Love and Other Scandals (4 page)

And what the devil was he supposed to do once he found her? She wouldn’t surrender that paper without a battle royal, and Tristan had no intention of engaging her in the middle of a milliner’s shop. He told himself he wouldn’t want to face her in private, either, no matter how satisfying it would be to take her down a peg.

He paused outside a display window, and studied the bolts of silk temptingly draped there. That shade of blue would also suit her, he thought—and then swore under his breath. A virago. A she-devil. And the sister of a mate. Not a woman who would look good in any shade of blue.

He turned away from the window, striding down the street at a brisker pace. It wasn’t his fault Bennet couldn’t stand up to her. It wasn’t his concern if Bennet found himself bundled off to the Malcolm ball or the Macmillan ball or any other ball to dance with half the girls in Britain. Judging from the way he’d cowered before his sister, Bennet would be married off within a few months anyway, likely to another Fury; females like that tended to stick together. Lady Bennet no doubt already had the girl all chosen, and would bend her son to her will the way a stiff breeze bowed a spring sapling. It would be a pity, of course, to lose so jovial a companion, but Tristan had no desire to get between a Fury and her object. Bennet would have to save himself. It was ridiculous to take orders from a woman—any woman. Really, if Tristan wanted to help his friend, he would do better to find him and tell him to be a man, and put his sister in her proper place.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of pink stripes as she vanished into a small bookshop. His steps slowed, and a slow smile spread over his face. Quite forgetting that he had just pledged to avoid her like a deadly plague, he flexed his hands and followed her.

Chapter 3

A
little bell above the door tinkled as Joan stepped into the cramped bookshop. She paused on the threshold to take a deep breath in delight. It wasn’t just the smell of books—that dry combination of paper and printing ink—that reminded her of the library at Helston Hall, her family’s Cornish estate. The library had been the only place she was free to indulge her passion for adventure and scandal, even if only in her mind. Today it was more than that; today it was the smell of freedom. For the next hour, she was free to wander where she liked. True, Bond Street was hardly a wild and dangerous adventure, aside from the risk of being spotted by one of her mother’s friends. But in the confined life of a wellborn spinster . . . any escape was intoxicating.

Especially when one had a particular errand one was quite keen to fulfill. Keeping her eyes discreetly lowered, she found the shopkeeper and quietly cleared her throat.

“Yes, madam, may I help you?” He smiled and bowed, patting his hands together. “Are you looking for something special?”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled prettily. “Is there a new issue of
50 Ways to Sin
, by chance?”

There was a reason she had come to this shop; the proprietor didn’t blink an eye at her request, nor cavil at all. In fact, he might have winked at her. “I just received several copies this morning. Shall I wrap one up for you in the back room?”

“Yes, thank you.” Joan resisted the urge to twirl around in glee. A new issue, just in this morning! It must be fresh from the printing press. She’d have time to read it at least once before handing it off to her friends the next night. Abigail and Penelope were expected at the Malcolm ball as well. The only thing better than reading the latest issue was discussing it in exhilarated whispers behind their fans. Balls had become quite tolerable since
50 Ways to Sin
had appeared.

The shopkeeper disappeared through the draped door behind his counter, and Joan walked further into the store, piously stationing herself in front of a shelf of thick, dull-looking books with a thin rime of dust. To wander too near the novels at the rear of the shop would be dangerous. She would only end up pining for a book she could neither buy nor sneak into the house. Thankfully,
50 Ways to Sin
was printed as a pamphlet and could be concealed under a shawl or even—as Joan had once done in desperation—inside her garter.

The bell above the door tinkled again, and she hurriedly faced the shelf, tilting her bonnet brim to hide her face. For a moment all was silent, then slow, measured footsteps sounded, heading right for her. Joan pressed her lips together and sidled a few steps to the side, keeping her eyes glued to the shelves without registering any titles in front of her. It was a man’s tread, which meant she should be well nigh invisible to him, unless by some hideous mischance he was a friend of her parents. Somehow her mother was acquainted with every prying busybody in London, and word of Joan’s illicit visit here would wend its way back to Lady Bennet’s ears sooner or later.

The steps came nearer, pausing at the end of the aisle where she stood. Hastily she plucked a book at random from the shelf and opened it, at the same time she casually turned her back to him. Even though she told herself she had every right to visit a bookshop, her heart thudded hard and fast against her ribs. Visiting Hatchard’s would not alarm her mother overmuch; visiting
this
bookshop, on the other hand, let alone in search of the contraband she wanted, would see her locked in her room for a month. She made herself breathe evenly, listening with every fiber of her being for those footsteps to turn and walk away.

Instead they came closer, one loud echoing step at a time. Joan turned a page in the book she held, as nonchalantly as possible. Where was that shopkeeper? She would be wildly irked at him if he turned out not to have
50 Ways to Sin
after all.

“If you give back the paper Bennet signed, I won’t tell anyone I saw you reading prurient poetry in here,” murmured a terribly familiar voice.

Joan froze. Her heart jolted into her throat for one terrified moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, turning another page. This time she forced her eyes to read a few lines; it was not, thank the Lord and all his saints in heaven, prurient poetry. “And it’s rude to interrupt someone reading.”

“No?” A long arm reached past her, above her head, and drew a dusty, battered book from a shelf. “Isn’t it rude to accost someone in his bedchamber and blackmail him into sacrificing his freedom?”

“How dare you accuse a lady of such unspeakable crimes.” She turned another page. “It would be quite slanderous of you to say such things.”

Lord Burke leaned one shoulder against the bookcase in front of her and flipped open his book. “I saw it with my own eyes, not half an hour ago.”

“Indeed?” She batted her eyes at him. “When you tell the tale, be sure to mention your own shocking state of undress. My brother will demand satisfaction before the end of the day.”

He gave her a slow, simmering smile. As Joan had feared, the dratted man cleaned up very well. His bright green eyes glinted with deviltry, and when he smiled like this, a dimple appeared in his cheek. She’d forgotten the dimple. “He already demanded satisfaction. Why do you think I’m here? Hand over the paper and we’ll go our separate ways with no one the wiser.”

“Lord Burke, my actions are none of your concern. My brother is a grown man, in body if not in mind, and I daresay if he needs a keeper, you are the last man in England fit for the post. He signed the paper of his own free will.” She gave him a smile of her own, rather smug and superior.

“And you shall hand it right back to me, of your own free will.” He continued smiling at her in that wicked way that hinted of languid seduction. She had dreamed of a man looking at her this way, as if he meant to pursue her to the ends of the earth, only she hadn’t thought it would be over a silly piece of paper.

She snapped her book closed and replaced it on the shelf. “I don’t think I’d give you anything of mine, of my own free will.”

He raised one eyebrow. “No?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

She tipped back her head and widened her smile. “Never.”

He leaned forward, lowering his face until they were mere inches apart. “I could change your mind,” he whispered.

Joan heaved a sigh, even though her pulse jumped at the way he was looming over her, almost as if he meant to kiss her senseless. One part of her was strongly tempted to goad him into doing it. Shouldn’t every girl be kissed senseless by a dangerous man, just once in her life? But on the other hand, it was often better not to know what one was missing, so as not to feed sinful longings. Why hadn’t Tristan Burke’s dissipated lifestyle ravaged his looks? This would be much easier if he were fat or pockmarked.

“Never,” she repeated, telling herself it was true. Even if he did kiss her—which she doubted he could bring himself to do, no matter what he’d promised Douglas—it wouldn’t change her mind, because she would know it was only to win back that paper. If Joan were to let herself fall into a swoon over a kiss, it would be a proper kiss, given in passion and meant to seduce, not to trick.

For a moment he didn’t reply. His gaze narrowed and roved over her face. “You’re still too impertinent for your own good.”

“Why, thank you!” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I have achieved my life’s ambition.”

“And you’re too much trouble to be let loose on the poor, unsuspecting men of London.”

Her own eyes narrowed. He trod on shaky ground now. “You seem to be the only one troubled. Even Douglas will get over his fit. The paper means nothing, you know; my mother will have him at that ball one way or another, and he knows it.”

“Then give it back.”

“No.”

“I could take it from you.” Again his eyes drifted down, his long eyelashes dark against his cheeks. His gaze seemed to sweep over her figure like a cool breeze, and she fought off a shiver. “No,” he murmured. “I’d much rather you give it to me.”

“Not as long as you live, Lord Burke.” Her dratted voice broke on his name, so it came out breathy and soft. “Besides,” she quickly added to cover it, “the ball is tomorrow night. If it means so much to you, I shall send it to you the day after next, done up with a bright pink bow.”

His mouth curved again. “I imagine you have quite a lot of pink ribbon. Pink isn’t your color at all, though.”

“That is none of your concern,” she said coolly.

“Well, I must confess it made you easier to track just now. I could see those stripes from two streets away.”

Joan knew she wasn’t pretty. Her dress had looked so fetching in the dressmaker’s sketches, and then somehow so ordinary on her, no matter what her mother said. But it was the height of indignity to have
him
point that out. Never mind her previous fascination with his bare chest, or the way he loomed over her like a lover. He was an ass. Even worse, he had spoiled all her joy at being free for a few stolen moments. The shopkeeper had vanished, and not even
50 Ways to Sin
was worth spending another moment with Lord Boor—and for costing her that, she could have smacked him. “Thank you for that unsolicited and unwanted observation,” she said through her teeth. “I hope you and Douglas drive each other mad. And you may tell him I will see him at the Malcolm ball tomorrow evening.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door, pulling it shut with a slam behind her.

Tristan scowled as she marched away from him for the second time that day. Bennet had obviously gone wrong decades ago with her; his sister was clearly set in her willful ways. Worse, the way her eyes sparkled when she defied him conveyed a gleeful pride in her obstinacy. His first thought about her was absolutely correct. She was a Fury and should be avoided.

He tried not to wonder what she would have done if he’d attempted to persuade her in earnest.

His gaze fell to the book in his hand. What had brought Miss Bennet into this shop? he wondered. It was a far cry from Hatchard’s selection of dry improving works and silly Gothic novels. He decided she’d probably had no idea and wandered in by chance, and turned to replace the book of very prurient poetry on the shelf. For a moment there, he’d been dangerously tempted to read her a selection, just to see how brightly pink her fine complexion could turn.

“Here you are, madam.” A short, balding man in a shopkeeper’s apron came from the office behind the counter, a package in his hand. He stopped short and glanced about. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“The lady had to leave,” Tristan said.

“Indeed!” The fellow looked surprised. “Well, I daresay someone else will want it.” He put down the package. “May I help you, sir?”

Tristan’s eyes rested on the package. So she hadn’t come by chance, but for something particular. It was flat and thin, tied in string. What had she been after? “I’ll take it for the lady.” He held out the book he’d been about to replace. “And this.”

The shopkeeper took the book with a knowing look. “Yes, sir. Very good. Shall I wrap it?”

“No need.”

The man bowed his head and Tristan counted out the coins. He took both books and went back into Bond Street, wondering where Miss Bennet might have gone. He strolled the length of the street rather aimlessly, scanning each shop for a flash of pink stripes, but never saw it.

He didn’t want to admit that he felt a touch of guilt for making her storm off without her purchase. No, that was largely her own fault. If she’d been a more reasonable woman, she would have handed over the blasted note her brother had so foolishly signed. Tristan would have thanked her politely and gone on his way, with no reason to speak to her again.

Instead he would have to see her again, even seek her out. First, because he never abandoned a contest in defeat, certainly not to a woman. And second, because now he had her book and wanted to see her face when he presented it to her. He wondered if her blush was bright scarlet, or a dusky rose.

By the time he returned to Bennet’s town house in Halfmoon Street, Bennet was already there. He rushed into the hall at Tristan’s entrance. “Did you get it?” he demanded.

“The paper? No.” Tristan tossed his hat at the hook behind the door. It missed and rolled under a table.

Bennet swore and plunged his hands into his already rumpled hair. “Curse Joan! Why the devil did you let her into the house?”

“You didn’t warn me not to.” Tristan retrieved his hat and paced back to his original spot. He eyed the hook, and threw the hat toward it again. It missed, again.

“Did I need to?” Bennet exclaimed. “A woman calls at the break of dawn, and you let her stroll into my bedchamber?”

Tristan fetched his hat once more and retraced his steps. “If it had been a different sort of woman,” he said, adjusting his stance and staring down the hook, “you would have called me out for turning her away.”

“It must have been excruciatingly obvious she was
not
that sort of woman.” Bennet frowned. “You’re cheating; that’s a full six inches nearer than before.”