Love and Other Scandals (6 page)

“And it would in yours as well, if you had any brains in your head,” she snapped. “What
do
you want, Lord Burke? Your charm has only grown smaller since our last encounter.”

“No doubt. But I have something of yours.” He drew out her package, still bound in the bookseller’s paper and string, and waggled it at her. “Don’t you want it?”

His eyes had adjusted enough to see her jaw drop, gratifyingly. Finally, it seemed, he had rendered her speechless. “Did you open it?” she asked in a choked voice.

“No, as you can see.” He picked at the string. “There’s still time, of course . . .”

“Stop,” she said quickly. “Please don’t.” Tristan smiled. “But I can’t take it now,” she added. “Where would I put it?”

For the first time he really looked at her gown. It was light blue, with a terrifying amount of lace bristling at her bosom. Even worse, the skirt stood out with no less than four full flounces at the hem. His gaze traveled up. The feather in her hair actually concealed a pearl tiara that surrounded a high, tight knot of braids. But most appalling of all was the profusion of ringlets curled at her temples. In the dim moonlight, it looked like she had a bunch of grapes at each temple.

“Have you something against flattering fashion?” he asked.

Her eyes all but ignited. “This is very fashionable!”

“But not flattering on you,” he said bluntly. “Even a darker shade of blue would be better. You look like you’re wearing a half-opened umbrella.”

“You insufferable . . . !” She drew back her fist. “Let me leave, or I shall punch you.”

“Really?” He couldn’t help grinning at the thought. “I’ve never been punched by a—ow!” The last came out in a howl as her fist connected with his nose. Rather well, truth be told; Bennet must have taught her how to do it. “You struck me!”

“And don’t think I won’t gladly do it again.” She darted by him and opened the door. “Good evening, Lord Boor—I mean, Lord Burke.”

Still holding his smarting nose, Tristan could only watch her go in impotent shock. She had bested him and exited in triumph yet again. He ought not to have pushed her into this room, but he’d only meant to tease her a little and make her ask nicely for her package from the bookseller. Instead . . . instead he was going to have a swollen nose and he still hadn’t put the Fury in her place.

Enough was enough. This meant war.

Chapter 6

J
oan almost ran back to the ballroom, her heart galloping inside her chest and her lungs straining against her tighter-than-usual stays. Heaven help her if her mother discovered any part of that. Not only had she spoken to Tristan Burke, the Most Wicked Man in London in her mother’s eyes, but she’d punched him in the face. Although, now that she thought about it, Mother might approve that last part. Yes, she might well applaud her daughter fighting off the boorish attentions of a notorious rogue . . .

Not that Joan wanted to put it to the test by telling her mother.

At the ballroom door she slowed her steps, even though her pulse still thundered along, and tried to look proper and composed as she made her way back to her friends. Abigail Weston looked at her curiously as she rejoined them. “Where were you?”

“The retiring room,” said Joan.

“After that,” said Abigail, her eyebrows arching a little. “I went with you to the retiring room, but you left first and disappeared.”

Joan cast a cautious glance around. They were as ignored and alone as ever, but she lowered her voice anyway. “I was waylaid.”

Penelope, Abigail’s younger sister, gasped. “Really? By whom?” She seemed to have taken the wrong interpretation; her eyes were bright with interest.

“An addlepated idiot.” From the corner of her eye, Joan saw the idiot himself appear in the doorway. From this distance, he was almost unbearably mesmerizing, his arms folded over his broad chest and his mouth set in a faint but wicked curve. As she peered at him over her shoulder, his green gaze suddenly connected with hers, as if he’d been searching for her. Chin defiantly high, she turned her back to him. “Lord Burke, actually. But perhaps it was because I discovered him ravishing someone in the music room.”

“Ravishing?” breathed Penelope hopefully. “Truly, honestly, ravishing?”

“On a chaise with her skirts around her waist.” Joan knew she ought to mention that Lord Burke had been several feet away from the chaise, but held her tongue. It served him right for leaving the door wide open. Most likely he would have been ravishing Lady Elliot in another few minutes anyway.

“Oh, my.” Penelope turned wide blue eyes on her sister, who was studying Joan too closely.

“If he was occupied ravishing someone else, why—and how—did he waylay you?”

“He ran after me,” Joan said with a trace of indignity. “He grabbed my arm, pulled me down the corridor, and
imprisoned
me in a room. I had to box his ears to escape.”

Abigail’s eyebrows shot way up, then lowered suspiciously. “Really.”

“Yes, truly! Why would you doubt me?”

“Because it sounds much better to say you boxed his ears than that you made such a fuss, he let you go.”

“If you must know,” Joan retorted, a little haughtily, “I did not box his ears, actually.”

“I knew it,” murmured Abigail.

“I punched him in the face.” She turned around and looked directly at Lord Burke, who was—disturbingly—still watching her with those unnerving eyes. “See? His nose will be swollen like a ripe plum tomorrow.”

All three turned to look. Tristan Burke gazed back from across the ballroom, brazen and bold. He was just leaning against one of the pillars at the front of the room, hands clasped behind him, but somehow Joan felt his presence all the way back into the quiet corner where they stood. In fact, as she looked at him, he almost seemed to smile at her.

That could not mean anything good. She turned around and resolved not to look his way again.

“Was he really ravishing someone else in the music room?” asked Penelope. “Because he’s looking very intently at you, Joan.”

“She punched him in the face,” Abigail reminded her. “We shall protect you, if he approaches,” she added to Joan.

Joan gave her a limp smile. Fancy that; she needed protection from one of the biggest rakes in England, but not for the reason any other woman would. She ducked her head near Abigail’s. “Tell me the truth,” she whispered in her friend’s ear. “Do I look like a half-opened umbrella?”

Abigail frowned. “Who said that? You look—” Her gaze swept downward, and she blinked, a betraying hesitation Joan didn’t miss. “You look lovely.”

“Like a lovely, half-opened umbrella.” She ground her teeth and swung around to glare venomously at Lord Burke. Damn him. The man might be handsome and good at ravishing women, but otherwise he was a cad. “Why do all the ladies throw themselves at him?” she wondered crossly.

“Because of the dimple,” whispered Penelope. She was still absorbed in watching Lord Boor. “Look—when he smiles—”

“Because he’s fearfully rich, and a viscount,” said Abigail, a true and loyal friend.

“Oh.” Penelope’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s very attractive, too. But you must admit he’s the most compelling figure in this ballroom.”

“Compelling,” snorted Joan, thinking of all the insults he’d hurled at her in the last two days alone. “And rude and belligerent and coarse . . .”

“He must have some charms, besides his fortune and his title and his shoulders and that wicked dimple. As if he would need more than . . . all that,” Penelope finished rather breathlessly.

“Mama will never allow it,” said her sister. “In fact, if she should notice you staring, you’ll find yourself locked away from all disreputable gentlemen until you reach old age.”

“It might be worth it.” But Penelope reluctantly turned away.

“I suppose he does look rather well without his shirt on,” Joan muttered, still lost in her own thoughts.

As one, the Weston sisters turned to her, eyes round and mouths open. “Joan,” one of them managed to gasp. “When did you—?”

“He opened the door half naked, when I called upon my brother,” she said, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping over her cheeks. “Apparently he’s taken up residence in Douglas’s house.”

Penelope began to smile. Abigail tried not to, and ended up sighing. “Oh, Joan.”

“It could have happened to anyone!”

“But it only ever
does
happen to you,” Penelope pointed out. “And I am growing terribly jealous.”

“Perhaps this will dispel it. He has my copy of the latest
50 Ways to Sin
.”

Their reaction was all she could have hoped for. Penelope jerked around, eyes wide, and Abigail sucked in her breath. “There’s a new one? Since when?”

“And how did he get it?” demanded Penelope.

Joan lowered her voice even more. “After I visited my brother, I went to Madox Street, to that bookseller you told me about. And he said he’d only received some copies that morning! But Lord Burke,” she said wrathfully, “followed me, and made me so furious I stormed out before the bookseller could bring it out. I presume he bought it instead—because tonight he
taunted
me with it!”

“Only you,” said Abigail again.

“So he’s got it right now?” Penelope’s face screwed up in concentration. “We could lure him outside and take it from him . . .”

“Or Joan could simply ask him for it,” said Abigail, who was still facing the room. “He’s coming this way.”

Joan froze. She had an awful inkling of what he might do. Any man who would open the door in a shocking state of undress, allow a woman to display her bare nether regions, and practically kidnap another woman wouldn’t hesitate to exact the most horrible vengeance for that fist to the nose.

And he did. The dreadful man swept to a stop in front of them, that wicked little smile lurking about his lips, and bowed. Obediently all three girls curtsied back, and Joan muttered the appropriate introductions. And then he struck.

“May I have the next set, Miss Bennet?”

She kept her chin up. “Why? Do you expect rain soon?”

He blinked, then that grin curled his mouth again. “Would you let me hide beneath your skirts, if I did?”

Joan could feel the amazed, shocked glances of her friends. In truth, she was rather shocked herself. The boor! It was bad enough for him to say it to her, but to repeat it in front of her friends . . . “Not even if there were a hurricane,” she replied sweetly.

He barely moved, yet seemed to be closer by the minute. “Would you dance with me if I said I wished to apologize?”

“One needn’t dance for that. In fact, you might wish to concentrate on one task at a time; you seem easily distracted, sir.”

“Hmm.” His gaze flicked to Abigail and Penelope, still shamelessly watching and listening. Lord Burke lowered his voice and this time he most definitely leaned toward her. “Perhaps if I relinquish your illicit object from the shop in Madox Street?”

Now she was caught. Surely she, Abigail, or Penelope would think of a way to smuggle it home. There was always her garter, after all . . . A quick sideways glance showed that her friends were in full favor of her making the sacrifice. In fact, Penelope looked ready to make it for her, which tipped the scales. “You have finally said something persuasive,” she told him. “I accept.”

His smile was devilishly smug. “I knew you would.”

In spite of that, her heart began to pound as she put her hand in his and let him lead her out to join the rest of the dancers. More than one person glanced first at him, then at her, then again at him, this time in shock. She wondered what surprised them more, that Tristan Burke was dancing, or that he was dancing with her. Both were certainly shocking to her, but as the musicians began to play, she couldn’t keep a small smile from her face. Oh heaven—it was a waltz. Joan had never waltzed with anyone other than her dancing instructor or her father, and once, under extreme duress, with her brother. Lord Burke was obnoxious, but as long as he could waltz reasonably well, she would graciously forgive him. For now.

And he was even tall enough. Joan was determined to enjoy the dance, so she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead—not, as it usually happened, on her partner’s forehead, but this time on the silver pin stuck through his cravat. It was a crouching leopard with an emerald eye that seemed to gleam at her in predatory promise. Joan smiled at the leopard. Not only was she dancing, it was with a man taller than she was, who could waltz—glory be—so beautifully she barely felt the floor beneath her feet. She didn’t even need to hear his apology now. She would have been content to glide around the floor like this in perfect silence.

He, of course, didn’t allow that. “Are you contemplating your future reading hours, or plotting my demise?”

Mention of
50 Ways to Sin
made her face warm. “Neither,” she said tartly. “I was merely saying a quiet prayer of thanks that you know the steps. I worried, you see.”

“Ah yes, it is quite challenging. One must count
one, two
. . .
two
. . . What comes next? Dear me, I seem to have forgotten already.” For emphasis he turned more sharply than ever, without losing his light yet confident hold on her. It felt like flying. Good heavens—Monsieur Berthold had never made it feel like this.

“I could tell,” she said, sounding sadly breathless once again. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Douglas, who was dancing with Felicity Drummond again and staring at them with mingled shock and anger. It made her think of her mother, and what her mother would say when she heard about this waltz with Lord Burke. Joan sighed softly, her delight deflated. Everything she enjoyed seemed to be inappropriate for ladies. “You had better make your apology before the music ends.”

His faint smirk faded. Unfortunately, he was even more devastatingly handsome when serious. Joan was beginning to think God hated her, to keep thrusting Tristan Burke in her path. He was obnoxious and rude and yet so bloody attractive. “Yes. I am deeply, humbly sorry for saying you look like an umbrella tonight.”

Joan stiffened. She would rather have never heard
that
again.

“It strikes me as foolish for women to wear fashions that don’t suit them, but of course it’s none of my concern how you want to dress.”

“It really isn’t,” she muttered.

His glinting gaze ranged over her face. “How long did it take to make all those ringlets?”

“An hour. Why? Are you thinking of trying it yourself?”

He grinned. Joan tried not to look at the dimple. “Not particularly.”

“Well, it probably wouldn’t suit you.” Although with her luck, he would try it to annoy her, and end up looking like a romantic cavalier of old, elegant and fine in brocade and lace.

“Was it your mother’s idea?”

She flushed. “Why would you think that?”

“You mentioned her the other day, when listing every color unflattering to your looks.”

Joan knew she never managed to look elegant, not even in the most fashionable creations to be found in London. She agreed that light blue wasn’t her favorite color, no matter how appropriate it was for unmarried ladies. But she’d wear green and orange stripes through Hyde Park before she admitted it to him. “If you must know,” she said airily, “it was in the latest copy of Ackermann’s. I expect it will be all the rage soon, and every woman in town will be wearing it.”

“That will hardly make it suit you any better.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Really, sir,” she trilled. “You take such an interest in my clothing and my hair! One might begin to wonder what your intentions are!”