Love and Other Scandals (19 page)

Green cast off another bit of ballast, and the car wobbled, rising an inch or so off the ground. Joan gasped and clutched at his arm. “I forgot to ask how we shall get down again,” she said with a shaky laugh.

“My assistants will pull us down,” said Green. “In free flight, we would cast all the ropes off, but Lord Burke assured me he didn’t wish to spend the day drifting through the skies—although it is one of the most remarkable sights man may see,” he added with a hopeful glance at Tristan.

“Not today.” But Lord, he wouldn’t mind it. As Green cast off the rest of his ballast and the ropes creaked and the balloon rose into the steel-blue sky, Tristan wanted to shout aloud in elation. This was what he loved, a triumph of science and engineering combined with the unparalleled thrill of thwarting gravity. He spread his feet for balance, and unconsciously put his free hand on Joan’s back to steady her; she still clung to his other hand where he held the wicker car’s edge, but she was leaning forward to peer over the edge and didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “We’re so high!”

He grinned. They couldn’t be more than thirty feet off the ground. “Just wait. Look at the view.”

Green had chosen a spot on Parliament Hill, which already commanded a good view of London. As they rose above the mist and trees, the city spread beneath them like a land of mystery, a gauzy blanket of fog shrouding all but the tallest buildings. The Thames wound through it like a dark vein, sparkling in the east where the clouds must have cleared. The land was a patchwork of verdant fields sliced by hedges, with small towns such as Camden and Islington looking like villages of children’s toy blocks.

A gust of wind set the wicker car to swaying; the balloon strained at the ropes with an audible whoosh. Joan gave a little cry, gripping his arm with renewed strength.

“Are we falling?” she gasped, craning her neck to see the balloon above them. “Is it bursting?”

“No.” He slid his hand around her waist, pulling her closer. To his great surprise—and pleasure—she let him, even pressing against his chest, although her eyes remained fixed on the balloon. “It’s perfectly normal.” He had to put his mouth close to her ear as Green fiddled with his burner and it roared anew. “The wind is stronger up here.”

She glanced at him. The wind had loosened a wisp of hair from beneath her bonnet, and it teased around her mouth. “You’ve done this before?”

“Three times. As you can see, I have yet to suffer any grievous harm.”

“All it takes is one time,” she retorted, but he felt her body ease against his.

“If we plummet to the ground, I shan’t argue at all if you ring a peal over me as we fall.”

She blinked, then smiled. And then she laughed, her eyes glowing. “I would blister your ears for taking me to my death!”

“No doubt,” he said, grinning. “Although it’s not precisely how I would like to spend my last minutes on earth.”

“What would you do instead? Place wagers on the odds of surviving?”

He reached up to stroke away that tormenting wisp of hair, and let his fingertip slide over her lower lip. If Green weren’t two feet away, he would kiss her right now. “No.”

Her lips parted. She understood his meaning. “Well.” She cleared her throat, still gazing up at him. “I suppose you wouldn’t be able to collect on those wagers anyway.”

“No. But I would try to settle another wager.”

Her cheeks flushed dark pink. “Oh?”

He smiled and dipped his head, until his lips brushed her ear. “Surely you wouldn’t deny a man’s last request . . . to hear his given name.”

She jerked and gave a shaky laugh. “Rest assured, you would hear it, loudly and repeatedly—mingled with a great many curses and condemnations.”

He laughed. “That’s the usual way I hear it. But tell me truly.” He swept one hand to the side. “Surely this is worth chancing it.”

Joan looked out over the mist and caught her breath. She had been so fascinated by watching the ground recede, and then by the way he held her, that she’d barely taken in the view. By now they had risen so high, the men holding the ropes beneath them were small figures blurred by the fog. But rolling down the hill toward the river lay a beautiful vista. London had never seemed so small. She squinted at the tiny buildings, searching for anything to anchor the scene.

“Is that St. Paul’s?” she asked excitedly, pointing at a familiar dome.

“Yes, and there is Westminster Abbey.” He turned and gestured to the east. “On a clear day one can see the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and if we were to go a little higher, the crenellations of the Tower of London.”

“Oh, my,” Joan breathed. She tried to pick out streets and familiar places, but it was all so different from up here. London looked as quiet and sleepy as any country village, with none of the noise and smell and bustle she identified with it.

Just like the man behind her. With his boots braced wide and one hand on the overhead bracket that held the burner, Tristan Burke bore no resemblance to the infuriating rake who teased her at Lady Malcolm’s ball or the arrogant boor who called her an umbrella. His face was alive in a way she’d never seen before. He threw his head back and inhaled deeply before looking right at her with those brilliant green eyes, and burst out laughing as if he couldn’t contain the joy inside him. “Isn’t this grand?” he shouted over the burner.

Joan smiled back. It was. She’d never dreamed of doing this—and she kept a firm grip on the edge of the car, just in case the wind grew too strong—but it was exhilarating. His obvious, unfettered joy only added to it. When he was happy, Tristan was . . .

She turned her gaze away from him. He had leaned over to ask Mr. Green something, and since the car was so small, he had to press against her. She could feel the warmth of his arm around her waist right through her dress and spencer. This was by far the longest time they had spent together without arguing, and the unfortunate result was only that she found herself wishing he would be like this all the time. When he was in this mood, she couldn’t help reconsidering her answer to Evangeline, about bringing him up to scratch. Not that she knew what her answer to any marriage proposal would be, but she had an alarming feeling she would like being courted by Tristan, very much. Part of her didn’t want this balloon voyage to end, and for a moment she even thought of telling Mr. Green to cast off his ropes and let them drift on the wind for hours, away from London and society and everyone who would be shocked speechless to see her with him.

Not for the first time, she felt a bit annoyed by that. He wasn’t so very high above her touch; she was a baronet’s daughter, after all, with very respectable connections. It was true that he was wealthier than her father, but Papa was hardly destitute, and his title was far older than the Burke viscountcy. Why shouldn’t she have as much of a chance at someone like Tristan as any other girl in London? Handsome men had married plain ladies before. She might be an Amazon, but, as Evangeline had observed, he was even taller. And as much as he could infuriate her, she was becoming more and more certain that he wasn’t the rude reprobate she had accused him of being. Alice Burke had called him horrid, but even Joan had never seen him behave that badly. He had only responded to her as she had treated him—which only made her wonder what would happen if she tried flirting with him . . .

They stayed aloft a while longer, taking in the view from all sides as Tristan pointed out whatever landmarks grew visible as the mist burned off. The clouds were blowing away, and the sun had come out. It made the viewing much better, but it was still considerably cooler here than on the ground, and Joan finally rubbed her arms, wishing she had worn something warmer than her gray spencer.

“Are you cold?” asked her companion. Without waiting for her reply, he ducked around the burner. “Mr. Green,” he called. “We’re ready to descend now.”

“Oh, it’s not that cold,” Joan protested, but he pretended not to hear over the wind. He drew her close again and turned the front of his driving coat around her. Joan closed her eyes and let him hold her, again wishing they could stay aloft longer—especially like this. Tucked inside his coat, securely held in his arms, she had absolutely no wish at all to go back down.

But Mr. Green was already leaning over, waving his hat at the men on the ground. Within moments she felt the first pull on the ropes, reeling them back to earth. Slowly the grand view disappeared from sight, until they settled back onto the grass with a thump.

Tristan leapt from the car first and held out his arms. When she put her hands on his shoulders, he lifted her right over the side as if she were a mere slip of a girl. She stumbled a bit when her feet touched solid ground again; it was remarkably steady after the sway of the wicker car. But his hands were at her waist in an instant, steadying her, and Joan had to make herself move away, she liked the feel of it so much.

He said a few words to Mr. Green, to whom Joan curtsied and said thank you as well. They left as the men swarmed the balloon, retying the ropes that held it down and loading the car with ballast.

The world looked very flat and small from down here, after the view from on high. Joan pictured again the rolling hills and winding river, the clusters of buildings and the gleaming spires of churches, and gave a happy sigh. What an adventure! She never would have dreamed of such a sight.

“Thank you.” She paused, then repeated, “Thank you, Tristan.”

At the sound of his name, his head came up, and he looked at her sharply. His piercing green eyes were wary for a moment, and then a smile bent his mouth. “Ah, the lady triumphs. I owe you a shilling.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Keep the bloody shilling. I was merely trying to thank you.”

His smile dimmed, and for just the flash of a moment, he looked uncertain. “I had to do something impressive.”

“Why? A simple drive was all I expected.”

“A simple drive!” He made a bored grimace. “Who wants that? So conventional, so ordinary, so dull—your own words, madam.”

“And nothing with you must be conventional or ordinary,” she said dryly. “I suppose I must be grateful you didn’t hire the balloon for the middle of St. James’s Park.”

He grinned. “That would be a sight! Would you have come with me, if I had?”

“Most certainly not.”

“Wouldn’t you?” His voice dropped a register. “But you enjoyed it. What would be different, if people had
seen
you enjoying it?”

“They would have seen me with you,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Right.” His coaxing grin disappeared. “Heaven save you from that.”

“No.” She stopped in her tracks and a few paces later he did as well. “I didn’t mean that,” she apologized. “I did enjoy it, and it was entirely thanks to you, for having such a brilliant, unexpected idea and going to some considerable trouble to arrange it.”

He just looked at her. His long hair had come partly untied by the winds aloft, and a stray strand blew near his cheek. For once there was no trace of mockery or arrogance or even humor in his expression. He simply stood there, waiting for her to explain.

And she owed him an honest explanation, not some prevarication about her mother’s approval. Joan had often wished she possessed more courage, more bold willingness to blaze her own path and pursue her own interests, no matter what her mother or society said. But her rebellions were of the small sort; when faced with the thought of public censure or her mother’s disappointment, she curbed her impulses. Hiding a copy of
50 Ways to Sin
was a minor transgression. Gallivanting about London with Tristan Burke would not be viewed the same way. “I’m just not accustomed to people staring at me,” she went on awkwardly. “It isn’t usually for the right reason, and it rarely ends well for me.”

“What would be the right reason?” he asked after a moment.

“Well . . .” She quickly closed her mouth. The right reason would be that she was wearing something stunningly fashionable, or had lost two stone of weight and six inches of height and looked like a siren, or that she’d just done something amazing, such as revealed a hitherto unknown talent for singing Italian opera. Or even, perhaps, attracted the most eligible, elusive gentleman in town to her side . . .

“It just never is,” she said with a sigh. “When people stare at me, it’s because I’ve worn something frightful or suffered another ball without dancing once. Sometimes they stare at me in pity, when my brother’s done something particularly dreadful. Or, lately, they stare in expectation of my aunt corrupting me into her scandalous and outrageous ways.”

His jaw tightened. “And being seen with me would be scandalous and outrageous.”

It would be. All of London would be shocked. Abigail would be worried. Penelope would be thrilled. Evangeline would probably be proud. But her mother . . . Her mother would be appalled. Not only did she distrust Tristan Burke, she had extracted a firm promise from Joan not to see him. Ballooning with him, anywhere, would definitely count as a violation of that promise, even if Joan invented a whopping story involving highwaymen and abduction at gunpoint to explain it.

“You must admit you have worked hard at creating that impression,” she said, dodging a direct reply.

“Have I?” He rocked back on his heels. “You give me too much credit.”

She scoffed. “You open doors half naked, you wager on everything, you fornicate in public—”

“Never in public,” he said immediately.

“Near enough!”

He shrugged. “Not nearly enough, in Lady Elliot’s opinion. She’s the one who took off her pantalets and threw them at me.”

Joan’s cheeks burned. “I can’t believe you said that! That’s indecent!”

“You brought it up,” he said, unrepentant.

“You really don’t know how to talk to ladies, do you?” she exclaimed, but the moment she heard the words aloud, they made perfect sense. It explained a great deal about her infuriating encounters with him. He didn’t follow the usual rules of gentlemanly conduct or conversation, and he refused to give ground. No topic of conversation was out of bounds—in fact, he seemed to delight in shocking and unsettling her. Telling her that women took off their pantalets for him! As if she wanted to picture Lady Elliot offering herself to him on the chaise; Joan had thought it a particularly juicy bit of gossip a few weeks ago but now it put her in a cross mood, even crosser than when Abigail suggested Tristan could be Lord Everard in
50 Ways to Sin
. Only a very loose woman would do such a thing, of course, but . . . she wished Evangeline hadn’t said Tristan would make some indecent woman very happy. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right that it sounded so dreadfully fascinating. Why couldn’t he be just a little more proper and save her from the most terrible thoughts? Why couldn’t he want to make a moderately decent woman happy?