The Rake Page 9

  “Well, Tristan said that you’ve received correspondence from a gentleman. With all of the males here, we thought…perhaps your letter-writer might be intimidated.”

  “You mean he might be afraid to call on me here?” Georgiana asked, relieved. “If he were serious, I’m sure he would do so, regardless.”

  “Just a flirtation then, is it?” Milly suggested.

  For a moment Georgiana wondered whether it was the aunties or Tristan who was trying to discover the identity of her mystery suitor. Best to play it safe until she knew for certain. She sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Who is he, dear? Perhaps we can talk some sense into him.”

  She looked from one to the other. She could never tell them her true plan for Tristan; besides breaking their hearts, the news would make them hate her, when she was truly quite fond of them. “I really prefer not to discuss it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, of course. It’s just that…” Edwina paused.

  “What?” Georgiana asked, her curiosity deepening.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all, dear. Just a flirtation. We all like a good flirtation now and then.”

  Abruptly Georgiana realized what the aunties were up to. They thought they were matchmaking—between her and Tristan, of all people! “A flirtation, of course, is only the beginning,” she offered as she sipped her tea. “Who knows what might come of it later?”

  They both looked downcast. “Yes, who knows?”

  Georgiana suppressed a pang of guilt. At least she could blame all of the subterfuge on Dare; he’d started it. All of this was his fault.

  Even the way she almost liked him, sometimes.

  She liked him a little less as the extended Carroway family sat down for dinner. Despite his soaking in the duck pond, the look in his eyes was unmistakably superior. As he held her chair for her, Georgiana was tempted to ask him just what he was smirking about, but it probably had something to do with their kiss. If that was it, a little silent gloating was certainly better than his boasting about it aloud.

  “You should have seen me, Tristan,” Edward chortled, as Dawkins and the footmen passed around the roast chicken and potatoes. “I made Storm Cloud jump over a huge log! We were magnificent, weren’t we, Shaw?”

  Bradshaw swallowed a mouthful. “It was a sad little twig they jumped, but other than that, the Runt has the tale right.”

  “It was not a twig! It was a…a…” He sent Andrew a pleading look.

  “A healthy-sized branch,” the second-youngest Carroway brother supplied, grinning, “with broken bits sticking up into the air.”

  “Like a porcupine,” Edward finished, his chest jutting out.

  “That’s stupendous, Edward!” Georgiana said, smiling as the boy beamed. “And you know, speaking of porcupines, Tristan had his own adventure with wildlife this afternoon.”

  “He did?”

  “Do tell,” Bradshaw entreated.

  “Georgi—”

  “Well, we were strolling along in Hyde Park,” she began, ignoring the black look Dare sent at her, “and I spied a duckling caught in some reeds at the edge of a pond. Your brother rescued the poor thing—”

  “—but he fell into the water during the attempt!” Aunt Milly finished.

  With the exception of Robert, the entire family burst into laughter.

  “You fell in a duck pond?” Edward asked through a fit of giggles.

  Lord Dare slid his gaze from Georgiana. “Yes, I did. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “Georgie gets smelly, perfumed love letters from secret admirers.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Don’t make it sound so…torrid,” she demanded.

  Tristan shoved a forkful of potato into his mouth and chewed. “It is torrid. And very stinky.”

  “It is not!”

  “Then tell us who they’re from, Georgiana.”

  Color and heat suffused her cheeks. All five Carroway brothers were looking at her, four with a mix of humor and curiosity. The expression in the gaze of the fifth one, though, was what kept her attention. Her heart sped.

  “Tristan Michael Carroway,” Aunt Edwina said, looking as though she wished he was still small enough for a spanking, “you apologize.”

  The viscount’s lips curved upward, his gaze still on Georgiana. “And why should I?”

  “Lady Georgiana’s correspondence is none of your affair.”

  The few-second delay gave Georgiana enough time to rally her thoughts. “Perhaps we should discuss your correspondence,” she ventured. “Or do you feel left out, perhaps, because you haven’t received any love letters?”

  “I feel left out,” Bradshaw commented, reaching for a biscuit.

  “Me too,” Edward added, though from his expression he had no idea what everyone was talking about.

  “Perhaps it’s that I manage to keep my personal matters private,” Tristan mused, his expression growing harder.

  “And yet you feel the need to gossip about mine,” she returned, then blanched.

  Dare only lifted an eyebrow. “Tell me a secret worth keeping, and I will do so.” With a glance at their rapt audience, he motioned for Dawkins to refill his glass of claret. “Until then, I will settle for discussing your odorific correspondence.”

  Was he again trying to reassure her that he could be trusted, or was he attempting to draw her out? Georgiana didn’t feel ready to press her luck any further. Instead, she turned the conversation to the Devonshire ball at the end of the week, considered to be the event of the Season. “Do you attend?” she asked Milly and Edwina.

  “Heavens, no. With the crush the duke’s likely to have, I’ll be flattening everyone’s toes with my wheeled chair.”

  “I’m staying home with Milly,” Edwina said firmly.

  “You’re going, aren’t you?” Tristan asked, the devilry fading from his expression.

  “I will stay with your aunts.”

  “Nonsense, Georgiana,” Milly cooed. “Edwina and I will probably be in bed long before the dancing even begins. You must go.”

  “Well, I’m going,” Bradshaw said. “Rear Admiral Penrose is supposed to be there, and I want to press—”

  “—him about getting your own ship,” Andrew and Edward finished in a chorus.

  Georgiana saw the pull of Tristan’s jaw as it tightened, but the expression was gone before anyone else noticed. Whether Bradshaw earned a captaincy or bought one, it was an expensive proposition. She knew the Carroways had dire money troubles; everyone knew that. But the burden of it, and of the solution, rested on Tristan’s shoulders.

  She shook herself. He might very well need to marry a wealthy female like Amelia Johns, but he could still be nicer about it. Making the poor girl feel like a necessary pariah was cruel, even if he held no genuine affection for her.

  “It’s settled, then,” he said. “Bradshaw, Georgiana, and I will be attending the Devonshire ball.” He glanced at his quiet brother, seated at the far end of the table. “And you, Bit? You’re invited as well, you know.”

  With what might have been a shudder of his broad shoulders, Robert shook his head. “I’m busy.” He pushed away from the table and, giving a slight bow, left the room.

  “Damn,” Tristan murmured, in so quiet a voice that Georgiana almost didn’t hear him. His gaze was on the doorway through which his brother had vanished.

  “What happened to him?” she whispered, as the rest of the table began discussing the upcoming soiree.

  Blue eyes slid in her direction. “Other than his being nearly shot to death? I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”

  “Oh.”

  He gestured at the biscuit remaining on her plate. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “No. Why—”

  Tristan reached over and took it. “I’m glad you’re going to the ball.” He tore off a piece of the rich bread and popped it into his mouth.

  “I don’t know why you should be,” she returned, glancing sideways to make su
re they weren’t being overheard. “I’ll only use the occasion to torment you.”

  “I like being tormented by you.” He, too, looked down the length of the table before returning his attention to her. “And I like having you here.”

  So, her plan was beginning to work. Georgiana put the speeding of her heartbeat to satisfaction. “I sometimes like being here,” she said slowly. If she melted too quickly, he would be suspicious, and she’d have to start all over again.

  “Sometimes?” he repeated, taking another bite of her biscuit.

  “When you’re not making silly announcements about my correspondence, or about how willing you are to keep secrets.”

  “But you and I do have secrets, don’t we?” he murmured.

  Georgiana lowered her eyes. “You’d do better to stop reminding me.”

  “Why should I? It was exceptionally memorable, and you refuse to forget it yourself. It’s your excuse for not marrying.”

  Georgiana narrowed her eyes. “No, you’re my excuse for not marrying. What in the world makes you think I’d wish to marry any man, after the poor example you’ve set?” she snapped. “What makes you think I’d give any man the power to…” She stopped, flushing.

  He pounced on the words. “The power to—”

  She shoved to her feet. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

  While the remaining Carroways gazed at her, startled, she hurried from the room. Dawkins didn’t have time to reach the front door before she yanked it open and ran down the shallow stone steps. She knew better than to wander about London alone in the dark, even in Mayfair, so she turned for the small rose garden on the east side of the house.

  Cursing under her breath, she plunked herself down on the small stone bench beneath a bending elm tree. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  “What do you tell people, when they ask why we seem to hate each other so much?”

  Tristan’s quiet voice came from the shadows at the front of the garden. He approached slowly, stopping beside the tree to lean against the worn trunk.

  “What do you tell them?” she countered.

  “That I only got as far as a kiss when you found out I was after your stocking for a wager, and that you weren’t happy about being the object of any kind of wagering.”

  “That’s close to what I tell them, except I add the part about me punching you in the face when you tried to lie to me about it.”

  He nodded, his gaze wandering the garden in the moonlit darkness. “That was six years ago, Georgiana. What are the odds you’ll ever forgive me?”

  “Very low, if you keep mentioning odds and wagering in my presence,” she returned, her voice sharp. “I just don’t understand, Tristan, how you could be that…unfeeling. To anyone. Not just to me.”

  His eyes met hers for a moment, dark and unreadable. Then he straightened. “Come inside. It’s cold out tonight.”

  She swallowed. The air did bite at her flesh through her thin evening gown, but something had happened this evening. Something aside from the first civil, honest discussion she and Tristan had shared in six years. Something that made her look at his lean profile as he stepped closer and offered her his arm.

  Folding her hands in front of her so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him, she stood and led the way back to the house. This absence of anger unsettled her, and she wasn’t certain what to say next.

  “Would it make any difference,” he said quietly from behind her, “if I apologized again?”

  Georgiana faced him. “Apologized for what? For making me think you cared for me, or for getting caught at lying?”

  Anger touched his gaze for a moment. Good. He was easier to deal with when he wasn’t being sensitive and considerate.

  “I’ll take that as a no, then,” he said, motioning her to continue along the walkway. “If it makes a difference, though, on that night…hurting you was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t mean to do that, and that’s what I’m sorry for.”

  “That’s a good start,” she said, her voice not quite steady as she climbed the steps to the front door. “Or it would be, if I believed you.”

  Another letter arrived for Georgiana the next day. Tristan took a reluctant sniff, but whoever perfumed them had apparently used the entire bottle of cologne on the first few missives.

  Glancing up at the door, he slit the wax seal and opened it. “‘My dear lady,’” he read, “‘I have debated the contents of this letter for several days now. Despite your—”

  “My lord?”

  Tristan jumped. “What is it, Dawkins?” he asked, lowering the letter to his lap.

  “The picnic basket is ready, my lord, and the curricle is in the drive just as you requested.”

  “I’ll be out in a moment. Close the door, please.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Lifting the letter again, he skipped his eyes to the bottom. Westbrook—so she was receiving correspondence from male acquaintances. He’d half thought she’d been sending letters to herself. Well, he’d opened it, so he might as well finish reading it. “‘Despite your kind acceptance of my apology for my poor behavior at Regent’s Park, I feel I owe you a further explanation. I have long known of your animosity toward Lord Dare, and I fear I sprang too quickly to your defense when I overheard his cutting remarks to you.’”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes at the letter. “Cutting remarks? I was being nice, you swine,” he muttered. “‘Please know that I only interceded because I hold you in the highest regard, and will continue to do so. Your servant, John Blair, Lord Westbrook.”

  So Georgiana had a suitor who wasn’t interested in her money. Tristan didn’t know the marquis well, though he’d seen him at White’s and the Society a few times. Westbrook’s wagering was far more conservative than his own, and other than a passing encounter or two, their paths rarely crossed. Neither did they share the same politics. They did seem to have one thing in common, however.

  Tristan looked at the letter for a long moment, then folded it again. Rising, he put one corner against his desk lamp, under the glass. The missive smoked and curled into flame. Once it was well engulfed he tossed it into his trash and dumped the contents of the nearest vase in after it.

  Tristan gave a grim smile. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t about to let Georgie win. All was fair in love and war—and this was definitely one or the other.

  Tristan stood at the near wheel of his curricle as he handed Amelia Johns to the ground. It had taken better than a week of halfhearted attempts, and some unexpected maneuvering around Georgiana, but he’d managed to make it to Johns House and arranged for a picnic with Amelia.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely here,” Amelia cooed, swishing her yellow muslin skirt over the ankle-high grass. “Did you choose this spot in particular for us?”

  He lifted the basket down from the back of the vehicle while his groom led the curricle and the horses a short distance away. “Of course I did. I know you like daisies.”

  She looked at the patches of flowers grouped at the edges of the small clearing. “Yes, they’re lovely. And they match my dress, don’t they?” Amelia giggled. “I’m so glad I didn’t wear my pink gown, because then the effect would have been less.”

  “I would have taken you to a rose garden, then,” Tristan answered, snapping the blanket out flat and letting it settle onto the grass. “Have a seat.”

  Gracefully she sank down, her skirt billowing out around her so artfully he wondered whether she practiced the motion. Probably. He hadn’t noticed that she did anything poorly.

  “I hope you like roast pheasant and peaches,” he said, opening the basket and pulling out glasses and Madeira.

  “I would like anything you chose, Tristan.”

  She agreed with everything he said, which was a nice change from Georgiana. He could say the sky was blue and Georgie would inform him that the color was some sort of illusion caused by refracted sunlight. Yes, an afternoon with Amelia was a definite change for the better.

  �
��Mama let me arrange all of the flowers downstairs today,” she said, accepting a napkin and a glass from him. “She says I have quite the talent for flower arranging.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Who arranges your flowers?”

  “My flowers?” He thought about it for a moment. “I have no idea. One of the maids, I suppose, or Mrs. Goodwin, the housekeeper.”

  She looked dismayed. “Oh, you should always have someone very skilled do your arranging. It’s very important.”

  Tristan took a sip of wine. “And why is that?”

  “A well-done flower arrangement is the sign of a well-managed household. Mama always says that.”

  “That makes sense.” It also explained why he really didn’t care who arranged his posies, and why he didn’t think twice about dumping them into wastebaskets to put out fires he’d started. “Well-managed” and “Carroway” weren’t precisely synonyms.

  “Do you use roses, or irises, or daisies as your main theme?”

  Blinking, Tristan took another swallow, then realized that he’d emptied his glass. “Lilies,” he said absently, refilling it. Georgiana had once told him she preferred lilies over any other bloom. Her taste and sense of fashion were impeccable, so it seemed a safe answer.

  Amelia pouted, probably to bring his attention to her mouth. He’d learned about that trick during his trip to Emma Brakenridge’s girls’ school last year, and he had no difficulty deciphering what she was up to.

  “Not daisies?” she said, fluttering her lashes at him.

  Another trick, well-done, but obvious. “Well, you did ask.”

  “Do you want to kiss me?”

  That caught his attention. “Beg pardon?” he asked, trying not to choke. Another glassful of the sweet wine had vanished.

  “I would let you, if you wanted to kiss me.”

  Surprisingly enough, he hadn’t ever thought about kissing her. Once they were married, he would have to do it on occasion, he supposed, along with other, more intimate acts, but…He looked at her for a long moment. Sex had always been a pleasurable act, with whomever he chose to indulge. Lately, however, he’d been craving a particular, rare dish—one he’d tasted only once before. And it wasn’t Amelia. “Kissing you wouldn’t be proper.”