What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (21 page)

“My lord,” he said bowing to both gentlemen but focusing his attention on Tristan. “I have been instructed to deliver a missive.”

Tristan glanced at the folded paper on the tray with some curiosity. “Thank you.” The footman waited while Tristan scanned the short message. “You may leave us. There will be no reply.”

The footman offered a graceful bow and made a discreet exit.

“There is somewhere I need to be,” Tristan said, smiling to himself at the thought of meeting Isabella by the fountain. “But I’m a little reluctant to leave you here alone.”

Chandler chuckled. “We are not at school now. I shall manage perfectly well. Besides, I need to find a way to distract my mind.”

“Am I to assume you mean a distraction of the feminine persuasion?”

“What else is there?” He gestured to the folded paper in Tristan’s hand. “By all accounts, I am not the only one eager to partake in an amorous liaison. I suggest you make haste before your lady grows tired of waiting.”

Tristan cast him a huge grin. “I hope your night proves rewarding. I shall call on you tomorrow.”

“Make sure it is after two. I hope to be thoroughly spent and exhausted and doubt I shall see my bed before dawn.”

They parted ways.

Chandler returned to the ballroom whilst Tristan hurried down the steps and into the garden. Having never been to the Holbrooks’ house before, he had no idea where to find the damn fountain. It was dark. A grey mist still hung in the air. He imagined it would be in a prominent place. Yet after a few minutes searching behind various hedges, he located it tucked away in a discreet corner.

As he approached, he could hear a soft whimpering sound. Had it not been for Isabella’s note he would have made a hasty retreat. But he felt a sudden tightness in his abdomen that told him something was wrong.

“Isabella?” he whispered. If Henry Fernall had harmed her in any way, he would call the gentleman out and to hell with the consequences. “Isabella.”

He heard the lady’s sob before she appeared from a shadowed corner of the hedgerow.

“Miss Smythe?” He blinked rapidly in a bid to recover from his initial surprise. “What on earth are you doing out here?” He glanced past her shoulder, sagged with relief when he realised she was alone.

The lady stepped forward, squinted as she peered at him in the darkness. “Lord … Lord Morford?” She took another hesitant step towards him. “Oh, my lord, I am so relieved it is you.”

Tristan scanned the long golden curls hanging loosely from her coiffure. He questioned why she was clutching the shoulder of her ivory gown until he realised it was torn, the left half of the bodice ripped, hanging down.

“What has happened to your gown?”

Miss Smythe grasped his arm, forgetting that it was the same hand she had used to cover her modesty, and consequently revealing more of her person than expected. “Your mother told Miss Hamilton that she wanted to speak to me privately out on the terrace.”

His mother?

“I decided to avoid her, as I know how determined she can be.” Miss Smythe gave a weary sigh. “But then I thought it was better to speak to her, to make my intentions clear.”

“And what did she say?” Tristan was still struggling with the notion that his mother insisted on using manipulative tricks to get her way.

“That is what is so strange.” Miss Smythe sniffed. “I waited, but she never came. Then I thought I saw her waving at me from the bottom of the garden and so I followed her out here.”

“Did you speak to her?” When he returned to Bedford Square, he would arrange for his mother’s trunks to be packed and inform the coachman not to stop until he reached Ripon.

“No. I looked for her but—” she broke off and gave an odd growl of frustration. “Perhaps I am losing my mind. None of it makes any sense.”

Tristan considered the lady’s dishevelled state. “You must try and remain calm. How did your gown come to be in such a state of disrepair?”

Miss Smythe sucked in a breath as she glanced at the ripped bodice. “This is going to sound ridiculous, I know, but as I approached the fountain a figure pounced from behind the shrubbery. He grabbed the sleeve of my gown and tugged at it until I heard the material tear. And then he simply ran off into the night.”

Tristan rubbed his aching temple. He had never encountered so many tangled mysteries, not even whilst working for the Crown. “Did you recognise this man who attacked you?”

She shook her head vigorously, rather too vigorously considering the deplorable state of her attire. “It was too dark, and he approached me from behind. I know he wore shoes with golden buckles. He smelt of bergamot and some strange exotic spice.”

Tristan gestured to the exposed undergarment beneath the bodice of her gown and then focused his gaze on her face. “That could be any one of a hundred gentlemen in the ballroom this evening.”

She put her hand to her chest. “Oh, what am I to do? Should anyone see my like this I shall be ruined beyond redemption.”

Tristan suspected that was his mother’s intention.

“Just give me a moment to think.” He turned away, put his fingers to his forehead and rubbed in the hope something would spring to mind amidst the confusion. “I shall go and find Lady Fernall,” he said turning back to face a distraught Miss Smythe. “You may borrow her cape. She will escort you to her carriage and see you safely home.”

For a moment he thought the lady might fall to her knees, such was the depth of gratitude expressed on her pretty face. “I cannot thank you enough, my lord. You must know, had I not been meeting your mother I would not have dared to venture out here alone.” Miss Smythe’s bottom lip trembled. She hit the skirt of her gown in a sudden fit of temper. “Oh, I have often mocked those for their naivety, and now I am the most foolish of them all.”

“Calm yourself, Miss Smythe.” Tristan waved his hands in the hope it would help. “Now, you must hide in the shrubbery and wait for Lady Fernall to arrive. She will call out to you, so—”

The sound of a gentleman’s foul curse punctured the already tense air. Tristan scanned the topiary hedge, the frantic shuffling of his feet mirroring the wild flitting of his eyes.

Miss Smythe stepped closer, put her hand on his arm. “Oh, we are too late, my lord.”

With that, Matthew Chandler appeared from the archway in the opposite side of the hedgerow. He stopped before them, put his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“This is not what it looks like,” Tristan said, though when it came to Chandler, he had no need to defend his actions.

“I know,” Chandler said straightening. “That’s why I am here.” His gaze scanned Miss Smythe’s petite form, falling to the exposed curve of her soft bosom. He blinked and shook his head. “You have approximately two minutes before the group of matrons ambling around the perimeter of the garden find you here.”

“Bloody hell!” Tristan pushed his hand through his hair. His mother knew how to execute a plan to perfection. “Tell me this is some sort of joke.” He turned to the lady at his side. “Forgive me, Miss Smythe. I did not mean to curse.”

Miss Smythe clutched her throat. “What are we to do?”

“I would have suggested making an exit through the arch,” Chandler said, “but numerous guests are wandering about at the top of the garden.”

Panic flared.

Tristan’s blood pumped through his body at far too rapid a rate. To be caught alone in a secluded part of the garden was enough to force a betrothal. One look at Miss Smythe and he would be forever known as the scandalous rogue who ravished an innocent maiden on the grass next to the Holbrooks’ fountain.

Damn it all!

Despite the depth of his feelings for Isabella, he could not leave Miss Smythe to the wolves.

He threw his hands up in despair. “There is nothing to be done. I fear my mother knows how to execute a deception with military precision. We are but pathetic pawns in her game.”

“I must say I was surprised to see your mother in attendance,” Chandler said. “When I saw Lady Fernall scouring the ballroom looking for you, I knew something was amiss.”

The faint sound of feminine chatter drifted through the night air.

Hell and damnation!

Tristan turned to Chandler. His head felt heavy, his mind nothing but a mushy mass. “Leave us. It would not serve Miss Smythe well if she were caught alone with two gentlemen.”

Despite the fraught situation, Chandler still seemed remarkably calm. “But what will you do?”

Tristan shrugged. “I don’t have the remotest idea. Pray that the matrons decide to turn back. Hope for a miracle. But knowing my mother, I assume we will have no choice but to wed.”

“Oh, this is dreadful,” Miss Smythe cried. She covered her face with her hands.

Chandler came to stand in front of Miss Smythe. He took hold of her hands and brought them down to her side. “Do you want to marry Lord Morford?” he said in his usual rich drawl as he stared into her eyes.

Miss Smythe sucked in a breath, visibly swallowed as she held his gaze. “No,” she said shaking her head too many times to count. “I do not want to marry Lord Morford. But what else can I do?”

Chandler’s gaze dropped to the lady’s bosom. A smile touched the corners of his mouth as he brought her hands to his lips. “Would you like to marry me?” he said as he brushed his mouth against her gloves.

“What the blazes?” Tristan whispered. “We are trying to salvage something of the lady’s reputation, not ruin it completely.”

Miss Smythe pursed her lips as her gaze travelled over the breadth of Chandler’s chest. “Is … is that an offer, sir?”

Chandler nodded. “It is.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Tristan objected.

Chandler shrugged. “It is not your decision to make.”

“I am told the fountain is somewhere here.” The chatter from behind the trimmed topiary sounded much clearer now.

Tristan’s heart thumped hard against his ribs. “You must decide what you want to do, Miss Smythe,” he said struggling to keep his voice low.

Miss Smythe glanced down at her silk slippers before lifting her head. “Are you able to provide for me, sir?”

“Have no fear,” Chandler replied with an arrogant smirk. “I shall ensure all your needs are met.”

A blush touched Miss Smythe’s cheeks, and she inclined her head. “Then I accept.”

Good Lord!

Had there been time, he would have protested. Not because he believed Matthew would make an appalling husband — on the contrary, his friend had many honourable qualities — but because they were so unsuited.

“You need to leave, Tristan. You need to leave now.” Chandler gestured to the archway. “Call on me tomorrow.”

Tristan nodded, though his mind struggled to make sense of the night’s events. He hovered at the arched exit, turned to see Chandler take Miss Smythe in his arms.

“Now, when people are gossiping about our tryst,” Chandler said, staring into the lady’s eyes, “what is it you want them to say about us? Is this to be a ravishing? Do you wish to be portrayed as a naive woman who was lured into a trap by a rogue?”

Miss Smythe shook her head. “I do not want anyone to think I am so foolish. No,” she added with some determination. “If I have a choice, I would like people to say it is a lo-love match. I want people to think we were so consumed with passion we simply lost our heads.”

Good God. Did the lady know what she was asking?

Chandler’s mouth curled up into a sinful smile. “That is what I hoped you would say. From the moment we are discovered that is how we will play this game. You have my word, as a gentleman, that I will ask for your hand. But for now, I am going to kiss you with such vigour and passion that I believe we truly will lose our heads.”

Tristan stepped back into the shadows. Miss Smythe’s sweet sigh and Matthew Chandler’s mumbled curse of appreciation were drowned out by a series of high-pitched feminine shrieks.

Chapter 18

“All in all, it has been a rather eventful evening.” Isabella sat back in the leather seat as her carriage rattled along the cobbles on its way to Brook Street. She considered the deep furrows between Tristan’s brows. “What troubles you the most? Is it your mother’s utter lack of morals or the prospect that Miss Smythe will have no option but to marry Mr. Chandler?”

Tristan folded his arms across his chest and leant back. “I don’t suppose for a moment my mother considered what would happen to Miss Smythe should there be a fault with her plan.”

Isabella sighed. “What would you have done had Mr. Chandler not appeared from the shrubbery to save the day?” She knew the answer. Tristan would not have let an innocent woman suffer. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

He caught her gaze but struggled to hold it. “I … I would have been forced to act in the only honourable way.”

She smiled, despite the stabbing pains in her heart as she imagined him marrying another. “I would not have expected anything less.”

For the first time since reuniting with him in the Holbrooks’ ballroom, a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I’ve always tried to see the best in every situation. To focus on the negative aspects causes nothing but misery. What Chandler did for me tonight, well, there are no words to express my gratitude.”