What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (6 page)

Chapter 5

“I shall wait opposite the Blue Boar Inn, near the ancient oak tree.” Tristan opened the door of Isabella’s carriage and waited for her to settle into the cushioned seat.

Anyone listening would have presumed they were planning a secret rendezvous. A lovers’ tryst. A frisson of excitement coursed through his veins. The exquisite emotion brought with it a memory of when they had met under an old cedar tree. That afternoon, she had climbed into his conveyance to set out on an adventure, a quest for the freedom to express their love.

“I shall meet you there at nine.” She lurched forward, placed her hand lightly on his arm as he held on to the door. “Thank you. Perhaps tonight I might finally be able to sleep.”

He forced a smile to disguise the distress her touch evoked. How would he fare spending a few days in her company? When all was done and settled, would she put him out of his misery and explain her reason for marrying Lord Fernall? Would the truth ease years of excruciating torment?

“Until tomorrow.” He inclined his head, grateful that his mask concealed any evidence of his chaotic emotions.

“Until tomorrow.” She sat back against the squab and gave a curt nod.

Tristan closed the door firmly, called up to the coachman to convey her destination. The carriage lunged forward, picked up a gentle pace. He removed his mask, stood and watched as it turned the corner and disappeared from view. But he continued to stare at nothing for a few moments longer.

The friendly pat on his shoulder jolted him back to the present.

“I must say I did expect you to leave with her.” Chandler stood at his side and stared into the distance, too. “You are both free to conduct a discreet liaison.”

In truth, he could think of nothing he would rather do. Things would have been so different had they only just met.

“We are friends, nothing more.” It hurt to say the words. He wanted to believe them. But something inside refused to acknowledge all hope was lost, refused to accept that was the extent of their relationship. “Everything else is in the past.”

“Is it? I’m not so certain.”

Tristan whipped around to face him. “She married another man,” he said through gritted teeth. He had to unleash his pent up anger on someone.

Chandler shrugged, unaffected by his volatile mood. “But he is dead, and you are very much alive.”

“Am I?” He had been dead inside for five years.

Chandler appeared confused by his reply. “You’re letting resentment cloud your judgement.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t feel the same way if you were in my position?”

“I have no notion how I would react. I have never loved a woman the way you love her.”

Chandler’s words were like a barbed arrow to his heart. Amidst the bedlam of the emotional battle raging inside he tried to make sense of his feelings. He had loved Isabella for as long as he could remember. Whilst bitterness had forced him to suppress the feeling, love still flourished deep within.

“Is it so obvious?” he asked with some amusement. To laugh was just another way of coping.

“You had the opportunity to dally with a shepherdess whose wicked tongue can bring any lost lamb to heel.” Chandler raised his hand as a means of preventing any interruption. “Don’t say you were only thinking of my interests. There are plenty of ladies here eager to spend time in my company.”

“Plenty?” Tristan snorted, although he knew Chandler was never short of female companionship. “You always were a conceited devil.”

“There is a vast difference between conceit and confidence.” Chandler smiled as he raised a brow. “I am confident in my ability to please. Now, shall I give you some advice?”

Tristan waved for him to continue. “Please do.”

“Look beyond what you believe to be true. Ask yourself why a woman would turn her back on the man she loves in order to marry a cold-hearted blackguard.”

Was that to be the extent of his friend’s wisdom? Tristan had thought about nothing else for the last five years. The permanent pounding in his head was testament to that. “The answer is obvious. She married for money and status. At the time, I was but the second son of a viscount.”

“You make it sound as though you were a pauper.” Chandler frowned. “Do you truly believe Isabella would have chosen a title and money over love?”

“No. I do not.” Tristan closed his eyes briefly as he recalled the moment he learnt of her duplicity. “That is what shocked me most of all.”

“I fear not all is as it seems. When a person’s actions appear illogical, there is always a vital piece of information that has been overlooked.”

Suspicion caused his heart to race. “Do you know something more? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Chandler shook his head. “Of course not. But I excel in observing people and their habits. I know the face of a woman capable of deceit. I know greed. I know the actions of a woman whose interests are purely self-serving.”

“But you do not know the face of a woman in love,” Tristan countered. “Perhaps I misread her affections. Perhaps she realised it was not love she felt.”

Chandler gave a mischievous grin. “I don’t want you to think my debauched antics in any way have affected my preferences in the bedchamber, but you are a remarkably handsome man.” Chandler gripped Tristan’s shoulder and squeezed. “I do not know what you have been doing in France, but I imagine your body resembles the marble statues of Greek gods so often displayed in museums. You’re kind and generous, loyal to a fault. What is not to love?”

Tristan laughed, though was somewhat bemused by his friend’s compliments. “Had I not known of your voracious lust for women I might have been worried.”

“Whilst I often go to great lengths to shock and cause outrage, I come out in an ugly rash whenever I brush against a gentleman’s bristly chin.”

It had been months since Tristan had laughed so hard. He made a mental note to spend more time with Chandler.

“I am off to Bedfordshire on estate business for a few days, but I have a feeling I may be in need of your company upon my return.” Indeed, a few days spent with Isabella was sure to be a torturous affair. “Do you still frequent White’s?”

Chandler snorted. “Not since I was a snivelling pup. My tastes tend to lean towards the ruinous. There is a rather adequate sink of iniquity on James’ Street. Perhaps you might care to join me there one evening.”

Tristan’s experiences in France had taught him that gambling was a one-way road to debtors’ prison. “I’ll accompany you, but only as a spectator. I lack your skill when it comes to card games.”

“And my skill with women.” Chandler slapped him on the back. “What a shame you’re off to Bedfordshire. My advice regarding Isabella was to spend more time in her company. Only then will the truth become abundantly clear.” Chandler sighed. “Now, the night is still young. Shall we see if we can find that tempting shepherdess?”

Tristan shook his head. “I’m afraid I must decline. I must rise early in the morning if I’m to make it to Kempston at a reasonable hour.”

“Indeed.” Chandler gave a knowing smirk. “Well, enjoy your time in Bedfordshire. I certainly hope your business proves fruitful.”

It was midnight by the time Tristan returned home to Bedford Square, still relatively early by most gentlemen’s standards.

“Is Lady Morford in her chamber?” Tristan could not leave London without informing his mother that he had business at Kempston Hall. In the process, there were a few questions he had regarding the death of Lord Fernall.

“No, my lord. Lady Morford is waiting in the parlour. She asked to be informed the moment you returned.” Ebsworth waved gracefully at the door to their left. “And a Mr. Fellows is waiting for you in the study.”

Fellows? What the hell did he want at such a ridiculous time of night?

“You should have informed him I was not at home.” His sharp tone conveyed his irritation.

Ebsworth inclined his head by way of an apology. “Forgive me, my lord. But Lady Morford insisted I show the gentleman in.”

Tristan cursed silently. “Inform Mr. Fellows of my return and explain that I shall attend him shortly.” Anyone inconsiderate enough to call at a late hour should be made to wait.

Ebsworth bowed. “Certainly, my lord.”

Tristan strode to the parlour. He hovered outside the door in a bid to calm his ragged breathing. It would be a mistake to charge into the room and demand to know why the hell no one had told him of Lord Fernall’s death. There were many more burning questions, too. Why hadn’t she told him Andrew had been visiting Isabella when he died? And what the hell was his brother doing there in the first place?

With a shake of the head, he tapped the door and entered.

“Tristan. Is that you?” His mother lay stretched out on the chaise. In one hand, she clutched a lace-trimmed handkerchief; the other hand lay limply over her brow. “Ah, there you are.”

“Is it not a little dark in here?” He glanced at the solitary candle flickering in its holder on the side table. “We have no need to be frugal.”

“I find the light hurts my eyes.” She gave a woeful sigh.

“Ebsworth said you were waiting for me to come home.”

She raised her arm slowly, as though it weighed more than her entire body, and waved her handkerchief. “Help me to sit up, won’t you.”

Melancholy obviously had a debilitating effect on her. He assisted her in shuffling to an upright position, found a cushion to support her back.

“Mr. Fellows is waiting to speak to you,” she said. “He told me that you did not attend Lady Padmore’s soiree. Apparently, Miss Smythe was expecting to see you there and was frightfully disappointed to find you absent.”

Had Fellows come purely to chastise him for his thoughtlessness? He suspected the gentleman had only been granted entrance because of his eagerness to speak of Miss Smythe.

“I made no promises to Miss Smythe.” Whilst he felt the need for honesty, he did not want to antagonise a lady in mourning. “I decided to visit an old friend. His company proved to be rather entertaining, hence my decision to forgo Lady Padmore’s soiree.”

His mother’s eyelids suddenly appeared less hooded, and she cast him a look that conveyed an inner frustration. “But only two nights ago you left the Mottlesborough concert before the interval without saying a word to Miss Smythe. Your indifferent behaviour will leave a stain on her reputation. What must she think of you?”

Tristan pushed his hand through his hair. “Miss Smythe was in the company of Mr. Fellows. It would have been rude of me to interrupt.”

She flapped her pristine white handkerchief. “Well, where did you go?”

“Does it matter?”

“Matter? Good heavens. You left your betrothed in the company of another gentleman, of course it matters.” She placed her hand to her chest. “I fear my heart cannot stand the strain.”

He was suddenly grateful he had not sat down. To jump out of the chair in a burst of anger would surely bring on one of her migraines.

“Miss Smythe is not my betrothed. Whilst she is quite amiable, I have no intention of marrying a woman who speaks of nothing but sewing.”

“Sewing! The lady is accomplished in many things. I’m sure if you went to the trouble of spending an entire evening in her company you would discover that her talents know no bounds.” His mother nodded as though agreeing with a comment he had yet to make. “Yes. Yes. You must spend the afternoon with her. Take her for a ride in the park, to Gunter’s or wherever you young people go for amusement. I shall send a note and arrange it on your behalf.”

Tristan sighed, purely to suppress a smirk. “I’m afraid my afternoon with Miss Smythe will have to wait. I must ride to Kempston as a matter of urgency.”

“Kempston? Kempston! How long will you be gone?”

Tristan shrugged. “Three days, assuming all goes well. Perhaps a little longer.” He considered journeying to France and saying
to hell
with it all.

“Three days?” Her handkerchief slipped from her fingers as she flapped her hands in annoyance. “Can’t Mr. Henderson deal with things? What do you pay the man for if he cannot cope with simple problems?”

“Whatever the problem, I must leave in the morning.” It was wrong to distrust one’s mother, but he chose not to reveal his time of departure for fear he would wake to find his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.

“But you can’t go. You’re needed here. Our situation is dire. I cannot cope without you.”

He refused to let his mother use her grief for Andrew’s passing as a means to control him. “I am needed at Kempston Hall,” he reiterated firmly. It crossed his mind to broach the subject of Lord Fernall’s death, but he did not wish to rouse her suspicions.

“And what am I to tell Miss Smythe when she calls tomorrow afternoon to take tea?”

Tristan coughed into his fist to suppress a chuckle before feigning a serious expression. “Tell her you’re interested in the alterations she has made to her bonnet. That way I doubt she’ll even notice my
absence.”

Tristan strode towards the study expecting to feel a wave of guilt for not agreeing to his mother’s petty demands. But instead, his body felt lighter; there was a playful spring to his step, and his wide grin stretched from ear to ear. He hadn’t felt this good in months.