What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) (27 page)

"Yes, and I remember you received a slap for your rather salacious reply."

Marcus placed his hands on her ankles, ran them up under her dress and over her bare thighs. "Then I shall make another proposal."

"Yes." The word was accompanied by a soft sigh as his fingers brushed against the spot that ached for his touch.

"I propose you slap me now, as I can promise you my salacious intentions will leave you exhausted and incapable of moving a muscle."

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What You Propose.

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What You Deserve,
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What You Deserve

Anything for Love

Book 3

Chapter 1

Tristan Wells, seventh Viscount Morford, stood alone in the drawing room of Lord Mottlesborough's townhouse, watching the musicians unpack their instruments in preparation for the concert.

Lady Mottlesborough came scuttling into the room, her hand flying to her chest when she discovered him loitering behind the door. "Good heavens, my lord. You gave me a fright. What on earth are you doing hiding back there?"

Tristan blinked rapidly. Judging by the sight of the excessively large turban enveloping the matron's head, he should be the one clutching his chest.
Beneath the voluminous folds of exotic silk, he imagined she was as bald as the day she was born.

"I'm just taking a moment to gather my thoughts." Under present circumstances, she could hardly question his motives. While mourning the loss of one's brother rarely affected a gentleman's social calendar, a more subdued countenance was only to be expected.

The lady gave a rueful smile. "I assume your mother has pestered you to leave the house again this evening." She nodded to the musicians and whispered, "I doubt their skill has dragged you here as they are hardly the talk of the Season."

He snorted. "As you are aware, my mother makes no secret of the fact she is keen for me to find a bride."

With Tristan being the only other male member of the family, his mother's eagerness for him to produce an heir bordered on desperation.

"I have heard she has a particular lady in mind."

"She has many ladies in mind," Tristan said with a derisive chuckle, "as long as they're from good breeding stock." In truth, he was beginning to feel like a Hereford bull being herded into a pasture full of heifers.

"I understand your mother's urgency to see you wed," Lady Mottlesborough said. "Despite her mourning period, no one would cast aspersions on the decision to protect one's heritage. Indeed, we are all aware that one's duty and responsibility must come before everything else."

Tristan knew better than anyone the sacrifices one must make for the sake of patrimony. But with his mother still in full mourning, it prevented her from attending functions, and as such, he found it more preferable to wander the corridors of other people's houses than remain in his own. He also came in hope of finding more stimulating conversation, something that did not involve talk of flounces and other such fripperies.

"For the moment, I have been granted a reprieve," he said with a weary sigh.

Lady Mottlesborough nodded. "And so you linger in the shadows in the hope the ladies won't find you." She raised a curious brow. "Or perhaps it is one particular lady you wish to avoid. Where is the lovely Miss Smythe this evening?"

Miss Priscilla Smythe
was
lovely. She possessed a sweet, kind disposition, a generous heart, and a pretty countenance. Whenever he thought of kissing her, he thought of summer meadows, birds chirping merrily, and chocolate macaroons. On the whole, he imagined the experience would be pleasant, if not particularly memorable.

"I believe you will find her surrounded by a host of other ladies just as eager to discuss the merits of ribbon over lace."

Lady Mottlesborough nodded despite the hint of contempt in his tone. "I am afraid we ladies tend to take the topic of haberdashery extremely seriously." She chuckled. "Sewing and embroidery are subjects dear to my heart."

Tristan wondered if that's why she wore the turban. Perhaps she carried her frame and threads around with her in case she found the evening's entertainment too dull. "I'm certain that when you stumble upon Miss Smythe, she will be only too happy to hear all about it."

The matron's gaze drifted over his face. "Perhaps your interest lies elsewhere. Perhaps you have another lady in mind."

Tristan knew to have a care. Friendly overtures were often used to drag snippets of gossip from unsuspecting fools. Many unwilling parties had been forced into an arrangement simply to stop loose tongues from wagging.

"This evening, I'm only interested in listening to a soothing melody whilst enjoying my freedom for a little while longer."

He wanted to say that he had no interest in titles or land. He had no interest in the begetting of an heir, or to be the husband of a woman who failed to ignite even the smallest spark of passion in his chest.

Lady Mottlesborough winced at the sound of the harsh chords being struck as the musicians warmed up their bows. "I hate to be the one to ruin an evening, but the Baxendale Quartet are quite mediocre when it comes to Haydn."

"Then I thank you for the warning," he said with a smirk, "and shall take care to sit near the back."

"A splendid idea. Had I not been the hostess, I most certainly would have joined you." Lady Mottlesborough's attention drifted to the door. "And now it seems your plan to go unnoticed has been foiled, my lord."

Tristan followed her gaze to see Miss Priscilla Smythe and her companion, Miss Hamilton, enter the drawing room.

Lady Mottlesborough tapped his arm with her closed fan. "I'm afraid there is no escaping now," she said before turning to greet the other guests pouring in through the door.

He suppressed a groan as both ladies smiled sweetly and came over to join him.

"I simply knew we would find you in here, eager to secure the best seat." Miss Smythe chuckled sweetly, her golden ringlets bobbing up and down in response. She turned to Miss Hamilton. "Lady Morford said he simply adores Haydn."

"You all know me only too well," he said, his affable tone bringing on a bout of nausea. In reality, none of them knew him at all.

Tristan sighed inwardly. It had not taken him long to fall back into the feigned modes of conduct he despised. Showing enthusiasm when he had none came easier to him than he thought.

"I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Fellows," Miss Smythe said fluttering her lashes, which appeared to be a nervous habit as opposed to a means of flirtation.

"Mr. Fellows?" He made an attempt to look interested.

"My friend Jayne's brother. Don't you remember me telling you that he has recently returned from a spell in India?"

She could well have mentioned it amongst all the talk of bonnets and bombazine. "Of course," he lied.

Miss Smythe gestured to the gentleman with wavy black hair and ridiculous side-whiskers who, upon catching their eye, nodded to the row of chairs at the front.

"Oh, there he is. He did say we should all sit together."

Tristan cleared his throat. "I prefer to sit at the back. I find one can appreciate the melody much more when it is carried through the room."

Miss Smythe's bright smile faded. "Oh. But Mr. Fellows is here alone, and it would be rude not to accompany him now he has gone to the trouble of securing the best seats."

Tristan suppressed a smile. "You and Miss Hamilton may sit with Mr. Fellows. I shall sit elsewhere. Besides, I find Haydn can best be appreciated when there are no pretty distractions."

The lady blushed. "Well, if you're sure you don't mind."

"Not at all." He inclined his head. "And poor Mr. Fellows looks as though he could do with some company. Now, hurry before someone else attempts to steal them from under his nose."

Miss Smythe jumped at the suggestion. "Shall we all meet for refreshments in the interval?"

"Certainly," he said with an affected smile.

Tristan watched them hurry away before heading to the empty row at the back. Flopping down into the chair, he gazed over the sea of heads and stifled a yawn.

Good Lord.

What the hell was he doing? With each passing day, he lost sight of the man who spied on smugglers, got drunk on cheap wine, cursed and laughed with labourers and farm hands. He hated behaving like a preened prig. Had his mother not been so distraught over the death of his brother, they would be sharing a few stern words.

Tristan closed his eyes, but the low hum of mumbled whispers from the crowd, interspersed with a few strained chords of the cello, proved too distracting. He peered between the rows of shoulders to see Miss Smythe seated next to Mr. Fellows. Perhaps the gentleman had developed an affection for her. Tristan sincerely hoped so as it would ease his burden a little.

As the musicians began to play and the haunting notes filled the air, a sudden shiver raced through his body. Having chosen not to sit next to the aisle — if he fell asleep there was a good chance he would end up on the floor — he was surprised to find that the latecomer had decided to sit next to him as opposed to the empty row adjacent.

For fear of appearing rude, he did not gape but glanced covertly out of the corner of his eye. The lady was dressed in grey silk, the edges of her sleeves trimmed with black lace. She held her hands demurely in her lap. The sight of her black gloves coupled with her sombre-looking gown complemented his own choice of black attire.

The lady edged a little closer. The air around them vibrated with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the music. The hairs on his nape stood to attention, his body growing more acutely aware of the woman seated at his side. He shuffled back in the chair in an attempt to study her profile. But without any warning, she spoke.

"Hello, Tristan." Her words were but a soft purr, the soothing sound causing tingles to spark suddenly like fireworks, shooting sporadically through various parts of his body.

He would know her voice anywhere.

He had heard it in his dreams too many times to forget its sweet timbre.

Turning slowly in a bid to prepare his weak heart, he glanced at her face. Her deep pink lips were just as full as he remembered. Her dark brown eyes still held the power to reach into his soul. The ebony curls were just as dark as the night he had covered her body with his own to claim the only woman he had ever wanted.

"Isabella." Years of torturous agony hung within that one word, years of longing, years of living with her betrayal.

"I must speak to you," she said, her breath coming as quick as his.

He suppressed a snigger of contempt. She'd had nothing to say to him when she left him and married another man. During the five years since their separation, she could have written to him many times. She could have found him in France if that was what she'd wanted.

Why here? Why now?

"After all this time, I doubt there is anything left to say." His tone was deliberately cold, blunt. The memories of her were like painful wounds that refused to heal and so he had no choice but to hide them beneath bandages of indifference.

"I did not come here for the music," she whispered, but he noted anger infused her tone.

What the hell did she have to be angry about?

The gentleman in front turned his head. "Shush."

Tristan cast him an irate glare. "And I did not come here to revisit the past," he muttered to her through gritted teeth.

"But this is not about the past." She gave a weary sigh as though she would rather be anywhere else than sitting talking to him. "This is about Andrew."

"Andrew?" He could not hide his surprise.

During the two months since his return, she had not called at the house. She had not come to pay her respects, or to offer her condolences.

"I cannot speak about it here," she said as she placed a hesitant hand on his arm. His traitorous body responded immediately as a familiar warmth travelled through him. "My carriage is waiting outside."

Without another word, she stood and walked out through the door.

His heart lurched. The urge to run after her would never leave him.

He should tell her to go to the devil, let her husband be the one to listen to her pitiful woes. Turning back to face the musicians, he closed his eyes in the hope the melody would ease his restless soul. But the haunting harmony only served to remind him of all he had lost.

Perhaps if he went to her, she would offer an explanation for her lies and deceit. Perhaps then he would be able to move forward, take a wife, and produce an heir.