Page 86 of Lord of Temptation
“One needs a heart to love. I admire her. I certainly desire her. I even have a fondness for her. But love and I are strangers, and I suspect it will always be so.”
“The trouble with love, Brother, is that it isn’t always polite enough to introduce itself. It simply settles in and takes up residence without even bothering to wait on an invitation. I loved Mary for years, but it wasn’t until I thought I would lose her that I finally realized just how much she meant to me. Without her, I am but a shell. I would give up everything for her: my titles, my estates, my very life.”
“I will never give up the sea.”
“Then take care with this lady’s heart.”
“She is quite practical. She has no illusions regarding where our involvement will lead. She is being courted, and I suspect by Season’s end she’ll be some man’s wife.”
“But not yours.”
Tristan shook his head, wished he had more whiskey. “No, never mine.”
Chapter 21
Anne wondered if inviting Tristan to the garden party had been a mistake. The following day he sent her two dozen roses. The unsigned note accompanying them had simply said, “You were right. Thank you.”
Right about what, for pity’s sake? That he would enjoy the garden party? That they couldn’t continue their trysts?
A week had passed and she’d not seen him. She tried to settle into the life that she had expected: morning calls, balls, dinners, courtship. But it seemed so trite. As though now she was a stranger to it all. She forced herself to carry on as though she’d not changed one whit since the stormy night she’d walked into a haze-filled tavern. Her father and brothers noticed nothing amiss.
Even Chetwyn seemed unable to detect the differences in her. He called upon her often, most afternoons in fact. This afternoon being no exception. They had abandoned his curricle and were now promenading through the park, admiring the foliage and flowers. She couldn’t imagine Tristan occasionally stopping to admire a bloom or inhale a fragrance.
Two other gentlemen had expressed an interest in her, but she wasn’t as comfortable with either of them as she was with Chetwyn. He was a solicitous soul and he fit her very much as an old shoe might. She grimaced at the image. He was more than that. He was pleasant, charming, kind. He never spoke harshly of anyone. He never tried to take advantage of their time together. He didn’t sneak her into dark corners for a kiss. He didn’t suggest in a low sultry voice that perhaps she should leave her window unlocked.
He made her smile. He brought her carnations. He read her poetry. But mostly he spoke of the ball that he and his mother would be hosting in honor of Walter.
“It’s been good to see Mother engaged in something other than weeping. She and Walter were so close, you know,” he said quietly as they strolled through Regent’s Park. They’d taken to visiting different parks and she wondered if it was in part because he hoped to avoid running into Tristan.
She considered telling him that Tristan was apparently no longer in her life, but that would bea tacit confession that he had once been, andshe wasn’t quite certain how that would go over. Sheheard no rumors of him and Lady Hermione so shewondered if he was on the sea. She tried so terribly hard not to think of him at all, but he was always there, taunting her with memories.
But if she’d learned anything at all of late, she’d learned that memories did fade, muting the joy or pain associated with them. She had but to be patient and soon all of her remembrances would revolve around Chetwyn.
“I can’t imagine the devastation of losing a child,” she said, equally quietly. They always spoke as though everything they said was not to be shared with others, was a secret. It created a sense of intimacy, but knowing what true intimacy was, she recognized their habit carried a falsehood with it. She supposed one day that it wouldn’t. If he continued to court her. If he ever asked for her hand.
She could only hope that if she did marry, on her wedding night, when her husband discovered she was not ... untouched, that he’d believe she’d given herself to Walter on the eve of war before he marched off, and hopefully he’d forgive her for such a rash act.
“It was devastating for her,” Chetwyn said. “At one point, she even said that she wished it had been me.”
“No, Chetwyn.” She squeezed his arm. “She didn’t mean it. Grief was speaking, not her.”
“So I told myself. I wish Father were alive. Sometimes I feel as though I’m a fake, wearing the mantle of marquess.”
His father had died nearly ten years ago. He should be accustomed to it by now, but still she realized that it could not be easy for one so young. Walter would have been twenty-five. Chetwyn was three years older. The same age as Tristan. She couldn’t imagine Tristan bemoaning his responsibilities. But then his life had been very different. The two could not be compared.
“You are an exceptional marquess,” she assured him.
“My mother might stop harping once I’ve seen to my duty of acquiring a wife.”
Her breath caught. He grimaced. “Sorry. I am here with you because I wish to be. I enjoy your company.”
“Parents are troublesome, though, aren’t they? Father is desperate for me to find a husband. But it is such a permanent thing that I don’t think the decision should be made in haste.”
“Quite right.” He sighed. “The ball. I was discussing the ball. May I confess something?”
“Without question.”
“Mother and I fought this morning. I’m of a mind to invite the Duke of Keswick. He fought in the Crimea. It seems appropriate.”
