“Really, Mary, that was very poor-spirited of you,” Rachel Gladwin was saying, for at least the third time in as many minutes. It took a lot to discompose Rachel—considering she had served as Lucy’s companion during that trying time when the girl was so obviously pursuing an obviously fleeing Lord Thorpe—but Mary’s inelegant observations at the dinner party had done it.
“I know, Aunt,” Mary agreed sadly. “I promise to apologize to Lucy and Julian again when we reach the ball. I’ll even send round a written apology tomorrow. But I was sorely tried, I tell you. If you have any idea what that odious nephew of yours had the nerve to intimate to me—”
Rachel could see Mary’s blush even in the dim light cast by the flambeaux hung outside the carriage. “I’m listening,” she nudged, remembering the smug look Tristan had been wearing as he and Dexter took their leave.
Mary gave a weak chuckle. “You may listen all you want, Aunt. His words were unrepeatable. I won’t so demean myself as to quote the scoundrel.”
Now it was Rachel’s turn to smile. “Bested you, did he, little girl? I begin to scent a romance here myself. Won’t Sir Henry be pleased?”
From the corner of the carriage came the unmistakable sound of fragile ivory fan sticks being snapped neatly in two.
MARY HAD JUST BEGUN TO RELAX when Tristan Rule and his ever-present shadow, Dexter, entered the Salerton ballroom and took up positions at the edge of the dance floor. He’s playing me like a fish on a line, Mary fumed silently as she went down the dance with her latest partner. Ever since he first sank his hook into me he’s been feeding me more and more line, making me believe I’m about to gain my freedom, and then, just when I’m feeling secure, yanking hard on the pole again.
As she whirled and dipped, flirting outrageously with the hapless young swain who had nearly tripped into a potted palm at the edge of the floor when Mary flashed him her brightest smile, she kept one eye firmly on the black-clad figure who looked as if he was about to spring on her even as he relaxed one well-defined shoulder against a marble pillar.
She never remembered what she said to her partner as he escorted her back to her aunt at the conclusion of the set, but if the youth’s bemused expression was to be believed, her vague response to his parting question just might have gained Sir Henry yet another application for her hand on the morrow. Mary frowned, for she was not really heartless and had certainly not meant to lead Lord Hawlsey on, but then, as the musicians struck up the new, daring waltz, all thoughts of Lord Hawlsey fled as her spine automatically stiffened when she felt rather than heard Lord Rule’s approach.
Bowing in front of Rachel for her permission—a curiously tunnel-sighted Rachel who seemed not to see her charge’s frantic signal in the negative—Tristan availed himself of Mary’s small hand and led her firmly onto the floor.
Lord Petersham always wore brown, Mary thought spitefully, and only succeeded in looking dashed dull. Then there was that silly man who wore nothing but green, like some sort of living plant. It stood to reason that Tristan Rule, who dressed only in funereal black, should look dull, or silly, or boringly unimaginative, or, at the very least, depressing. So why did he look none of these? Why did he look like his muscular torso had been carefully poured into his formfitting coat, his, in this instance, black satin breeches lovingly painted on? Why did his black-on-black embroidered waistcoat call such unladylike attention to his flat abdomen, his snowy cravat show to such advantage against his deeply tanned features, his equally white stockings delineate muscular calves that owed nothing to the sawdust stuffing so many men felt forced to use to supplement what nature and a sybaritic life had left lacking?
“I’m waiting, Miss Lawrence.”
The sound of Lord Rule’s low, husky voice jolted Mary from her musings and surprised her into looking directly into a pair of the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen. “W-waiting, my lord?” she stammered, irritated for allowing a tremor to slip into her voice. “Whatever for?”
Tristan cocked his dark head slightly to one side. “Why, for you to commence flirting with me, what else? You flirt with every man you dance with—every man save me, that is. After weeks of standing up with you only to have to propel you woodenly, and silently, round yet another endless ballroom, I have decided to take the initiative. Please, feel free to bat those outrageous eyelashes at me. I’m stronger than I look, I can take it.”
Mary nearly tripped over her own feet as she stood stock-still for a moment, in mingled shock and outrage, while Tristan kept on dancing without missing a beat. “Me? Talk to you—the Great Sphinx? Flirt with you—the Great Stone Man? Why should I so lower myself as to try to converse with you when you’ve never so much as asked me if I thought the weather was tolerably fine? Besides, I’d rather flirt with portly old Prinny than waste even a moment’s time searching my brain for anything civil I’d wish to say to you.” Believing she had succeeded in making her position crystal clear, Mary lowered her head and went back to staring a hole in his cravat.
“You can’t flirt with pudgy old Prinny, Miss Lawrence,” Tristan returned conversationally, “unless, of course, you wish to incur the wrath of the pudgy old Marchioness of Hertford, who is our Royal Highness’s current favorite. In any event, the Regent is otherwise engaged these days, with he and his brother, the Duke of York, indulging once more in their favorite pastime, drinking each other under the table. Pity, though,” he ended facetiously, “as I do believe it would be a sight not to be missed.”
Feeling the heat of his left hand through her gloved fingers while sensing the steel in the hand that held her waist so firmly, Mary fought the urge to break away from the man, knowing that he was just obstinate enough to refuse to let her go—causing a scene of no mean proportions right in the middle of the ball. “Why, my lord,” she settled for saying, “I do believe your cousins to be entirely wrong about you. They have hinted on more than one occasion that you were a secret, valuable tool of England’s war effort. Wouldn’t they be crushed to learn that in reality you are nothing more than a spiteful, gossipy old woman?”
A slight tick appeared along one side of Lord Rule’s finely chiseled square chin, but he refused to allow this infuriating chit to bait him into unleashing his legendary temper. Let her continue to believe he was harmless, it would be easier to learn what he had set himself to discover if she continued to underestimate him. “Ah, Miss Lawrence,” he returned, smiling, “you have found me out. But then, what else is there to do now that peace is here but tear up our contemporaries behind their backs? It is a prerequisite of anyone claiming to be of the British upper class.”
“Bah? You British—” Mary began, then just as quickly ended. “You British men are all alike. You make a vocation out of refusing to take anything seriously. Why, Sir Henry has even said that English lords go to war with much the same enthusiasm as they approach grouse hunting, except that they don’t tend to regard war quite so seriously.”
The waltz ended, and Tristan put a hand under Mary’s elbow and steered her toward a door to the first-floor balcony without her ever realizing their destination. “Sir Henry is absolutely correct, Miss Lawrence,” he supplied smoothly as he helped her over the raised threshold and out onto the flagstones. “I’ve heard it more than once that we English believe all foreigners to be deucedly poor shots. Yet, be that as it may, we vain, arrogant English have succeeded in winning the war.”
“Have we?” Mary countered, seating herself on a low stone bench and watching as Tristan eased himself down beside her. “My uncle mutters that the only change thus far in Paris is that the newspapers and pats of butter are now imprinted with fleur-de-lis.”
Tristan
