Page 22 of Only a Mistress Will Do

“He should never have asked that of you if he loved you.”

“I am not quite sure he did.” Tris set his glass down on the desk, then strode across the room to stand beside her. “Nevertheless, he begged me and I agreed. Do not let it distress you, my dear. I have made my peace with it.”

“I beg your pardon.” The wooden response smote him. “It is not my place to pry into your personal affairs.”

“It will always be your place, as my friend, to keep me from harm, as it will be mine to do the same with you.”

“Ever the protector, Tris?”

“Guilty, I’m afraid.” He offered his hand. “If I do not love the lady now, perhaps it will come in time. She is sweet and accomplished, worthy of any man’s love. I will endeavor to make myself worthy of her. It will be my life’s aim to protect her from any unkindness.” Though it hurt like the devil, he smiled and helped her to her feet. Her warm hand was a knife in his heart. “Come. You must rest and refresh yourself before dinner.”

“Thank you. I do feel a bit fatigued.” She twined her hand in the crook of his elbow.

“You will need all of your strength, for I intend to find out all about your gown selection.” He nodded at the stylish cream print dress. “And I am sure you have much to tell me about your meeting with Madame Angelique.”

A smile lit her face. “Yes, it was the most enjoyable afternoon.” She pulled the skirt out a little.

“How very lovely, my dear. It becomes you.” A good color choice for her. It also showed off her figure nicely. His gaze had continually strayed to her breasts, pushed up by her stays and, without the covering of a fichu, very much on display.

“This was only one of the selections.” When she arched her neck, her breasts swelled even more. “Wait until you hear about the ball gowns.”

“I am breathless with anticipation.” He kissed her hand and led her to the staircase. “Rest well.” The gentle sway of her hips as she mounted the steps set his blood to pounding. Damn, but he must stop ogling her. Turning on his heel, he strode back to the music room. Another libation might help dull the ache in his groin—and his heart.

She’d been right, of course. How had he managed to put himself in the same intolerable position as his father? Odd, but the thought of an arranged marriage hadn’t seemed odious when he’d made the promise to marry Miss Harper. The girl was pretty enough and sweet, although painfully shy. He’d believed he could coax her out of her shell, a challenge to his charm and talents of seduction. A good possibility had existed they might develop an affection for one another that would grow, especially after he introduced her to the pleasures of the marriage bed. That would have satisfied him, even if it had not inflamed his passions.

Little hope of that now.

Tris drained another glass of the cognac, relishing the burn that erupted in his stomach. Nothing for it, he must find suitable employment for Miss Carlton immediately. Strict reminders to himself that that particular avenue was closed to him would only work for so long if the tempting woman remained practically under his nose. Violet was a woman meant for passion and love. She’d revealed that much while playing the spinet. She had poured her heart, her longings into every note. Such a passionate nature should not be denied.

He didn’t want to deny it or himself.

Christ, he’d best focus on wooing his bride. He needed to find a way to put her at ease with him, to encourage an affection, to make her stir his soul like the woman who had, too late, captured his heart.

Chapter 9

Violet finished the last measure of the Scarlatti sonata with a flourish and sat back, smiling. The final chords rang a moment longer in the deserted music room. She wished Tris had been here to hear it. Still, excitement bubbled up, causing gooseflesh to appear on her arms. In a single week, with diligent practice morning and afternoon, she had mastered the piece, surpassing even her previous efforts when she’d lived with her grandmother in Surrey.

Of course, there had been precious little else to occupy her time this past week. The delivery of the “at hand” gowns on Monday had caused a flurry of activity for an afternoon. Yesterday a marathon session of fittings with Madame Angelique for the rest of her wardrobe had provided a welcome distraction from brooding about Tristan. The remainder of the gowns were promised for next week, although she foresaw little use for most of them as apparently she was to neither be seen nor heard in society.

Tris had called on her every evening, to share Mrs. Parker’s delicious cuisine and to relate the news of his progress in securing her a position. A distinct lack of progress, actually. With all the people Tristan appeared to know, in London and all over England, she’d steeled herself for the inevitability of a swift departure from Lammas House. To her surprise, he’d had no success at all. Surely, one person, somewhere in all his acquaintance, needed a companion or governess.

After the third evening of disappointing results, Violet had decided to take the reins into her own hands. She proposed to go out herself in search of a position with one of London’s less illustrious seamstresses. It was respectable work and usually plenty of it, as long as the seamstress didn’t think she’d be absconding with Tris’s mistress.

She’d have thought she’d plotted to steal the crown jewels.

“Absolutely not!” Tris had paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, the flickering light catching glints of gold in his brown Jacquard silk suit. “You cannot venture out of the house, Violet. It’s not safe.”

“Thomas or Charles and Susan can accompany me. No one would dare accost me with such an entourage.” Patience with the situation at an end, she’d pointed this out while clinging to her temper.

“But someone might recognize you.” He’d made it sound like she was a criminal.

“What if they do? They don’t know where I’ve been living for the past week. You are worrying needlessly, Tristan.”

“What if they saw you come out of the house? Or go back into it? Certain men know this was my mistresses’ house. If there were even a hint of a suspicion you lived here under my protection—”

“I know. I’d be ruined beyond even your repair. You have mentioned it.” Of course, he feared for her safety and thought her a retiring woman who couldn’t take care of herself. She must disabuse him of that notion as soon as possible. For the sake of peace, and against her better judgment, however, she had agreed not to go out of the house except for the back garden, a small patch with wilted grass and a few half-hearted blooms in pots. The air at least was fresh, except for the days when the smoke and fog lay heavy on the city.

So she had poured herself into her music, reveling in the familiar thrill of the keyboard under her fingers. If only she had her harp she wouldn’t mind being locked away so much. At least she did have Tris’s company, although it was brief. His nightly visits were the most welcome part of her day. They dined and chatted together on so many evenings he became as comfortable to be around as an old shoe. They never ventured into such personal subjects as they had over tea last week, still she watched him when he wasn’t looking. His carefree nature showed itself in full force as he laughed and teased her. Yet, she had caught him several times in unguarded moments when he stared at nothing, a frown marring his otherwise handsome features. Did he think of Miss Harper during those pensive moments? Or of her?