see things with Wimberley?”
Violet started to demur, then stopped. She pulled herself straight. “Miss Wilkes, you called her? That would mean –” She turned towards Langdon and smiled up through her blackened lashes. “ , I am afraid I cannot follow on your adventures, but I’d certainly be grateful for a ride. You wouldn’t mind helping me run a small errand, would you?”
Langdon nodded, his eyes fastened on Violet’s cleavage. It was clear that he’d not object to any activity she proposed.
Tristan stood and offered his farewells as his remaining guests departed. He turned towards his study, still pondering why English trade routes were suddenly the main topic of conversation and why conservative men who’d always favored a strong military were unexpectedly turned isolationist. Somebody was persuading them to change their votes, and it was his job to find out whom.
Raffles. Tea. The China Sea.
Damn, he’d have to deal with Marguerite Wilkes first. But that, at least, shouldn’t take too long to sort out.
He entered his study, prepared to commence an interrogation – and found a sleeping nymph. Her hair had escaped its pins and spilled across one velvet cheek, shimmering golden by the firelight. One white palm curled against an even whiter cheek, but her lips were as red as the roses blooming in his garden. Her eyelashes, lying black against her skin, did not betray the sooty smudge of kohl or blackening. His fingers twitched again, with the desire to stroke her cheek.
Instead, he sat on his haunches for a moment and watched her sleep, caught unaware by the surprising poetry his mind supplied. Spun gold touched by sun. The pink first rays of morning racing across fresh fallen snow. Innocence that made the angels cry. Velvet skin crying out for caress. God, he’d not realized he had partaken of so much brandy. He pursed his lips in consideration before taking the chair across from her. He had forgotten how she tempted him, drew him towards foolishness.
There was a great appeal in simply letting her sleep on. The deep shadows beneath her eyes betrayed her need, but the time had come for an explanation. Why had the lamb wandered into this wolf’s den?
“Miss Wilkes, what are you doing here without a chaperone? What brings you to London at all, much less to my bachelor abode?”
The question startled Marguerite awake.
She opened her eyes to find herself captured in a quicksilver gaze. Her breath caught and held for a moment as she stared back. Tristan sat across from her, the languor of his posture belied by the silent drumming of his fingers on the upholstered arm of the chair. “Are you going to answer, or did you come simply to stare at me?”
“You’re worth staring at.” Her hand rose to her mouth in a gasp of confusion. She could not really have said that aloud.
A smile curved across Tristan’s lips drawing her attention, and for the first time this night she saw the man she remembered. It gave her the courage to continue.
“At Wulf’s wedding you said you would help me if ever I needed it. Don’t think me a complete fool. I knew you did not mean it. People think that women become fools at weddings, but I think men are the same. I knew you were just speaking frivolously. But I had no other choice, nowhere else to turn.”
“What of your mother, your family?”
Marguerite lowered her eyes and stared at her tangled fingers. She did not want to consider Mama’s reaction. She did not answer.
Tristan’s lips drew flat.
“What of your sister? Surely Rose would take you in, and her husband, Wulf, must certainly offer protection. Though I know not what perils surround you.”
Marguerite clasped her fingers tighter. She could feel the hint of a blush rise in her cheeks. “It is so improper for me to tell you this.”
Although not a feature moved on his face, Marguerite could sense Tristan’s brow rise.
“I know this whole thing is improper. I would be ruined, if I were not already.” The invisible brow rose higher. “I cannot go to Rose, because she is increasing. And –- and –- do forgive me for telling you, but they think she might lose the baby. I do not know the details – most things are kept hidden from my ears – but there is great worry that if she is upset, she will miscarry. I had thought of telling only Wulf, but then he would worry, and then, of course, Rose would fret even