When Tempting a Rogue (16 page)

Perhaps she truly had lost her appeal.

“Trystan, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Not going to give me the ‘it isn’t proper’ speech, are you?”

“Hang propriety, you need to be downstairs taking care of guests, convincing them to be charitable.”

“Relax, Frenchy. Everyone has been very generous, and Sadie told me that my tally is even better than the last time you hosted one of these shindigs. Everything is good.”

“Of course your tally is better,” she remarked a little more bitterly than she intended. “Do not call me Frenchy. You know how I feel about that.” During their affair he had teasingly called her that. To hear it now was like mockery.

His brows lifted. “Do I detect a hint of bitterness?”

She scowled at him, the pain making her heedless of how she sounded. “Of course I’m bitter. Everything you touch seems to turn to gold. You appear to be better at running my business than I am, and I’m not the least bit surprised!”

“Has it not occurred to you that my success this evening has more to do with wanting to impress you or because I don’t want to let you down?” They reached the bed and he continued to hold her hands as she slowly sat down.

She glanced up at him, gritting her teeth through the pain. “Why in the name of God would you want to impress me?”

He shrugged. “At the moment? Damned if I know. Lie down.”

Most men, she would tell to go to hell. There was no way she would put herself on her belly and make herself vulnerable when she had no protection except a thin layer of cotton, but Trystan had more honor than that.

She trusted him—with her livelihood. Her mind wanted to invent all manner of horrible things he could be doing, paranoid that he was out to ruin her and drive her business into the ground, but some other part of her—a stronger part—wouldn’t have it.

It took all her strength to do it, and not cry, but she managed to settle onto her stomach. Trystan’s hands were warm as they pulled down one sleeve and then the other. She hadn’t bothered to retie the neckline, so it gave way easily under his fingers.

He took the top off a jar, scooped out some ointment, and rubbed it between his palms to warm it. Of course he would think to do that. Everything he did was done exactly the right way.

“Smells nice,” she commented, a little anxious.

“Effective too,” he replied. “This will have you better in no time. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to rub it on, all right?”

She nodded, cheek rubbing against the pillow. “I trust you.”

He hesitated. “Thank you.”

How could two simple words turn her heart to pudding?

His touch was so gentle, but even still she sucked in a breath when he began to lightly massage the ointment into her skin. Never before had she ached like this.

“I hear you sold for more than one thousand pounds,” she remarked, distracting herself with conversation.

“News travels fast.”

“Saint’s Row is known for discretion, but I know everything that happens under this roof or on my property.”

“Of course you do. It would be bad business if you didn’t. And to put a finer point on it, I sold for one thousand six.”

“To whom?” Did she sound disinterested? She wanted to sound as though it made no never mind what he did, or how much some desperate woman paid him to do it.

“Lady Gosling,” he replied. “Caused quite the ruckus what with her husband barely in the ground. Not one for mourning, Lady G.”

Vienne closed her eyes. Of course it would be that slag Gosling. The woman was in a constant state of heat. “I know what she’s hoping to have for dinner. You’d best take a chair and a whip with you just in case.”

He laughed, and some of the sick feeling in her stomach eased. “No need. I’ve no desire to sample what the lady has to offer; and if she thinks I’m offering anymore than a pleasant evening, she will be in for a shock.”

“A pleasant evening is exactly what she has in mind, Trystan.”

His hands stilled. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with a strange smile on his lips. “Why, Vienne. Are you jealous?”

She snorted. “Do not be ridiculous. I simply do not believe you know what you are getting yourself into.”

His lovely hands began to move again. “No, you’re trying to make certain I don’t ‘get into’ anything, or anyone.”

She coughed, choking on a breath. “You are the most self-satisfied man I know. You think every woman wants you.”

“You have met my brother Archer, have you not? And I am not the one accusing Lady Gosling of having seduction on her mind. If either of us believes all women want me, it’s you.”

He had her there. “I do not believe every woman wants you.” She should follow with a declaration that she didn’t want him, but she couldn’t quite do that.

“That’s all right, Vienne. I won’t tell anyone that you find me so terribly attractive you think all women must as well. Honestly, I’m flattered.”

“You’re delusional, that’s what you are.”

Trystan chuckled. “Perhaps. There, all done.” Gently he tugged her gown as much into place as he could with her on her stomach. “You should notice a big difference in the morning. Have your maid or Sadie put more on you then, and another application tomorrow evening.”

She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

His gaze had a warmth to it she hadn’t seen in years. “You’re welcome. I’ll check in on you tomorrow afternoon, if that is all right.”

“I hope to be at the site by then.”

“You won’t be,” he informed her. “You will be right here, in bed recovering.”

“I’ve lain abed long enough.”

“No, you haven’t, and you’ll figure that out when you wake up tomorrow morning stiffer than you are now.”

“I thought you said I would notice an improvement.”

“In the pain and bruising, but you’re still going to be sore. Now, try to get some rest. Just because I can make do without you for a few days, does not mean I like it.”

He pulled the blankets up over her. “Do you need anything?”

Laudanum would take away the slight ache in her skull, and probably lull her away from the pain that plagued her entire body, but she didn’t like to feel fuzzyheaded and out of control. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He patted her hand. “You are very welcome. Good night, Vienne.”

“Good night, Trystan.”

She listened as his left the bed and walked across the carpet to the door. He paused on the threshold. “Say, Vienne . . . do you suppose we should offer an evening with me as a service in one of our shops? We’d make back our investment in no time. Just think about it.”

She was still laughing when she heard the door click shut behind him.

T
rystan was right, of course. He always was, the infuriating man. Vienne wasn’t as sore the next morning, but she was stiffer than a stale baguette. There was no way she could get herself to the construction site. No hope of leaving the premises at all.

Idleness was not something she liked. She much preferred to be busy, doing something. Lounging in bed gave her too much time to think about her past and all the regrets that lingered there. There was only so much reading she could do before her mind started to wander. If she read a historical account or periodical, her mind wandered to thoughts of Trystan and how things were progressing at the site. If she read a novel, she began to imagine herself and Trystan as characters in the narrative.

There was nothing for it. She missed him. Missed his teasing and his ideas. Most of all she missed his optimism and how he treated her—as though he had her best interests at heart. She even missed how he ordered her about. Who knew that Trystan Kane could put his foot down, or that it would be such a firm, resolute foot at that? There was no arguing when he got his mind set on something.

She had forgotten what it was like to have someone looking out for her. Which was why three days after her accident she had to make a brief detour on her way to the emporium. To return the favor.

She was shown into a parlor where the dark-haired lady she’d come to see waited upon her. Vienne moved like a woman whose corset was tied too tightly, but she was recovered enough to do this.

“Madame La Rieux,” cooed a smooth voice. “This is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to my humble abode?”

This house was as humble as a two-cent whore trying to make rent. “I hope you will indulge me, Lady Gosling, but I have something of importance I wish to discuss with you.”

The beautiful woman’s dark green eyes flashed with interest. “What might that be?”

Vienne seated herself in a chair across from her hostess and smiled easily. “Trystan Kane.”

D
espite the fact that he was expecting female company, Trystan didn’t take any longer to dress the evening of his dinner with Lady Gosling than he would have any other night. After all, he didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. Vienne might be correct that the lady had more than dinner and theater on her mind, but that was all she was going to get.

If nothing else, the meal would be exquisite, as the Barrington chef was in a class of his own. And the theater would be entertaining because the Season was almost officially over and this was to be the last performance.

To be fair, Lady Gosling wasn’t as bad as some made her out to be. She was outrageous and not terribly discreet about her lovers, but she was intelligent and capable of much more educated conversation than many of her contemporaries.

Plus, the money she paid to spend the evening with him would help Vienne’s charity for girls and women who needed assistance escaping unpleasant personal situations. He wouldn’t let himself wonder if the charity was so special to Vienne because she herself had escaped something—or someone—in her past. The thought made him quite angry, and there was nothing he could do to fix it now.

He had wanted to see more of her today, but work had gotten in the way; and then his mother had summoned him to luncheon because she wanted to know if he’d chosen a potential bride yet. Time was apparently wasting.

Shortly after seven he left for the theater, where he was to meet Lady Gosling in the box Grey owned and had loaned him for the evening. Traffic was considerably lighter than it had recently been, due to the aristocracy beginning to trickle back to their country homes, to their dogs, and to the promise of hunting parties. Yet he arrived right on time.

“Your guest has already arrived, Lord Trystan,” he was told by the theater manager when he stepped inside. “I took the liberty of escorting the lovely lady to His Grace’s box myself.”

Trystan thanked the man and slipped him a few notes for his consideration. Lady Gosling was not only punctual but early. How odd for a woman of her rank. Hopefully it was a personality quirk and not a sign of how eager she was to be alone with him.

Wouldn’t Vienne laugh at him for thinking such things? She’d accuse him of having a high opinion of himself and delusions of his attractiveness. She hadn’t seemed to find him unattractive that night at Angelwood’s. He’d almost manage to put it completely out of his mind, but now there it was, back again and making him wonder if maybe—just maybe—he and Vienne might still have a chance.

Of course it was all a lot of nonsense and wishful thinking. And why should he wish it when it was fairly common knowledge that she had tossed him over once already?

He climbed the crimson-carpeted stairs to the first floor and quickly navigated the wide corridor toward his brother’s private box. People milled about, some aimless and some with purpose. He wove a path among and around them until he reached the door he sought.

Trystan took a moment to gather himself and to send up a quick prayer that all would go smoothly, then turned the knob and opened the door.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The lady turned, a smile on her full lips. Trystan’s heart skipped a beat. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in russet silk and glittering citrine jewelry.

“Vienne, what are you doing here?”

She took a sip from a glass of champagne. There was a bottle in a bucket of ice nearby, and another glass on a tray. “Right now I imagine you’re feeling a fraction of the same surprise I felt when you told me you had won my marker from Angelwood.”

Surprise was only the tip of what he felt. There were so many other emotions vying for dominance. “Did you win this evening from Lady Gosling?”

“Actually, I offered her a great deal of money for it.”

His sense of self-worth inched upward. “How much?”

“Two thousand. Fortunately for my accounts, she refused.”

And plummeted once more. “If she refused, how did you come to be here?” He glanced over his shoulder, as though Lady Gosling might come bursting through the door at any moment.

“She traded me the evening for a favor.”

This was certainly shaping up to be one curiously strange evening. Now Trystan glanced out to see if anyone in the audience was watching the goings on in the Duke of Ryeton’s box. It didn’t appear that anyone had any interest in them whatsoever.