indeed. Good day, Lady Courtenay.”

“Good day, Lord Burke.”

Tristan beat a hasty retreat. He couldn’t leave the house fast enough. God help him; now there were two Furies to contend with.

Chapter 12

J
oan hardly knew what to think when Tristan Burke left after threatening to kiss her again. “Threaten” was definitely the proper word for it. The wretched man seemed to know how much the first kiss had unnerved her. What was wrong with him, wanting to kiss a woman just to fluster her? And what was wrong with her, that she allowed it to fluster her? It was because he was a rake, she decided, who probably thought he could kiss any woman in the world and she would swoon at his feet. It meant nothing to him, and should mean nothing to her—except, she consoled herself, that it was a valuable lesson from a reputed master. When she was finally kissed by a respectable man with honorable intentions, she would be glad of a little knowledge. Yes, that was the proper way to view it. It had nothing to do with her, or with him; it was about planning for future, more romantic, encounters with true gentlemen.

And Douglas, setting that man on her! He had to know his friend’s reputation. Douglas, in fact, had probably been present for most of its wicked formation. She didn’t know what her brother had been thinking. He knew Mother didn’t approve of Lord Burke.

Of course, Mother wasn’t here. And it didn’t seem as though Evangeline would protest Joan spending time with him—or with any other gentleman, not that any others had come to announce their intention of escorting her about town. She wondered why he had agreed to it, and then she said a small prayer that his attentions, whatever they might be, wouldn’t cause her any trouble.

She gave herself a shake and strode back toward the dressing room where she’d been happily sampling Evangeline’s bonnet collection before he arrived, only to meet her aunt coming up the stairs.

“Shall we go see Federico now?” Evangeline looked rather pleased about something. “I couldn’t wait—I sent off a note warning him we may call on him this very afternoon. If we order some gowns today, they should be ready within a week. I’ve a feeling we shall want to go out more.”

“Oh, yes.” Quickly Joan banished the infuriating Lord Burke from her thoughts. She was desperately curious to meet the creator of Evangeline’s wardrobe. Today her aunt wore a dress whose bodice looked more like a man’s shirt than a woman’s dress, with a collar and loose sleeves. It was nothing like the dress Joan wore, but it looked comfortable, and even more important, it didn’t make her look like an umbrella. “Let me get my bonnet.”

“You mustn’t be put off by Federico’s manner,” said Evangeline when they were in the carriage. “He routinely runs roughshod over my every suggestion, but in the end his judgment is impeccable.”

“Of course.” Evangeline had been fortunate enough to find someone who knew how to flatter her figure. Joan . . . well, Joan knew her mother meant well, just as she also knew that all of Mother’s carefully chosen designs never quite looked as elegant on her as they did in the illustrations. She was tired of trying to conceal her figure with tight stays. She had given up hope of looking elegant in the latest fashions. She was tired of sitting for an hour while Janet curled her hair into a style that only made her look taller and plumper. If Mr. Salvatore could produce a gown,
any
gown, that made her look attractive, Joan would wear it even if it caused a minor scandal. And that would teach Lord Boor to call her an umbrella, wouldn’t it?

“Does Viscount Burke call upon you frequently?”

“Er.” Joan gave a guilty start at the unexpected question. “You saw him?”

“Yes.” Evangeline just waited, but her keen gaze brought a blush to Joan’s cheeks.

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, you see, he’s a friend of Douglas’s, and . . . and . . . and he came to express his good wishes for Mother’s recovery.” For some reason, a blithely innocent story was not coming to mind. She kept hearing him saying he could kiss her and make her like it—as if he hadn’t already done so.

“How kind of him. He gets on well with your mother, then?”

Joan fiddled with her glove, thinking frantically. If she were truthful, Evangeline would probably send Lord Burke on his way without further ado. No doubt Papa had extracted a vow of good behavior from Evangeline as well. Her promise to her father most likely required that she admit to her aunt how much Mother disliked and disapproved of Lord Burke.

But for reasons she didn’t like to examine, she didn’t want to do that.

“I don’t think he’s terribly well acquainted with Mother,” she said, hoping lightning wouldn’t strike her for that understatement. “But he’s been friends with Douglas for ages, and no doubt he called merely to be polite.”

“He told me Douglas asked him to look out for you. As a surrogate brother.”

Joan scowled. So much for her attempts to cast it in an ordinary, uninteresting light. “Yes. He said something of that sort to me, too.”

For a moment there was silence. “He looks remarkably like his father,” Evangeline remarked. “Such a tragedy. Colin Burke was one of a kind.”

She darted a glance at her aunt, but Evangeline had tilted her head to peer out the window at the sky. “Oh?”

“Oh, my, yes.” Something like admiration lit Evangeline’s face as she smiled in remembrance. “He was the sort of young man your father was forbidden to associate with, for fear it would reinforce every wicked impulse your father had. Well, no doubt my father was right! You know your papa was once as big a rascal as Douglas, don’t you? But Colin Burke . . . ah, my. He had the devil’s own charm, the handsomest face in England, and not a single ounce of fear. All the young ladies were fascinated by him—so dangerous, so attractive, so charismatic! But he was no fool, either. He wasn’t the heir, so he married the daughter of a naval man who’d made a fortune on the sea.” Evangeline’s smile faded. “Such a tragedy,” she murmured again.

Joan nibbled her lip. She didn’t actually know what had happened to Lord Burke’s parents, but it sounded very sad. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely his fault he’d grown up with no manners. “Tragedy?”

“Yes.” Her aunt’s mouth twisted sadly. “Both he and his bride died before the age of twenty-five. He drowned, I believe, and she . . . I can’t remember. A broken heart, perhaps. I certainly would have, if I’d been his wife.”

Joan did some silent arithmetic. “Lord Burke must have been a very small boy when they died.”

“He’s the same age as Douglas? Yes, he must have been very young. I remember hearing about Colin Burke’s death the summer I was married, and that was the year before you were born. Ah—here we are.” The carriage was coming to a halt.

Evangeline said no more about Lord Burke, and Joan didn’t ask more as she followed her aunt. He must not even remember his parents. As much as she chafed under her mother’s strictures at times, Joan couldn’t imagine life without her parents. If they’d died when she was a baby, she might have been raised by—ugh—Lord and Lady Doncaster. Not even having her cousin Mariah as a sister would have made up for that. Somehow it seemed unlikely her parents would have left her and Douglas to Evangeline’s care. She wondered who had raised Lord Burke, and why, in Douglas’s tales of him, he’d always seemed to be at some schoolmate’s home for school holidays.

It wasn’t a reason to like him, of course, but perhaps it was a reason not to think so harshly of him.

Chapter 13

T
ristan was so preoccupied by his provoking encounter with Miss Bennet that he walked into Bennet’s house without suspecting more trouble.

Murdoch met him in the hall, which was unusual enough. Even worse, the servant was worried. “There’s a lady waiting for you, sir,” he whispered.

For a brief, blazing moment, Tristan thought Miss Bennet had somehow darted across town to continue their confrontation. She’d clearly had more to say about his offered escort, and threatened kisses, than he had allowed her to express, and in that brief, blazing moment, he felt a thrill of anticipation.

But then reason asserted itself; of course she couldn’t have made it here before he did. He’d left her house, got on his horse, and ridden straight back here. And she wouldn’t come to this house in any event. The one time she had come, it had been because her brother was in residence, and Tristan’s presence had been completely unknown to her.

He looked at Murdoch warily. “Who is it?” There were very few women who
would
come to see him here, and none of them were women he wished to see.

“Lady Burke,” was the reply.

And that was the worst possible woman, in Tristan’s opinion. He wondered if he could just turn around and leave the house again, but before he could act on that scheme, his aunt ruined it by appearing in the doorway of the small sitting room.

“Lord Burke,” she said in a frosty, civil voice. “I have been waiting.”

He took off his hat and thrust it at Murdoch. “I’m sure I don’t deserve such an inconvenience on your part, madam. I wish you had not troubled yourself so.”

“I would not have, if it weren’t for a pressing matter.” She looked pointedly at the hovering Murdoch. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have dreamt of calling upon you.”

Tristan peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, racking his brain for an excuse to cut this interview short. His aunt had never liked him, from the time he was a boy. When his parents died, he’d simply been left at his grandfather’s house with a nurse for a few years. This had suited him just fine, for Nurse was getting old and hard of hearing, and he was able to play at will, sneaking away from her whenever he liked. But once he reached school age, his uncle Lord Burke decided it was proper to take more of an interest in him. Uncle Burke had arranged for him to go to Eton, and to spend holidays at the Burke estate, Wildwood, in Hampshire.

Wildwood had been a wonderful place, but Tristan soon grew to hate it. He knew he’d been a troublesome brat as a boy, and he knew his aunt was a lady of very delicate sensibilities. Shouting and running and anything dirty were utterly abhorrent to her. She was petite and proper, and raised her twin daughters in her image, two perfect china dolls who would stare at Tristan, wet and muddy from wading in the pond, as if he were the most disgusting creature alive. It hadn’t taken him very long to decide he really didn’t want to live under his uncle’s roof if it meant he also had to live with his aunt. To the best of his ability, he’d tried to stay out of her way for both their sakes, wheedling invitations to visit any schoolmate who would have him over holidays. In turn, Mary had all but ignored his existence, which apparently pleased her as much as it pleased him. Whatever she wanted now, she must want very badly, if she’d not only come to find him here but waited for him to return.

“Let us discuss it without further delay, then.” He tossed the gloves at Murdoch and all but snarled, “Bring the lady a cup of tea.”

The servant nodded once and bolted for the back of the house. Gritting his teeth, Tristan followed his aunt into the sitting room.

Someone—likely Murdoch—had pulled a pair of Bennet’s mismatched chairs in front of the hearth. Aunt Mary took one chair, but Tristan leaned against the mantel. “What is this pressing matter?” he asked, hoping desperately it was something trivial.

“I have come to ask when the house in Hanover Square will be restored.”

His brows lowered suspiciously. “Why?”

Two spots of color appeared in Mary’s cheeks, but her expression didn’t warm. “Because I believe it would be better for Alice’s and Catherine’s prospects if I could entertain properly in their father’s family home.”

For a long moment he just stared at her in amazement. This was why he disliked his aunt. She only sought him out when she wanted something, and what she wanted usually involved great inconvenience to him. Barely two months ago she had described the house as intolerable, unfit for ladies, and beneath her dignity. He understood why, when the roof collapsed within a fortnight of her departure for a house across town, completely destroying the servants’ quarters and attics, flooding the bedrooms, and ruining quite a bit of plasterwork. Now she wanted to come back? “I understood, from our conversation several weeks ago, that their father’s family home—which is actually my family home, too, as it happens—was too old-fashioned and cramped for a decent ball.”

“And it was.”

“It’s a complete mess now, with the builders in.”

“Not for long,” she said. “I saw it the other day and was told it’s nearly ready.”

Ah; the light dawned. She’d gone by to see what disaster he’d wrought upon the house, no doubt expecting to see it in ruins. But instead she’d seen how he was restoring it—and not just restoring, but vastly improving it—and her views had changed. Very rightly so, in Tristan’s opinion. The house
had
been old-fashioned and cramped, even aside from the neglect and decay it had suffered. Since the roof had collapsed and the whole house was uninhabitable, he had taken the opportunity to enlarge the doorways, raise the ceilings of the upper floors, and rebuild the staircase. In addition, every modern advance he admired was going to be part of his new house, from an innovative steam heating system to piping for baths and water closets on all floors. Far from being outmoded, the house would soon be one of the most modern in London. The improvements must have been just as obvious to Mary. No doubt she also wanted it on the same terms as before: free of charge.

Ruffling one hand through his hair, Tristan finally took the other chair. “Forgive me if I fail to understand. When my uncle died, I bowed to your concerns that it would be cruel and unjust to drive my cousins from their home, and left possession of the house to you and them for eight years. This spring you came to tell me in no uncertain terms that it was no longer suitable, and you were quitting it for a vastly better house in Charles Street. I gave up my other quarters in expectation of taking residence in Hanover Square. Now you say you are dissatisfied with Charles Street, and wish to return to Hanover Square? What, pray, about either house has changed?”

Her posture seemed, if possible, to grow stiffer. “The house in Charles Street is too dark. I was misled about its chimneys. And the neighborhood is not as much to my liking.”

“You’re a widow in possession of an independent annuity,” he pointed out. “Take another house.”

“It’s too late in the season to find another decent property!”

“Aye, so it is. After I gave up my previous quarters, I had little choice but to impose upon friends when the Hanover house became impossible to live in—as you find me here today.” He waved one hand around Bennet’s spartan sitting room, which had hosted more card parties and boxing matches than anything else. There might even be sword cuts in the woodwork.

“But the Hanover Square house is still free. It is entirely within your province to give it.”

“Or to keep it and live in it myself.”

Mary’s lips were white. “I would like to retake possession of the house,” she said baldly. “As soon as it may be ready.”

Tristan crossed one booted foot over his knee. “The prospect of living there has grown appealing to me as well.”

“We have all missed it sorely.”

“Indeed? With the leaking roof and smoky chimneys and the scullery that flooded in every heavy rain?”

“The builder assured me those problems were addressed.”

“At my considerable expense,” he remarked. “At my instigation. And I wonder why you took such an interest in a house you quitted, of your own wish, that you went and queried my employees as if you had any right to know what they’ve done since you left.”

Color rushed into her face. “Will you or won’t you allow me to return my daughters to their home?” she all but spat.

“No,” he said politely. “I’m rebuilding the house to suit my tastes. And to be precise, it’s my house; it has been for the last eight years. I allowed you to stay out of deference to your daughters, but I will have nowhere to live if I give you that house again.”

Her mouth puckered up in frustration. “You can afford to take any house in London. I cannot!”

He grinned. The Burke family fortune was respectable, and his uncle had managed it capably. Aunt Mary had been left a comfortable annuity as part of her dower, and Alice and Catherine, his cousins, had each been left a marriage portion of good size. By no accounting were they destitute or poor.

But Tristan’s father, like a dutiful second son, had married an heiress, the only child of a decorated admiral who left his enormous fortune to her. Upon his parents’ deaths, Tristan had become far, far wealthier than his titled uncle, and it had chafed Aunt Mary to no end. Not only was that loud, troublesome, dirty boy the heir to the Burke estates and title, but those were the lesser part of his inheritance. Now, to her great resentment, he had it all, while she was pensioned off on a widow’s portion, which—however comfortable—was fixed and limited. No doubt her visit today was spurred by the pinch of paying her own rent for the first time.

“What do you really want, madam?” he asked, ready to be rid of her. “Do you want me to pay the Charles Street lease? Will a new carriage soothe your upset? Does one of my cousins require a new Court dress? I intend to keep the house in Hanover Square, so you can cease asking for that.”

Her throat worked for a few moments. “The rent is a greater encumbrance than I had anticipated,” she said through tight lips. “That would be most generous of you.”

“Very good.” He jumped to his feet. “Send a copy of the lease to Tompkins, and I’ll direct him to pay it for the duration of this season.”

“And coal is very dear,” she went on.

He nodded. “I’ll pay the coal man.”

“And there are a few overdue bills.” Her face was dull red now, and she stared fixedly at a spot beyond Tristan’s shoulder. “From the modiste. And the milliner. And—and the butcher.”

He cocked his head. “So many? Perhaps I should speak to your man of business; is he not managing your funds properly? Your annuity should be sufficient to keep you in good comfort, Aunt.”

“It isn’t,” she hissed, shooting him a hateful look.

“It should be,” he replied, emphasizing the second word. “I am under no obligation to support you. I’m generously offering to do so this once, out of compassion for the extra burden you are under in sponsoring your daughters’ Season this year, but you should not expect it in the future.”

She rose, radiating bitterness. “That is very good of you, Lord Burke.”

“Good day, Lady Burke.” Tristan bowed and escorted her out of the house, although she didn’t look at him again.

Murdoch edged into the hall as he closed the door behind his aunt. Tristan glared at him. “How dare you let that woman into the house? If she ever calls again, I am not in, I will not be returning soon, and under no circumstances may she wait for me!”

The servant winced. “Apologies, m’lord. Mr. Bennet left no word, and neither did you. She bowled her way past me, she did, like she was a royal princess or something.”

“Well, at least you didn’t bring the damn tea. She would have stayed an hour just to put me out of pocket for the leaves.” He sighed. All the crackling energy of meeting Miss Bennet had dissipated into the almost resentful tension that always gripped him after Aunt Mary’s visits. Even though she no longer had any authority over him, and in fact the advantage in their relationship had decidedly shifted to him, Tristan could still feel the weight of her scolds, the sting of her distaste for him, the yawning loneliness he had always endured when he was sent to his uncle’s house. She made him feel filthy and unwanted, and he hated that.

He grabbed his hat off the hook again and jammed his hands into his gloves. “I’m going out,” he told Murdoch. “From now until Mr. Bennet returns, your continued employment here depends on forbidding entrance to any and every woman who calls. Throw yourself in front of the door if necessary. Tell them there’s plague within. Do whatever you must.”

“Yes, sir.” Murdoch’s expression lightened with relief. “Yes, indeed, my lord.”

Tristan strode out of the house and set off for Hanover Square on foot. He could use the exercise, to clear his head. He wanted to have a word with the builder about letting other people view his house. In fact, he would issue the same commandment to the builder that he’d just given Murdoch: no women were to be allowed on the premises for any reason. Perhaps he ought to move into the house now, unsettled and unfinished as it was. Whatever Aunt Mary chose to believe, the house was nowhere near done, although it would be habitable by his standards within a month or less. He wouldn’t be entertaining; he could live with wet plaster and workmen underfoot. Bloody hell—even if a little rain came in through the roof, it would be a small price to pay for peace and privacy and complete freedom from female interference.