A Kiss In The Dark (26 page)

Deirdre’s lush mouth formed an O of distress.

Tristan nodded. “Precisely. Once Aunt Rue learns of this, she shall be on my doorstep demanding to know what is going on.”

“What will you do?” Deirdre asked anxiously, her visage troubled.

“There’s nothing much I can do at this stage, aside from finding Emily. I’ll just have to hope I can sort out this tangle faster than Lady Maplethorpe can send word to my aunt.” He turned back to his servant. “Archer, I believe we shall adjourn to the sitting room for the time being. Please continue to inform any callers that Emily and I are not receiving visitors, and have Cook send in a tea tray as soon as possible.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed, then paused for a moment. “I’m sure we shall find Lady Emily before too much longer, my lord. On behalf of the staff, may I say we shall be glad to have her back home?”

“You may, Archer, and you’ll be no more glad than I.”

The servant nodded and shuffled off.

As soon as he was out of sight, Deirdre turned to Tristan, a slight smile curving the corner of her lips. “I like your Archer.”

“Yes, I like him rather well myself. He’s been with us for as long as I can remember.”

“He seems quite fond of you and Emily.”

“He was more of a father to us than our own ever was.” Tristan bowed his head as a familiar wave of pain washed over him, followed closely by righteous anger. “When I think of how much responsibility he’s had to bear in the past eight years.... Looking after a rebellious young girl, taking on father’s duties as well as his own …”

Deirdre reached up to cover his hand with hers. As always, heat raced through him at even her most innocent touch. Nostrils flaring, he fought it back and tried to focus on what she was saying. “But that’s all in the past now. You’re here, and you can make everything right.”

Could he? It seemed like all he’d done since he’d returned was make things worse.

Shaking off his musings, he looked down at his companion. He would worry about all of that when he finally located Emily. For now, it was time to devote himself to the task at hand.

With one hand, he indicated the sitting room they had passed through on the way in. “Shall we?”

She preceded him into the chamber, where he seated her on a brocade-padded sofa close to the hearth. Moving to the sideboard, he dashed a quick swallow of brandy into a snifter before returning to her side.

“Here. Drink this,” he instructed, pressing it into her cold hands. “You look as if you could use it.”

She shook her head. “Oh, but I don’t drink.”

“Please, Deirdre. It isn’t much, and it will help calm you. You’ve had quite a shock today.”

Relenting, she dutifully downed the contents, grimacing as she handed the empty glass back to him. “Thank you.”

He didn’t bother to reply, but set the snifter aside and leaned one shoulder against the fireplace mantel in a casual stance. He would have to do this delicately, gently, yet he could allow her no quarter. She had to be made to see that she couldn’t keep hiding her feelings in such a way.

“I’m sorry about Mouse, Deirdre,” he said, never taking his gaze from her face.

Her jaw tightened and she looked away. “I’m afraid that sort of thing happens in Tothill all too often.”

“But not to someone you know.”

“It’s unfortunate, of course, but—”

“Don’t.”

The word, though softly spoken, held the impact of a whip crack, effectively halting the rest of her sentence. Flinching, she stared down at her hands in her lap, her shoulders rigid.

Moving forward, Tristan knelt before her and reached out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t try to pretend that you’re unaffected by it all, that his death means nothing to you. I’ve seen you with these people, remember? You care about them, feel responsible for them, and something like this is bound to have devastated you.”

She closed her eyes and took a quavering breath before attempting to jerk her chin from his grasp. He wouldn’t let her. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers, feeling her go absolutely still at his nearness. He struggled to speak in as soothing a tone as possible. “Please, Deirdre. You don’t have to be strong. Not right now. Not with me. Go ahead and cry if you need to.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was muffled, trembling. “I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never stop. I have to be brave, to keep pushing forward. For them.”

“They’re not here right now. It’s only you and me, and I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

She gave a choked little whimper and clutched at his shoulders, and Tristan suddenly became aware of the brush of something moist against the side of his face. It trailed down the high ridge of his cheekbone and came to rest at the corner of his mouth, tasting slightly salty.

Deirdre was crying without making a sound.

Straightening, he cupped her face in his hands, unprepared for what the sight of those silent tears streaming down her cheeks would do to him. He was stunned, feeling as if someone had punched him in his stomach and left him breathless.

“It’s my fault,” she whispered.

“No. Don’t even think that.” Unable to help himself, he started to kiss away the wetness, pressing his lips fervently against her soft skin over and over in an effort to erase the signs of her sorrow. But for every tear he sipped away, another took its place, sending an arrow straight to his heart.

He’d gotten what he wanted. She was grieving. But now he had to wonder if it had been worth the price.

“It’s not your fault,” he told her, stroking the pale curve of her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m supposed to protect them, look after them.”

“And who’s going to protect you? Who’s going to look after you? You can’t be responsible for all of them.”

She didn’t answer; she merely shook her head and began to weep in earnest, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

Tristan couldn’t take it another moment. Sitting down on the sofa next to her, he scooped her up and plunked her down onto his lap, wrapping her in the protective circle of his arms and burying his nose in the strawberry-scented strands of her hair.

“It’s all right, darling,” he husked, unconcerned by the endearment that had escaped his lips without volition. “You go ahead and cry. I have you, and I’ll hold you as long as you need me to.”

He rocked her, making soothing noises, and when Archer came to the door a few minutes later with the tea tray, he waved the servant away with one brief gesture. The butler nodded and backed out of the room, closing the portal behind him with a barely audible click.

And for a long time afterward, as the light of late afternoon eased on into the shadows of dusk, Tristan held her and let her cry.

Deirdre stirred, aware of a vague impression of warmth enfolding her, cocooning her, making her feel safe and protected. It had been so long since she’d felt that way, since long before Nigel’s death, and she allowed herself a rare moment to savor it before forcing her eyes open to take stock of her surroundings.

As the dark outlines of the room came into focus, her memory rushed back in a flood, and she felt her face heat in response. Dear Lord, she was on Tristan’s lap. In Tristan’s arms.

They were still on the sofa, her head tucked against his chest and his heart pounding beneath her ear. It was a steady, rhythmic sound that had apparently lulled her to sleep.

She bit her lip in consternation. She’d come apart at the seams. And the thought that Tristan had been a witness to it mortified her. What must he think of her now?

“Are you awake?”

His faintly amused tone made her start and sit bolt upright in his lap. Their gazes collided as she looked up at him. “Y-yes.”

“That’s good. I think I’ve lost the feeling in my right leg.”

“Oh, dear! I’m so sorry!” Certain her face must be beet red, she started to fling herself from his lap, but he caught her before she could, gripping her arms with gentle fingers.

“It’s all right, Deirdre. I was only teasing.” His violet eyes glowed with a strange light in the dimness of the room. “I actually quite enjoyed it.”

“Aside from the part where I sobbed all over you?”

He abruptly turned serious. “That was something you needed, Deirdre. Don’t apologize for it. It’s not right to keep that sort of emotion bottled up. It has to come out or it just builds inside you until it overflows.”

It was true. Ever since Nigel’s death she’d been struggling to stay strong, to deny her grief and plunge ahead with her single-minded quest. If she kept going, if she refused to allow herself the time to mourn, she couldn’t fall apart. Mouse’s murder had been the final straw, and the fragile thread that had been holding her together had snapped.

Now that it was over, she had to admit that she felt lighter, not quite so weighed down by all her burdens. But that didn’t make her any less embarrassed at her loss of control.

Aware all the while of the feel of his strong, solid thighs beneath her, she eased herself from Tristan’s arms and stood, shaking out the folds of her skirt in an effort to avoid meeting his eyes. “Yes, well, thank you.”

“Always my pleasure to assist a damsel in distress.”

She looked around, noting the darkening sky outside the window with a pang of sudden concern. “How long was I asleep?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A couple of hours, I would guess.”

“A couple of hours?” Her voice was shrill, and she whirled to face him, forgetting her self-consciousness of just seconds ago. “Why did you let me sleep for so long? We have things to do. We have to find Emily, and Cullen must be wondering—”

“Deirdre, calm down. It’s all right. Cullen is in the servants’ quarters sharing tea and a plate of Cook’s delicious raspberry tarts with the kitchen staff. And to be truthful, I dozed off a bit, too.” His eyes locked with hers, his expression hooded. “I suppose I must have been … comfortable.”

His stare made her feel oddly breathless, and she looked away, seeking to distract herself from the befuddling sensation. As she did so, her attention was caught and held by a portrait hanging above the sideboard on the far side of the room. Something about it drew her with a powerful magnetism.

Crossing the chamber, she tilted her head back and studied it with curiosity. “Is this your father?”

Tristan, who had risen to light a lamp on a nearby gilt-edged table, seemed to still, and when he replied, his tone sounded cautious, strained. “Yes.”

She supposed she could see the resemblance. True, the late earl had been brown-eyed, where his son had the violet eyes of his mother, but they both possessed the same dark coloring, and there was a definite similarity in stature and build, in the aristocratic lines of their faces and in the assured way they held themselves. However, there was a hardness in the older man’s eyes that was missing in Tristan’s, a chilling severity that had Deirdre suppressing a shiver.

She stared up at him as he joined her. “You said you didn’t get along?”

Tristan shook his head, his jaw tautening visibly. “He didn’t get along with anyone except my mother. I think she was the one thing in this life he truly loved. But as far as he was concerned, I could do nothing right. I was a dismal failure as both son and heir, and he never let me forget it. Not for a moment.” His shoulders moved in a shrug. “I suppose he’s been proven right.”

“Don’t say that. You came home. You accepted your responsibilities, and I’m certain you’re doing the best you can in the circumstances.”

“But it’s not good enough. Nothing I’ve done has ever been good enough.” Pivoting, Tristan stalked across the chamber and came to a stop in front of the fireplace, standing with his head bent, as if in serious contemplation. Then, seeming to come to some sort of a decision, he turned to look back at her over his shoulder.

“You asked me yesterday what I’ve been doing since my father banished me from London,” he began. “The truth is, those first few years I was every bit the wastrel he once accused me of being. Gallivanting about England, never staying in one place for long, trying to drown out the pain of my mother’s death by drinking and racing from one reckless pursuit to the next.”

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck in an agitated gesture. “Then, one day about four years ago, I ran into a boyhood friend of mine in a tavern in Brighton. We sat down together and shared a few drinks and some anecdotes, and it was as I was talking to him that I realized just how empty my life had become. There he was, the same age as I, already wed with a child on the way, and he’d managed to accrue quite a fortune with some very sound investments.”

His eyes blazed with a fierce light as he met Deirdre’s gaze. “I made up my mind right then and there that I was going to make something of my life, that I was going to prove to my father that he was wrong about me. Prove to him that I was worth something.”

At the underlying thread of pain in his voice, Deirdre took a step toward him, longing to reach out to him, but too uncertain of his reaction if she should do so. “What did you do?”

“I had a bit of money left from the inheritance I received from my mother upon her death. It wasn’t much. Just enough to invest a small amount in one of my friend’s shipping ventures. To my surprise, I proved to have quite a head for business, and though I’m far from wealthy, over time I’ve managed to build up a sizable amount.”