Page 40 of The Lord's Icy Temptress
Reginald shot him a glare before pushing himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. “This is not over, Tristan,” he slurred before stumbling away, disappearing into the darkness.
Tristan shook out his hand, hoping to ease the pain in his now split and rapidly swelling knuckle. He had not meant to punch him that hard, but he certainly was not sorry he had done it. Tristan stood in the aftermath of a storm, emotions swirling like debris around him. Reginald’s jeering words still echoed in his ears, the taste of anger and frustration still fresh on his tongue.
He turned towards his carriage, a strong desire to retreat gnawing at his insides. The idea of solitude beckoned like a safe haven, a place where he could try to untangle the mess of emotions that had been stirred up. Just as he stepped in that direction, a figure emerged from the shadows, intercepting his path.
It was Michael, his usually jovial expression now tinged with concern. “Tristan, wait,” he called out, his voice carrying a note of urgency.
Tristan halted, turning to face his friend, his frustration momentarily forgotten. “Michael, what is it?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
Michael approached, his gaze locked on Tristan’s. “I know things did not go well tonight,” he began, his words carefully chosen. “But you cannot let this consume you. All is not lost yet. Do not lose hope, my friend. Lady Seraphina deserves better than that.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened, a mixture of guilt and frustration bubbling within him. He knew Michael was right, knew that he needed to find a way to make things right with Seraphina. But the weight of the situation felt suffocating, and he wasn’t sure where to start.
“I messed up, Michael,” Tristan admitted, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability. “I never meant things to get so out of hand.”
Michael placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We all make mistakes,” he said gently. “The important thing is what you do next. If you think it will help, I am happy to take responsibility — the wager was all my idea. I shall confess it to her so she knows it was only my terrible idea …”
It meant a lot that his friend was willing to do that for him. Tristan let out a heavy sigh, his gaze distant as he considered Michael’s words. The thought of Seraphina hurt and betrayed weighed heavily on his mind. He had to find a way to mend the rift that had formed between them, to make amends for the pain he had caused.
“Thank you, Michael,” Tristan said sincerely, his voice tinged with determination. “But, I must do this alone. I have to speak to her … I need to set things right.”
Michael offered a supportive nod. “You can do it,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “And if you need any help, you know I have got your back.”
Tristan’s attempt to regain his composure was thwarted yet again, this time by the unexpected appearance of Evangeline. Just when he thought that his evening could not possibly get any worse, there she was. Like a damned pox, she was. Her husky voice carried a tone that set him on edge, a tone he had grown all too familiar with. He turned to find her leaning against the entrance of his carriage, her expression a mask of feigned sympathy.
“Tristan,” she purred, her smile too saccharine to be genuine. “What a dreadful turn of events.”
Tristan’s patience was already worn thin, and the sight of Evangeline’s insincere concern only exacerbated his frustration. He stepped towards her, his glare cold and unyielding, his voice dripping with warning. “Evangeline, I have no patience for your games right now. What do you want?”
Evangeline’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly. She extended a hand towards him as if seeking a connection, but he pulled back, his stance rigid. The air between them crackled with tension, a silent battle of wills.
“I heard about the scandal,” she said, her tone almost sympathetic, though Tristan knew better than to trust it. “How dreadful it must be for you.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He couldn’t afford to engage in Evangeline’s manipulative dance, not when his thoughts were consumed by Seraphina and the mess he had created.
“Save your false attempts at sympathy, Evangeline,” he snapped, his words laced with a sharpness he could not suppress. “I do not need it.”
Evangeline’s facade wavered, a flicker of hurt crossing her features before it was masked by defiance. “You were always one to push away those who cared for you,” she retorted, her voice holding a hint of bitterness.
Tristan’s patience had reached its breaking point. He took a step closer to her, his voice low and forceful.
“Cared for me? Cared? No. We never cared for one another … and any misplaced affection that you think you have for me is nothing that cannot also be attributed to sheer boredom. I hope that when I say these words, you listen … I feel nothing but annoyance for you, Evangeline. Nothing. Get out of my way.” he warned, his gaze unwavering.
For a moment, they stood locked in a silent battle, the weight of their history hanging heavily in the air between them. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, Evangeline finally relented. She straightened, her defiance giving way to resignation.
“Very well, Tristan,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier bravado. “But do not think this is over.”
She and Lord Blackwood would make a perfect match for one another — each had a soul as black and tainted as the other.
Evangeline’s departure left a lingering sense of unease in the air, but she maintained her poise as she stepped away from his carriage. Her head was held high, a clear display of her indomitable spirit. Tristan’s gaze followed her retreating figure, a mixture of emotions churning within him. He knew that dealing with Evangeline was a battle he could not fully escape, no matter how hard he tried.
As the echoes of her footsteps faded into the night, Tristan was left standing alone in the dimly lit courtyard. He sighed heavily, his thoughts a tumultuous whirlwind of regret, guilt, and an odd touch of relief. Relief that the confrontations of the evening were over, at least for now. But beneath it all lay a gnawing sense of unease, a growing awareness that the choices he had made were setting into motion a series of events he might not be able to control.
With a heavy heart, he finally turned away from the scene, his steps carrying him towards the waiting sanctuary of his carriage. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, enveloping him in a cocoon of solitude. The carriage jolted to life as the horses began to pull it away from the chaos of the evening.
Tristan sank into the plush cushions, his mind a whirl of conflicted thoughts. The events of the night had left a mark on him, a stark reminder that his actions had consequences and that his pursuit of Seraphina was not as simple as he had once believed.
As the carriage rumbled along, the moon’s glow cast fleeting shadows through the window, illuminating his troubled expression. He replayed the evening scenes in his mind, each confrontation, each whispered rumour, each fleeting touch with Seraphina. His heart ached with longing and regret, a potent cocktail of emotions that left him feeling adrift.
