When Tempting a Rogue (8 page)

“Just what is it you want? How do you know I don’t want the same?”

She smiled—an impish expression that seemed so out of place on her face and took him back to a place he didn’t want to visit. “Because I want to be the one in charge.”

He chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to challenge you? I want to work with you; we both want this endeavor to succeed. Butting heads will only hamper that.”

She took another sip and shrugged. “It was my idea. My baby. I suppose I’m overly protective of it.”

“As am I. If you don’t agree with my ideas, all you have to do is tell me. I’m sure we can reach a compromise.”

“ ‘Compromise.’ ”
She repeated the word as though she had never heard it before. She probably hadn’t. “I want to trust you, Trystan.”

“I hope you can.”

“What do you want?”

For a moment the word
you
hovered on his lips, but he bit it back. “I want to make us both very rich.”

Vienne lifted her glass with a grin. “Then here’s to both of us getting exactly what we want.”

“Yes,” Trystan replied, something strange unfurling inside him. He couldn’t put a name on the emotion, but it felt vaguely like determination and . . .
hope
. “Exactly what we want.”

Chapter 5

F
or the following week, relations between Trystan and Vienne were civil and relaxed, bordering on friendly without actually crossing that bridge. They were often together at the construction site, often staying as long or longer than the workmen. Unfortunately both of them had other business concerns to think of, so there were days spent apart. Even so, it was a rare evening that Trystan didn’t make an appearance at Saint’s Row, either to meet another business associate or to meet with Vienne. Once, they shared a supper at the club, this time with no kissing.

On the eighth day, Trystan received what could only be described as a summons to attend dinner at Ryeton House. Apparently his mother wanted the family together for a meal and Rose gave in and offered to play hostess.

More than likely his sister-in-law hoped that by having him under her roof she might be as nosey as she wished. He had known Rose for most of her life, their fathers having been close friends. If someone had told him ten years ago that her spoiled little self would have ended up married to Grey—happily so—he would have advised them to give up drinking.

Dinner, however, would provide him with the perfect opportunity to mention to his brothers that he would prefer the two of them keep their considerable noses out of his business.

He had spent most of the day catching up on business and personal matters with his partner, Jack Friday—or Jack Farrington as he was known now. Jack had recently inherited an earldom from his grandfather, and was having a little bit of trouble acclimatizing to the role. Something about worrying about having so many people depending on him for their livelihood. Trystan reminded him that they’d had plenty of people dependent upon them over the years.

“Yes,” Jack agreed, “but this time I don’t have you to help me shoulder it.”

That might very well be one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him.

Trystan wore a dark gray suit with a matching cravat and port-colored waistcoat to his family home that evening. He wasn’t as fastidious as Archer with his clothing, but he liked to be well turned out whenever he might be seen. People judged a man by how he presented himself; and with brothers as socially notorious as Grey and Archer, he needed to present all the positive impressions possible.

As usual, Havers already had the carriage waiting for him in front of the Barrington. Trystan considered having his own vehicle and driver to be his crowning achievement—next to the hotel, of course. The Barrington was magnificent, but there was something about having the freedom to come and go as he pleased, without having to hail a hackney and risk a stinking, poorly springed trip.

There was something about having his own driver and coach that said a man had means, that he was important. It was just another way to present himself to prospective business associates and instill confidence. He couldn’t very well show up to a meeting on a bicycle.

“Ryeton House, my lord?” Havers asked as one of the bellmen opened the carriage door.

“Indeed,” Trystan replied, removing his hat as he stepped up. “Make certain my brother’s cook sends you home with supper and sweets for Margaret and the children.”

“Aye, I will. Thank you, sir.”

The lamp in the carriage was lit, bathing the interior in a golden light bright enough for Trystan to read by. Tonight he read not the paper but a ladies’ fashion periodical. Not his usual preference, but the emporium would cater predominantly to the fairer sex and he would be remiss if he didn’t educate himself on what they wanted to buy and thought important.

He was reading an oddly interesting article on the proper use and care of hairpieces when the carriage turned up the lane to his brother’s house.

The entire family was waiting for him in the rose drawing room, including Bronte’s husband, Alexander Graves, who would be a baronet or viscount, or something like that, one day. Trystan didn’t care about the sandy-haired man’s lineage—all he cared about was that Graves seemed completely in love with his sister.

Bronte had the same bright eyes as Archer, but hair as dark brown as his own. Though separated by a decade, he’d always enjoyed a special relationship with her, and he took pleasure in knowing that he was her favorite. She had always looked up to him and followed him around. At times that had been annoying, but after years of chasing after Grey and Archer, it was nice to have someone chase after him.

His sister rushed into his arms. Laughing, he hugged her, picked her up, and gave her a little twirl before putting her down. “I wished everyone was as happy to see me as you are, Bee.”

“If you’ll pick
me
up and whirl me around, I’ll pretend,” Archer offered drily, lifting a glass of wine to his lips.

“Too much work,” Trystan replied, accepting the glass Rose offered him. “I might overexert myself.”

The family laughed, and then drifted into the usual conversation about his work, society, upcoming social events, and added a touch of gossip. Through all this, Trystan said nothing about Vienne. His former relationship with her, and his annoyance at his brothers, was not something he wanted to share with his mother and sister—or sister-in-law. He waited until after dinner, when the ladies retired to the drawing room and left the men to their port and cigars.

He got right to the point. “What did you say to Vienne?” He directed the question at Grey.

His eldest brother rolled ash from the tip of his cigar into a crystal receptacle. “On which occasion?”

It was an old tactic the three of them had used since childhood: don’t confess to anything until you are certain of what you are being accused. “After Archer opened his big mouth and told you I went to Chez Cherie’s.” Archer protested, saying his mouth was not big.

Trystan ignored him. “You paid Vienne a visit, did you not?”

“I may have,” came the noncommittal reply.

Trystan slammed his glass of port on the table, causing both brothers to jump. “Do I interfere with your lives?” he demanded.

Archer and Grey exchanged bewildered glances. “No,” they replied in unison.

“Right. Because you are grown men capable of getting yourselves out of whatever mess you’ve stepped in. What in the name of hell made either of you think you had any right to discuss not only my private life, but to then confront someone with whom I do business?”

“It was for your own good,” Grey told him. “I don’t want to see that woman hurt you again.”

“That’s my decision,” he retorted. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is, knowing that you confronted her—like I’m an idiot, or child incapable of taking care of myself?”

“See here,” Archer straightened in his chair. “It was completely out of character for you to race off to a brothel so deep in your cups.”

“You do it all the time.”

Archer frowned. “But that’s me.”

Trystan practically growled at the pair of them.

It was Grey’s turn: “Tryst, I’m not sure what she told you—”

“She told me nothing. Good lord, do you think I don’t pay attention? I’m not stupid, Grey. I saw how you looked at her at the party, and how she reacted. You bullied her, didn’t you? Threatened her in some way?”

His brother squirmed ever so slightly—he was a duke, after all. It didn’t do to show weakness. “I merely suggested that she be careful how she treats you.”

Trystan closed his eyes.
Sweet lord.
What had he done to deserve this? “From here on out, both of you will stay away from Vienne. If you have to speak to her, you will leave me out of the conversation; and if you have any concerns about my behavior, you will take them up with me so that I might tell you both to bugger off and mind your own business before you go off and do something that not only
humiliates me
, but pisses me off as well!”

Grey and Archer stared at him. Their expressions would have been comical were he not so very, very angry. He hadn’t known he was this angry until the words started pouring out, his emotions rising with every syllable.

Archer opened his mouth, “We—”

Grey stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Understood, little brother. Your life is your own.”

Trystan nodded, trying to hide his surprise. “Thank you. I also expect you to apologize to Vienne. A nice bouquet of lilies ought to do the trick—along with a heartfelt note.”

Grey’s face darkened. “Now see here—”

“No.”
Trystan leaned forward, steadily holding his brother’s steely gaze. “You stepped out of line, Grey. You used your title to threaten my business partner, and jeopardized a scheme in which I have invested a large chunk of my personal fortune.
Now
. . . be a big boy and fix it.”

His brother looked positively murderous, but Trystan refused to turn away. He’d stared down men scarier than Grey, though he would never tell
His Grace
that. If he backed down now, Grey would think he’d acted rightly and would continue to believe he could interfere in Trystan’s life as he saw fit.

“Might as well give in, Grey,” Archer commented, pouring himself another glass of port. “He’s got your stubbornness. Really, a bouquet of flowers and a nice card is a small price to pay. You’ve lowered yourself more than that in the past.”

Grey’s mouth twitched. “I suppose I have.” He didn’t immediately break his gaze away from Trystan. “Lillies, you say?”

It was all he could do not to sag in relief. Trystan grinned. “Yes, the brighter the better.”

“I will take care of it tomorrow. Pour the boy another glass, Archer. Perhaps he’ll tell us when he developed those huge bollocks.”

Trystan chuckled. “They showed up shortly after I no longer had the two of you standing in front of me, trying to protect me from the big bad world.”

Archer topped off Trystan and Grey’s glasses and raised his own. “To the Kane family bollocks. May they be forever monstrous.”

Trystan drank to that.

T
he wood step gave way as soon as Vienne brought her full weight down upon it. Only Trystan’s quick reflexes prevented her entire leg from going through and being torn open by jagged splinters. He caught her about the waist, pulled her back . . . and she felt the hard press of his chest against her shoulder blades.

Heart hammering and gasping for breath, Vienne sagged against him—but only until her pride overrode the adrenaline surging through her veins. She was not a simpering, weak-kneed female who needed a man to protect her.

“Are you all right?” Trystan inquired, instantly releasing her when she made the slightest hint at pulling away. “Are you injured?”

“I feel a fool,” she replied with a weak breath of laughter, “but I am unhurt—thanks to you.” Prideful she might be, but let it be known that she was not rude. Not usually.

Trystan crouched, brushing her skirts out of the way as he examined the broken step. They had both been there the day before, when the staircase was completed. Made from sturdy English oak, it was designed to bear the weight of a person almost a full five to six stone heavier than she.

“Someone tampered with this step,” he said softly—for her ears alone.

“What?
No.
It is impossible.” Her accent always became more pronounced in times of stress, and at this moment she sounded as though she should be sitting in a café in Paris. Still, she maneuvered her skirts to squat beside him, holding on to the railing so she would not fall. “Show me.”

He gestured to the splintered wood. “Look how thin it is. A child would have broken it.”

Vienne looked where he pointed and saw that it was indeed very thin—almost paperlike. On closer inspection, she could see that the wood had been stained to look like oak, but the color varied ever so slightly from the rest of the staircase.

“Why would someone do this?” she demanded.

Trystan raised his head and regarded her with eyes that—at this moment—were the color of brilliant sapphires, and deadly serious. “Either someone engineered a stupid prank, or it was done to deliberately hurt someone.”

The way he looked at her made her uneasy. “Me?”

He shrugged. “Or me. Perhaps one of the workmen. Regardless, someone went through a hell of a lot of effort.”

“You do not think the carpenter did this, do you?” What an awful thought. There might be God knows how many other hidden traps scattered throughout the site.

He shook his head. “No. He and his men take far too much pride in their work. This was done by someone skilled, but with mischief in mind.”

“Why?” It didn’t make sense to her.

Trystan stood and offered her his hand, which she took, allowing him to help her to her feet. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are a lot of people out there who think emporiums are akin to the devil’s work—designed to lead righteous women down a long path to ruination and corruption.”

Vienne remembered that another proprietor of a emporium had been terrorized and an effigy was burned in the street by protestors. She had received several letters condemning her own project—both delivered to her personally and printed in the papers. But going so far as to actively promote injury was beyond her understanding. It made her wonder if any other incidents—such as the injured woodworker—were truly accidents at all.