Love and Other Scandals (22 page)

The carriage was ordered, and soon they were on their way. Tristan guided his horse alongside the carriage, partly pleased and partly anxious. The pleased part was easy to explain; he had lavished attention on his house, and felt his pride in the result was entirely justified. But as for his anxiety . . . he wondered if Joan would approve of the place, and then he wondered why he cared. It wasn’t her house.

He tried to see it with fresh eyes as they went into Hanover Square. The house stood on the northeast side, built of dark brick. It had been one of the first houses built, a full century ago, and until recently it had looked every bit that old. He was having it updated inside and out, with new railings and a small portico to protect guests from the rain, but for now it was clearly a work in progress.

He helped the ladies down and led the way inside. Barely inside the door, he had to stop to move a box of tools out of the way. “Mind your step. It’s a bit of a shambles,” he said in understatement.

The hall was modest, with the stairs set well back from the door. That had been the biggest change, pushing the stairs back to allow for a door into a small parlor, partitioned off the long, narrow library behind it. He fancied it for a morning room, since it faced east. To the right was the dining room, where Tristan directed his visitors.

It was clean, but the plaster was still fresh. Two walls were unpainted, and the chandelier was swathed in cloth. The floor was badly scuffed and some of the oak paneling still remained on one wall, looking very dark and out of place with the fresh walls. But the windows had been repaired, and the fireplace surround had been cleaned of a century’s accumulation of soot.

“This must be a handsome room,” remarked Lady Courtenay.

He took in the high ceiling and gracious proportions of the room. “I hope it will be, eventually.”

“Did the water penetrate the house so thoroughly?” Joan motioned to the gaps in the woodwork.

He grinned. “No. That was simply ugly.”

She laughed. “How opportunistic!”

“Yes, a great many ugly things have been removed.” Tristan rubbed his toe over a burn mark on the floorboards. He could still smell tobacco in this room from the many cigars Uncle Burke used to smoke after dinner. He’d come to hate that smell because it meant he would be interrogated about his schoolwork and personal habits, when his aunt had left the room. Not until the carpet was removed did he discover that the ashes had burned down to the floor. Those scars would also be sanded away.

“I remember coming here when your uncle died, to make our condolences,” Joan said quietly. “It was such a dark house. I never imagined it could be so bright. What will you put on the walls?”

“Ah . . . I’ve no idea.” He turned on his heel, trying to picture the room without the blood-red wall papers and dark oak paneling. “What do you suggest?”

She blinked at him. Lady Courtenay had strolled to the far end of the room and vanished into the adjoining parlor, leaving them somewhat alone. “It is your house.”

“It’s becoming mine, at any rate.” He surveyed the room again. “I always hated being here.”

“Why?”

He lifted one shoulder. “It was dark, as you said. Cold. Miserable. I only came here when I had no other choice.”

“Was that why you came to Helston Hall with Douglas?”

He chuckled. “I remember that house! Does the window on the servants’ stair still make a terrible creak?”

“It does not,” she said with a laugh. “My father nailed it shut after you and Douglas caused such mayhem. My mother insisted.”

“Right.” He grimaced. “I completely destroyed her good opinion of me, didn’t I?”

She looked self-conscious. “Oh—well, I’m sure you and Douglas were equally responsible . . .”

“No, I know she laid the blame at my feet. And I can hardly claim innocence, can I?” He gave her a wry grin. “Still, I was sorry not to be invited back. That was one of my favorite holidays from school.”

Her face blanked in surprise. “Why?” She clapped one hand over her mouth. “I meant to say, I’m glad you enjoyed your time there . . .”

“No, no.” He waved aside her polite correction. “I know your mother took an instant dislike to me, but Helston was still a warm, comforting place. Even when your father reprimanded us, he was patient and reasonable about it. You’d be surprised how many schoolmates had homes as gloomy and grim as mine.”

“Did you go home with someone every holiday?”

“Whenever possible,” he replied.

Her brow knit. “I thought so. Douglas described your life with no small amount of envy; merry and carefree, he called it. I think he was quite envious.”

Tristan snorted. “From the comfort of his own home and family! I would have happily traded places with him.”

“But you had a home,” she said slowly. “With your aunt and uncle. Even if it was dark and cold, it was still . . . well, it was still home, wasn’t it?”

Tristan’s mouth twisted. “If by home, you mean a place where I was tolerated during any school holiday when I couldn’t wrest an invitation elsewhere, then yes, I did.”

“Tolerated!”

“Reluctantly,” he added. “If I hadn’t been the heir—which was a circumstance of immense regret to my aunt and uncle—I’m sure it would have been a great relief to everyone not to have me about at all.”

“That’s horrible!” She sounded appalled. “Surely that’s not true!”

“No, it’s quite true. Still is, I daresay, if anyone asks Aunt Mary.” Tristan wondered why he was even telling her this. He folded his arms and leaned against the mantel. “Perhaps you can sympathize . . .”

She shook her head, not rising to his teasing tone. “You can be very provoking at times, but even then . . . Why did you have to wrest invitations to visit? Douglas said you were the most popular boy in school.”

Had he been? Tristan would have bet money he wasn’t well liked at all. He was admired, which was a far different thing. “My dear Miss Bennet. Allow me to explain something about boys. An intelligent, hardworking boy may be popular, with a wide circle of friends. But a boy who instigates boundless pranks and adventures is legendary. Friends appear from thin air, begging him to come home with them. Tales of punishment at the end of the holiday only enhance his illustrious reputation.” He spread his arms wide and swept a bow, like an actor after the curtain. “I was rarely invited anywhere twice, but I was invited everywhere at least once.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you saying Douglas invited you to Helston because you promised to be outrageous?”

“Of course; what else would induce him to offer?”

“Well—why—friendship,” she stammered.

“Friendship.” He flicked his fingers. “How ordinary. Where’s the verve in that?”

“Oh, yes; you must have verve in everything. But my mother—my mother blamed you for all the trouble.” Her eyes kindled with indignation. “She ought to have blamed Douglas! He invited you solely to see what trouble the pair of you could cause!”

Tristan’s mouth twisted in mingled amusement and bitterness. It was nice to hear, after almost twenty years, but it certainly didn’t change anything now—although he did enjoy the sight of Joan in a fury that wasn’t directed at him. “I don’t fault her. No one else wanted me around, either.”

Her lips parted, and her eyes filled with sorrow. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to make her pity him. He cleared his throat, but she spoke before he could. “Did you throw your aunt and cousins out of this house?”

“What?” He scowled. “No. My aunt informed me two months ago she was done with this house; it was too dark, too outdated, too small to host a proper Season. She moved out the day after she told me she was leaving. I never asked her to go, to say nothing of coercing her to go.”

“Then why did she ask to come back?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “I see she spoke to you about it.” Somehow the thought that Joan had listened to Aunt Mary’s bile, and believed it, rankled even more than knowing Aunt Mary was telling lies about him.

“Actually it was your cousin Alice,” she replied, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “She said you had callously refused to let them return, even when your aunt begged.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, and then closed it. “I’ve been a cross on her back for years,” he said. “Why stop now?”

Her eyes flashed. “I didn’t believe it! I only wondered why she would stop complete strangers in the millinery shop to tell them such things. Evangeline said—“

“Yes?” he prodded when she snapped her mouth closed.

She bit her lip. “Evangeline said Lady Burke is a prickly, mean-spirited woman, and that she’s never liked you—that she never liked your father, either.” Joan turned to take in the room once more while Tristan stared at her in amazement. “She wants to come back because the house is so much better, doesn’t she?” she murmured. “Because you’ve made it better than she ever could have. Although I expect the greatest improvement was her departure.”

For some reason a grin tugged at his mouth. “I concur.”

Joan was irrationally pleased by the incredulous smile hovering on his lips. He looked so startled, and so pleased, by her words, as if she’d shocked him right out of his normal brash mien. His eyes had the same expression as when he said he could never insult her face, and instead of being unsettled by it, she found it thrilling—because she thought it was the most honest glimpse of him she’d ever had.

And now she understood why he showed himself so rarely. It made her heart hurt to picture him as a lonely little boy, made to feel unwelcome in his own family, desperate for any sort of affection or loyalty or even just companionship. For years Douglas had spoken enviously of Tristan’s freedom to do as he wished—and Joan had blithely agreed—but now she understood the other side of that freedom. He had no parents to punish him, to scold him, to restrain him . . . or to comfort him, to applaud him, to love him. Of course he’d wanted to go home with schoolmates on holiday, if his only choice was to live with a woman who openly despised him. And that was when he’d learned to say anything, and dare anything, to achieve what he wanted. Any consequences only came later.

“Enough of that topic,” she said, sick of talking about the hateful Burkes. “Will you show me the rest of the house?”

“Of course.” He offered his arm, and she took it, letting him lead the way into the rear parlor, a small room with diamond-cut mullioned windows and a vaulted ceiling. “The most modern of conveniences,” he said, sweeping open a narrow panel set in the side of the fireplace surround.

“What is it?” With a quizzical smile, she leaned down. There were some ropes hanging inside the void, but nothing else.

Tristan went down on one knee and began tugging one rope. “It’s a dumbwaiter,” he said. “For coal. It can be filled in the cellar below and then retrieved as needed, with no need for servants to carry heavy scuttles on the stairs.”

“How ingenious!” She bent lower, craning her neck to peer into the cavity in the wall as a metal bin finally appeared. “Did you think of it?”

He took his time replying. Joan glanced at him and realized her posture was indiscreet; his gaze had dropped to the neckline of her dress, which was right in front of his face, affording him a clear view down her bodice. All she had to do was stand up straight, but she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. There was no mocking, no teasing, no cynical amusement in his expression now. His eyes were dark with raw desire, and suddenly Joan knew exactly how Lady Constance felt when her lovers looked at her. Now she knew why Constance risked so much for her affairs; it made a woman feel reckless and bold and
eager
to have a man’s attention fixed on her this way.

Slowly Tristan’s gaze traveled up her throat, as bold as a physical touch, and her skin seemed to grow taut. She remembered the feel of her own fingers caressing that same path. A soft sigh rasped between her lips at the thought of his fingers doing the same. Evangeline had vanished into another room, and only the distant sounds of hammering reminded her they were not utterly alone.

“Yes,” he murmured. “It was my idea.” Deliberately, openly, he looked back down at her bosom, which prickled and warmed under his intense regard. “I have many, many ideas.”

“A—a coal dumbwaiter is brilliant.” She had to grope for an intelligent thought.

“Do you really think so?” With one finger he traced the gold lacing that edged her neckline. “It’s not even my favorite idea.”

Joan knew she must be on the verge of fainting. It was the only explanation for why she felt unsteady on her feet, as if she might lose her balance at any moment. Everything seemed to recede except him, still on his knee before her. His finger brushed the skin of her shoulder, and she shivered. His green eyes were unguarded for once, and he raised his chin as if he meant to lean forward, just a little bit, and kiss her . . .

A loud crash echoed behind her. “Oh, bloody—beg pardon, m’lord.”

Joan jerked upright. Two workmen had come in from the dining room. One was stooping to pick up the hammer he’d dropped and the other was ducking his head uncomfortably.

Tristan got to his feet. “No trouble. We’ll go upstairs so you can work.” He offered her his arm again and they went back through the hall to the stairs. “If you’re impressed by a coal dumbwaiter, we may need smelling salts when you see the upstairs.”

She smiled, her heart still pounding. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter 21

T
hey met Evangeline in the hall and went up the stairs, still unfinished but lit by a beautiful skylight above. Her aunt paused to exclaim over the beauty of it and the way it allowed natural light into all floors, but Joan marveled at how much care Tristan was taking. The house wasn’t merely being restored, it was being almost rebuilt. He was eradicating what had made him unhappy and making the house his own, right down to the floorboards and mechanisms. She had seen and heard of modern improvements, but never seen so many collected in one place. She trailed her fingertips along the oak banister, trying not to wonder if he pictured his modern, welcoming house filled with a wife and family.

They went through all the rooms. Evangeline joined them as they went up to see where the greatest damage had been, where the air was thick with fresh sawdust and the limey smell of plaster. Tristan pointed out the improved bell system, which ran all the way into the servants’ quarters. He showed them the addition being built out at the back of the house to allow for water closets on every floor. He demonstrated the water pumps in the servants’ closet upstairs, enabling water to be drawn easily and quickly for the bedrooms. He showed them the main drawing room overlooking the Square, where the floor was being relaid in an intricate parquet pattern because the old boards had been burned by loose coals and warped by the flood.

“I have rarely been filled with such envy for a house,” Evangeline told Tristan as she watched the workmen fitting floorboards together. “I shall shamelessly copy this design in my own house.”

“I give full credit to Mr. Davies.” Tristan motioned to one of the workmen, who looked up and doffed his cap.

“Indeed! Mr. Davies, how long will it take to cover this whole floor?”

Tristan drew her away as Evangeline questioned the workers. “You must help me choose the furnishings,” he said.

Joan laughed as he led the way to the master bedchamber. “I’ve no idea! You must have some preferences of your own.”

“I do,” he assured her. “Mechanical improvements, and things I prefer changed. Servants’ quarters where the servants can stand upright, for instance. But the finer points—draperies and carpets and such—elude me.”

“Anyone can choose those,” she tried to say, but Tristan shook his head.

“You’re wrong. Anyone can, but not everyone can choose them well, to make a house warm and welcoming. I care for that more than for creating a grand palace for entertaining.”

Joan didn’t know what to say. He was looking at her in such an intense, direct way . . .

“This is the master’s bedchamber,” she said. “Your bedroom.”

“There’s no bed in here yet.”

She wet her lips. “But there will be.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “In a few weeks. What should I see when I wake?”

Me
, she thought on a sudden burst of longing. Oh, help. She was falling in love with him, and picturing him in his bed, forging a home out of this once dark and gloomy house, was not helping her peace of mind.

“Er . . . deep blue,” she said softly. Blue was her favorite color. “With patterned bed hangings.”

“What sort of pattern? Chinoiserie?”

“No.” She tried not to think of it as her room, or her bed. “Something natural, as if to bring a bit of the garden indoors.”

His eyes lit with a slow smile. “Excellent suggestion. Thanks to you I shall have the whole house finished in half the time.”

She gave a startled little laugh. “That still seems a long time from now.”

“Don’t underestimate my determination. I want it done sooner.” He paused. “I often get what I want.” Joan waited, at once hopeful and anxious, but he turned away. “This room was almost untouched by the water. Only the windows needed repair. I expect it will be painted within a week—blue, thanks to you.”

She let out her breath. “When will you take up residence?”

“Soon. Very soon.” He crossed the room to a door in the far corner. “I have something else to show you. This is the most impressive room.”

Joan followed him, feeling very impressed already. And this room was no different. It was small but bright, painted a brilliant yellow with a row of casement windows running almost the length of the back wall. But they were high, so high she could just see out of them while standing. And right beneath them . . .

“What do you think?” Tristan asked.

“Is this a room for—for bathing?” Joan eyed the tub. It was rather large.

“Of course.”

“A whole room for bathing,” she repeated. “Why?” It wasn’t unheard of for country houses to have rooms for bathing, or even whole bathing houses. But that was in the country, where houses had plenty of space to expand and rooms to spare. This was a London town house, and not an exceptionally large one at that.

“Because of this.” With a flourish he opened the doors of a large cupboard in the corner.

Joan stared at the mass of metal within. “What is it?”

“It’s a water heating system. This tank fills with water from a collection device on the roof.” He rapped his knuckles against it, and it gave a resounding glug. “It’s quite ingenious; rainwater fills it with just enough for a full bath, and then the rest runs down into the main cistern in the courtyard. When you light a fire in the stove beneath it, the water is heated, all at once. Then you open this valve”—he turned the lever mounted on the wall as he spoke—”and heated water flows into the bath.” And right before her eyes, water streamed from the mouth of a lion’s head mounted on the wall just above the tub.

“Is the water really warm?” Joan stripped off her glove and put her fingers in the water still pouring out the lion’s mouth. It felt cold to her.

“It has to be heated first. See, there’s a specially built stove here.” He opened the grate beneath the water tank. “In half an hour, this entire tank of water can be heated. And if you work this agitator, it can take even less time,” he added, grabbing a handle near the top of the tank. “It stirs the water so it heats evenly. That was my idea.”

“Your idea!” she exclaimed. “You designed this?”

He laughed. “No, just the agitator.” He turned the valve, and the water running from the lion’s mouth slowed and stopped. As they watched, the water drained out a hole in the bottom of the tub. “Far superior to carrying buckets up and down from the kitchen. This apparatus only requires one servant, to stoke the fire and work the agitator, and takes less time. And then the water drains out into the sewer at the end, saving more labor.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.” She looked around the room with considerably more respect. It was an extravagance to be sure, but a very appealing one. Joan quite liked the idea of bathing in a tub of toasty hot water; Janet frowned on such things, saying brisk water was best for young people.

And Tristan was extremely proud of this room; he opened other cupboards to display shelves for linens and toweling and soap. “The chimney from the stove rises right behind the linen cupboard, enabling it to warm the towels. A warm towel after a bath on a cold March day is just the thing.”

“I can imagine,” she said longingly.

“I hear a man over in Ludgate has invented a new shower-bath, to enable one to bathe standing up, with water pouring down like a waterfall,” he went on. “I hope to get one.”

“Standing up!” She laughed. “You could stand in your tub and have your man pour the water over you.”

He grinned. “What would be the appeal of that?”

“If there is nothing mechanical about it, it cannot be appealing?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite content to have a servant pour the water, thank you.”

He didn’t say anything. His exuberant grin slowly faded even as his attention seemed to sharpen. Joan found herself caught by his gaze, and suddenly remembered how very alone they were. The house was quiet around them; the workmen must be taking a rest.

She wet her lips. “What are you thinking?” She meant to break the tension, but instead her voice came out low and husky.

He put his hand on the edge of the tub. “I was thinking what you would look like, bathing in this room. How your skin would glisten when wet. How your hands would glide over your body as you washed. How flushed you would be from the steam.”

Oh sweet heavens. It was just the sort of thing that would happen to Lady Constance. Joan’s heart leapt and raced. She was being seduced. Not even Tristan could say such things—he was picturing her in his bath!—and not know what it would sound like.

She gripped her hands together to hide their sudden trembling. “That’s very forward.”

“To picture it? Or to say it?”

Neither one of them had moved, but the room seemed to be shrinking by the moment. “To say it, of course.” What should she do? Joan desperately wanted him to kiss her; she had wanted him to kiss her downstairs, too. There was no point in denying that any longer, but the problem was, she didn’t know how to be seduced. Lady Constance would do the right thing, but she had no idea how to proceed. “I’ve long since admitted defeat on controlling what anyone else thinks.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m the one who admits defeat. You have controlled my thoughts almost from the moment we met on your brother’s doorstep.” She gave him a wary look. That might not be such a good thing, given what had passed between them then . . . but the focused desire in his face stopped her from saying anything. “I wanted to strip you out of your horrible frock that day, and I thought about kissing you as a way of winning our argument. I even thought of reading you some prurient poetry in that bookseller’s shop, just to see you blush.”

She gasped. “You did not!”

“You know I did,” he replied. “And it would have been worth being slapped because my God, Joan, you blush so beautifully.”

“I do not!” She knew her face must be as red as a brick right now.

“Stop it,” he said in a low voice. “Stop pointing out every flaw you imagine. You are not too tall. You are not too plump. You blush like a bowl of ripe strawberries under a mound of whipped cream, and it makes my mouth water to think of tasting you.”

Her heart thudded so hard at the thought of his mouth on her skin, Joan began to fear she’d have an apoplexy. “If you thought so highly of me, why did you behave so provokingly?”

“Because that’s the way I behave,” he said without a hint of apology. “I’m not much of a gentleman. And my thoughts of you are decidedly not high-minded.”

“What are they?” she whispered.

Instead of answering he walked across the room. His footsteps seemed to echo the thump of her pulse. Joan retreated a step only to find herself backed against the wall. She raised her eyes to his, and saw no trace of mockery or deviltry or amusement. He loomed over her, every fiber of his being obviously intent upon her—and her own body was no less attuned to his.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked, unconsciously tilting forward, raising her face to his.

“Would you let me?” He touched the tip of her chin, then slowly ran his finger along her jaw until his hand curved around the back of her neck.

She wet her lips. Breathing seemed to grow more difficult. “You know I would.”

“Would you welcome it?” His voice dropped into a sensual murmur. His fingers pressed ever so lightly on the back of her neck, drawing her to him.

Joan placed one palm, then the other, against his chest. He was so warm and solid. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, almost as quick as her own. “Yes.”

His head dipped, his lips brushing hers. “Why?”

She let her eyes fall closed, tipping her head back even more. “Because I want you to.”

Another kiss, this one lingering only a little longer than the first elusive contact. “Why?”

Her fingers closed around the lapels of his jacket. “Why do you want to kiss me?” She stretched up on her toes, trying to close the distance between them.

He cupped his other hand around her jaw, brushing his lips over her eyelids. Then that hand stroked down her nape, over her shoulder, and down her spine before closing firmly over her bottom. With surprising strength he pulled her hips against his. Joan’s eyes flew wide open as she felt him, full and hard, against her. Thanks to
50 Ways to Sin
, there was no doubt what part of him was pressed so insistently against her lower belly.

“Because I want you, Joan Bennet,” his voice rasped in her ear. His breath was hot on her cheek. “Desperately.” As if to drive home the point, he moved, pressing her flat against the wall, and tilted his hips, causing that hard ridge to slide roughly over her woman’s mound.

A strange shiver rippled through her, making her limbs tremble and her stomach knot. “Oh my,” she said faintly.

“I want to kiss you until you forget your own name,” he went on in a ruthless whisper. “I want to touch you until you cry out in bliss. I want to see you flush that gorgeous shade of rose from head to toe while I bring you to climax after climax. I want to do things to you that would make you blush just to hear them.” He flexed his hips again, even more slowly this time. “I want you to know that you’ve bewitched me, and I’m going mad from wanting to see you—to talk to you—even to argue with you.”