Love and Other Scandals (20 page)

There was only one thing to do. She must think of her mother. She must try to think
like
her mother. And above all, she must not wonder what he might do if a woman . . . such as Joan herself . . . were to tempt him to win that cursed wager right here and now . . .

He gave her his slow, heavy-lidded smile, the one that almost burned with wicked suggestion. “No? I seem able to convey my intentions well enough.”

Think of Mother. What would Mother say?
Joan inhaled a desperate breath. “That’s exactly what I mean. You talk approvingly of loose women who pull up their skirts for you. You talk with notorious gossips because you delight in sending them off with some wild rumor you know isn’t true. But the rest of womankind you avoid, because you haven’t the slightest idea how to be genuinely polite or charming or considerate. You’re like a child, Lord Burke, taking delight in shocking and outraging people.”

He did not look reproved, or even moderately abashed. In fact, her stern rebuke appeared to amuse him, as his smile grew. “Oh?” he drawled. “You prefer dull, dry men who can’t say one interesting thing all evening?”

Not in the slightest. Even Mother wouldn’t agree with that statement. Joan glared at him in impotent frustration. “At least they don’t drive me mad!”

“Do I really drive you mad?” His voice dropped as he asked the question, managing to make it sound seductive and—and—and interested.

Oh, help. Surely not even Mother would know what to say to a man when he looked at her this way.

“You make me want to kick you sometimes,” she told him in a fury.

He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and shouted with laughter. She pressed her lips closed and stomped past him toward the carriage. She was going to ask Sir Richard if he could have Hercule chase Lord Boor out of town. If Hercule tore a large hole in the seat of his trousers, she would applaud the dog.

Tristan ran after her. “Joan, wait!” She whirled around, seething, when he touched her elbow, and he put up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was wrong.” She raised one eyebrow and waited. He adopted a penitent expression and placed one hand over his heart. “My dear Miss Bennet, I’d no idea my presence and demeanor were so disturbing to you. My humblest apologies.”

“Very well.” She glared at him. “Just don’t talk to me of women removing their pantalets for you.”

“Never again,” he said at once. “The word shall never cross my lips.”

“Nor any other unmentionables,” she added. “Not stockings, or petticoats, or stays, or shifts or bodices or garters or anything a woman might wear.” Douglas was a master at finding ways to circumvent promises, and Joan had learned to pin him down very closely. The last thing she wanted to hear was how another woman had let Tristan Burke unlace her stays.

His lips twitched, but he nodded somberly. “As you wish. I shan’t speak of anything more indelicate than a handkerchief, ever again. May I escort you home before you are irrevocably corrupted by my polluting influence?”

She eyed him warily, but finally put her hand on his offered arm. “You may.”

For the trip back into London, Tristan behaved with as much decorum as Joan could have wished; as much, even, as Mother could have wished. He apologized for driving too quickly over the cobbles. He commented upon the weather, but nothing more controversial. He called her Miss Bennet without fail. He ignored the furtive, skeptical glances she gave him from time to time. And Joan found, to her complete dismay, that she was thoroughly bored. He was behaving just as a gentleman ought to, and she didn’t enjoy it at all. She tried to tell herself it was because she knew it was all a facade, but deep down she feared it was because she liked him better as a rogue. Rogues were interesting and exciting, even if sometimes infuriating, and perhaps she’d been too hasty. What if he kept up this gentlemanly act, just to torment her?

In South Audley Street he maneuvered the curricle right up to her steps and jumped down. He helped her down from the carriage and waited while she adjusted her bonnet. Then he took her hand and bowed very properly over it. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Miss Bennet.” He clasped her hand in both of his and gave her a smile. “I enjoyed it immensely.” But as he released her hand, he pushed something under the edge of her glove.

Her eyes widened at the feel of cold metal against her skin. “What—?”

“Your winnings,” he murmured, giving her the sly look that never failed to make her heart skip a beat. “After all, you’re going to need that shilling . . . later.”

And he jumped back into his curricle and left her standing there, speechless and blushing, his shilling held tight in her fist.

Chapter 19

E
vangeline was pacing the hall when Joan came into the house. “Oh, Joan!” she exclaimed, stopping short at her entrance. “There you are!”

It dawned on Joan that she’d been gone a long time—and that Evangeline had been worried. She untied her bonnet and handed it to Smythe. “Yes, at last! I’ve no idea how the time got away from us.”

Her aunt’s mouth tightened. “Indeed.” Mustering a patently false smile, she held out her arm. “It must have been an exceedingly pleasant drive. Come tell me all about it. Smythe, ring for tea, please.”

The butler, who wore his usual stony face, bowed. Joan chewed her lip as she followed her aunt to the drawing room. Oh, dear. She’d got used to her aunt’s more permissive attitude, and gone too far. She thought of what Mother would say if she were here, and felt a little nauseated.

“Well?” Evangeline closed the drawing room door behind her.

“You’ll never guess—we went ballooning!” Joan put on a wide smile and prayed for the best. “It was such a complete surprise to me, but I shall never forget it!”

Her aunt’s lips parted. “Ballooning? Up in the
air
?”

“Oh, yes, and it was brilliant!” she enthused, remembering the view. “We didn’t go very high, but could still see ever so far—the city looked like a trifling little huddle of buildings along the river, visible all the way from St. Paul’s to Chelsea and even further! I never dreamt of such things!”

“Nor did I!” said her aunt with no trace of delight—rather the opposite, in fact. “When you were gone so long, I feared—well, never mind. But Lord Burke asked to take you
driving
. On the ground.”

“We did drive—to Parliament Hill, where the balloon was.”

“Parliament Hill?” Evangeline blanched. “All the way out of town?”

“Mm-hm.” Joan nodded with a bright smile, trying to maintain the illusion that the outing had been utterly normal, completely respectable, and unworthy of further comment. She hadn’t really thought about her aunt’s reaction when Tristan urged her to give it a go. Somehow she hadn’t thought about Evangeline, or Mother or Papa, at all. “You ought to try it. I’m sure Sir Richard would accompany you, if you asked.”

Her aunt’s mouth closed with a snap. “Sir Richard is a grown man. If he wants to allow himself to get blown away in a balloon, that is his choice.”

“We couldn’t get blown away,” Joan tried to say. “There were men holding the ropes.”

“And if those ropes had broken, where would you be?” exclaimed her aunt. “Still drifting over England, I expect! Or worse. I remember a balloonist who fell to his death when his balloon deflated suddenly. What would I have told your parents?”

Joan bit her lip. “That I was a grown woman able to choose my own fate?”

“Your father would strangle me before I got to the end of the sentence.” Evangeline pressed her fingertips to her forehead and inhaled loudly. “Joan, dearest, you must understand. I never had children of my own. Your parents paid me the greatest compliment they could have when they left you in my charge. I don’t pretend that I know what it’s like to leave a child to someone else’s care, but I know I would throw myself in the Thames if something happened to you—and not merely to spare your father the trouble of doing it himself. Please, my dear, dear girl, please don’t try to make my heart give out by going ballooning again.”

“I didn’t know we would,” she replied in a very small voice. “Tristan didn’t tell me.”

“Nor did he tell me, more fool him!” said her aunt tartly. “I shall speak to him about that.”

“Very well,” she whispered, thoroughly cowed now.

Evangeline hesitated, then shook her head and went to the cabinet in the corner. “A year of my life, gone in one morning!” She unstopped the brandy and poured herself a generous finger. “It’s a good thing I never had children; I would have made a terrible mother.” She tossed back half the brandy in one gulp.

“Oh, don’t say that!” Joan hurried across the room. “I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have gone. I just—I just didn’t think of it that way. It seemed a daring adventure, and there were the ropes, and Tristan said it would be perfectly safe . . .”

Her aunt eyed her closely. “And you don’t get enough daring adventure on your own, do you?”

It seemed disloyal to Mother, but she shook her head anyway. She didn’t. Whether it meant she was a wild hoyden at heart, ungovernable and reckless, or that she was a very disappointing daughter for being unable to respect her mother’s teachings, all she knew was that ballooning had been one of the most thrilling things she’d ever done in her life. When the car left the ground and Tristan gathered her into his arms to steady her, she’d felt alive and nervous and exuberant all at once, and more excited than ever before in her life.

Evangeline took another sip of her brandy, then put the glass down. “Come here.” She led the way to the sofa and patted the cushion near her. When Joan took the seat, Evangeline leaned forward. “Was it exciting because you’ve always longed to go ballooning? Was it exciting because your mother doesn’t allow you to venture off much, and it was just the chance of doing something new?” She paused. “Or was it exciting because Lord Burke took you?”

She blushed. “I’m sure it would have been the same with anyone else.”

Evangeline raised one eyebrow. “Oh? It didn’t have any special meaning because Tristan was there?” She drew out his name for significance, making Joan realize she had been calling him that since she returned.

“He did ask me to call him by name,” she defended herself. “I’ve known him since we were children, and he’s such firm friends with Douglas, and of course I wouldn’t call him by name in public. But as for the rest . . .” She lifted one hand and let it fall. “I suppose all of those things made it exciting.”

“I see. And yet you remain convinced he has no intention of marrying you.”

“He didn’t mention that, no.” She avoided her aunt’s gaze.

“And if he were to mention it . . . ?”

Joan didn’t say anything.

“I thought as much,” said her aunt gently. “Why do you believe your mother is so set against him?”

“She thinks he’s wild—and he is,” Joan added, trying to be fair to her mother. “He can be rude and arrogant and completely indiscreet. He doesn’t care what people say about him, and you know how Mother prizes propriety.”

“And yet?” Evangeline prodded. “What has changed your mind about him?”

She closed her eyes. “I never had such a thrill as today,” she confessed. “And he arranged it just for my enjoyment. He infuriates me, but partly because he often says the things I long to say but dare not. I look forward to seeing him because there’s something irresistible about him: it’s like a contest I grow more and more determined to win every time he confounds me.”

“He’s a very handsome fellow,” remarked Evangeline. “And I must say, he hasn’t been rude in my hearing.”

She squirmed. “I think Mother’s opinion of him was formed at an early date, when he came home with Douglas on holiday from Eton. They got up to so much trouble, even Papa raised his voice with them.”

“Nonsense. It would be cruel to hold a man’s childhood antics against him.”

“He hasn’t done much to redeem himself since then. He reinforces Douglas’s dissolute inclinations and seems to thrive on being wicked.” Joan sighed. “She made me swear not to dance with him again.”

“Ah. And does your father share this disdain for Lord Burke?”

She blinked. “I’ve no idea. I can’t recall ever hearing his opinion of Tris—Lord Burke. Most likely he agrees with Mother, though.”

For the first time a faint smile touched Evangeline’s mouth. “That would be hypocritical of him! I daresay a ballooning outing would have been just the thing to appeal to my brother when he was younger, although he wouldn’t have wanted any ropes tying him to the ground. Lord Burke reminds me a great deal of your father at the same age, to be perfectly honest. And I well remember how he changed when he met your mother.”

Sometimes notorious rakes fall in love . . . “
How did he change? I cannot imagine Mother falling for a scoundrel.”

“He was a scoundrel until he wanted to please her,” said Evangeline. “And she disdained him at first—oh, yes!” She nodded at Joan’s amazed expression. “She wouldn’t dance with him, and when he begged to know why—he was considered a catch, you know—your mother told him exactly why. He gave up his worst friends, curtailed his gaming, and kept asking her to dance. I know gossip held that she played him like a fish on a line and tamed him to her hand, but if he hadn’t wished to win her favor, it wouldn’t have mattered. For her, he changed some of his habits, and she grew to understand him and accept the rest.”

She nibbled her lip. “But what about you? You said you didn’t love your husbands.”

The light faded from Evangeline’s face. “My father chose my first husband. I was very young—too young to understand how different Lord Cunningham and I were. My second marriage was less decorous; I did have more hope of loving Lord Courtenay, but . . . your parents were wiser in love than I was.”

“But Sir Richard.” Joan peeked at her aunt. “You love him.”

A veil came down over Evangeline’s expression. “We are talking about you, and whether you wish to encourage Lord Burke.”

Put that way . . . yes, she did. “He makes me feel attractive,” she confessed. “No one else does that.”

“He finds you very handsome, judging from the way he looks at you.”

“He also makes me want to hit him at times,” Joan added.

Evangeline smiled. “It sounds very promising to me! I never understood why people think a marriage should be unalloyed bliss and agreement.”

“So you think I should encourage him.”

“He arranged a balloon expedition, just to impress you. He asked you to dance—he even argued for your acquiescence. I’ve heard enough gossip to know he’s not regularly out in decent society, and certainly not to dance with unmarried young ladies. Even if you wish to blame all that on your brother,” Evangeline said as she pursed her lips, “I’m quite certain Douglas never told him to look at you as if you were a fascinating riddle he can’t stop thinking about and longs to solve.”

“Well, that feeling is mutual,” muttered Joan. Tristan Burke was an enigma to her, but somehow she seemed unable to stop thinking about him. The shilling, still where he had slipped it inside her glove, was like a talisman of his promise to kiss her again. “But in other respects I think we might drive each other mad.”

“I recommend you let him kiss you,” said Evangeline.

Joan’s eyes nearly popped from her head. “What?”

“First, it will prove he wants to kiss you—that he views you as a desirable woman. Second, you can tell a great deal about a man from the way he kisses. A light peck means little; men kiss their sisters so. A devouring kiss that goes too far often means a man’s interest is limited to . . .” Evangeline coughed delicately. “Improper attentions. But a kiss that coaxes and seduces and tempts, rather than demands, a response . . . that is the sort of kiss that a man bestows when he wants to win a woman’s heart.”

“How on earth can you tell the difference?” asked Joan when she could speak again. Her face must be scarlet. Her heart pounded in her ears. He’d already kissed her, and so far it had only confused things even more.

“By how much you want him to kiss you again.” Evangeline must have misinterpreted her stunned silence. She leaned forward to take Joan’s hand. “A kiss—
only
a kiss, mind you—is not ruination. I daresay your own mother allowed your father to kiss her before she agreed to wed him. A woman must be sure of her feelings before she pledges herself to one man for life.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Joan managed to squeak. She excused herself and hurried from the room, her hands trembling and her heart thumping. The shilling seemed to be burning a hole in her palm. She stripped off her glove and shoved the gleaming coin deep into the drawer of her writing desk. She slammed the drawer shut and sat for a moment, hands gripped tightly together, replaying the kiss in her mind with her aunt’s words as guide.

It had not been a light peck, as a man might give his sister. Had it been devouring? If so, she was somewhat shaken to admit she’d wanted to be devoured, because it felt so . . . so . . . good. But he hadn’t done anything but kiss her. She remembered with acute clarity how she’d ended up pressed against Tristan, but he hadn’t tried to touch her bosom, even though he’d called it delectable. As she knew from
50 Ways to Sin
, when a man truly wanted a woman, kissing was merely the prelude. Not that she would dare engage in the debauchery Constance described, but . . . one couldn’t help wondering . . .

Joan took a deep breath and ran her fingers lightly down her throat, over her breast, trying to imagine it was Tristan touching her. Her flesh responded by tightening, and her nipple rose into a hard knot of exquisite sensitivity. She shivered. Would Tristan touch her like Sir Everard touched Lady Constance? Would he want to make love to her and pleasure her until she nearly swooned? She stroked herself again, thrilled and startled by the sensations. Janet had scolded her many times that it was wicked even to look at one’s naked self in the mirror, but Lady Constance reveled in baring herself to Sir Everard’s admiring gaze.