could not see her face; her slumped shoulders spoke of defeat. His gut twisted and his arms longed to comfort her, but he pasted on a wry smile and turned again to his company.
“Now, where were we, Langdon? I believe you were telling us about your capers at Vauxhall and the three ballet dancers under the table.”
“I don’t know, Wimberley. It seems to me you have other business to attend to.” Langdon waved at the door, but his eyes fastened on Violet. “Why don’t you come over here and keep us company, while Wimberley attends his unexpected guest?”
“Ah, , Langdon.” Violet, Lady Carrington, turned her lowered lids towards him. “You know you’re too old for me. I am only after that first blush of youth.” She ran her fingers lightly over Tristan’s cheek. “I only bother with Wimberley, here, because he still has the face of a schoolboy. I pretend he hasn’t known me from the beginning. It makes all kinds of fantasies possible.”
She lowered her lashes still further and stared at his parted lips.
###
The muffled sound of chuckles followed Marguerite down the hall. Were they laughing at her? They might as well be. Her one hope had barely recalled who she was. She had not missed the blankness of his glance when she first entered. She had dreamed of him for a year, longed for him for a year, yet he had to consider carefully before he could so much as identify her. So much for the fairytale hero to the rescue.
He had changed her life, given her a glimpse of passion, of magic, let her see how much was possible beyond her mother’s careful grasp, and he didn’t remember her. She puffed out her cheeks and blew. She was on her own.
Still, he had not sent her away. She glanced at the footman’s back and carefully schooled her features into a ladylike expression. All she needed was some money, enough to travel to the country for a short time. If she could make it through these next months, she’d be fine.
Another wave of dizziness overtook her. She gratefully followed Winters into an upstairs room and splashed her face with cool water from a porcelain basin. Loosening the pins from her hair, she tried to repair the damage caused by her travels. She combed through it with her fingers, doing her best to restore its order. Finally, she looked in the mirror, satisfied. She didn’t look her best, but at least she looked neat.
When Winters rapped on the door a few minutes later, she followed him back down the stairs and into Tristan’s study. High-carved Elizabethan shelves lined the walls, oppressive in their heaviness. She shivered. At Winters’ direction she gratefully sank into the chair beside the fire. She picked up one of the books on the table beside her, rubbed the soft leather of its binding, and glanced at the title. Love sonnets –- not what the moment required. She let the volume fall to her lap. Leaning her head against the chair’s high back, she closed her eyes.
Escape. At last. Tristan slipped from the room as the other woman, he couldn’t even remember her name, demonstrated how she could write with a quill held between her breasts. Had he ever found such things entertaining?
He would find out what Miss Wilkes wanted and then send her on her way. He didn’t need any further difficulties, and one glance at her thin, pale cheeks had told him she was trouble.
“Tris.”
He turned as Violet slipped from the room behind him.
“Are you tired of calligraphy demonstrations, or do you have information for me?” he asked.
A slow smile spread across Violet’s face. “I have much better uses for my breasts. If you were a little younger I’d demonstrate.”
“Be careful with what you say. You never know who hears.”
“I know. I just grow weary of the masquerade. For all that, you are the best of company, darling Tris.” She bent forward and nuzzled his cheek. “Is that better?”
He couldn’t resist grinning back at her. No matter how troubled he was, Violet always could get a smile. “What do you have to tell me?”
“Lord Simon Moreland called on me this afternoon. Brought the most hideous flower you’ve ever seen. Who wants black tulips? I imagine he appropriated them from his mother’s table. I don’t know any woman, besides Lady Harburton, with such taste.
Tristan resisted the urge to sigh. What was the point of this?
Violet caught his look and hurried on. “I know you’ve expressed