my assumptions were.”
“Congratulations, my lord,” Mary allowed, but not too graciously. “And here Rachel gave me the impression that you had to be hit on the head—repeatedly—with a heavy red brick before you could be convinced of anything other than your own judgments. But I own myself astonished. Do you seriously mean you no longer view me as a member of a group plotting to free Bonaparte? You actually see me as innocent?”
Rule’s spine straightened slightly. “You’re no spy, Miss Lawrence, but you’re not quite an innocent either. There’s some mystery about you, I’d swear to that, but whatever it is, it’s no business of mine—at least it won’t be once I’ve convinced myself that you present no harm to Sir Henry or Rachel, or my cousins, who have befriended you for some reason.”
“Like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?” Mary sniffed, alighting from the curricle before Tristan could make a move to help her. “If I’m not a spy, I must be something else equally distasteful. Well, you know what, Lord High and Mighty Rule, you can just take your silly suspicions and your nasty little assumptions—and stuff them in your hat!”
After emphatically nodding her head, as if to put a period to their discussion—and their relationship—Mary whirled away to ascend the steps to the house. But she turned at the top of the short flight to make one last statement—or threat: “And don’t ever suppose I will stand up with you on the dance floor, for if you approach me I shall surely go into strong hysterics and kick you firmly in the shins!”
The heavy door slammed on the sight of her departing back as Tristan sat where he was, rubbing his chin in deep thought. She was a real termagant, this Miss Mary Lawrence, or whoever she really was.
Because of her, he found himself having to rethink his conclusions for the first time in a very long time—a prospect that cheered him far more than he expected. He wasn’t exactly sure of just what the future held for the lady and himself, but one thing he knew for certain—she hadn’t seen the last of him, not by a long chalk.
After all, there was still that tingle to consider…and now this strange itch…an itch that had begun to tantalize him as he watched Mary’s trimly rounded bottom jiggling provocatively as she flounced away from him and up the steps.
IT WAS THE SEVENTH HEAVEN of the fashionable world, Almack’s in the late spring of 1814, but to Tristan Rule it was a punishment worse than being forced by his fond mama at the tender age of twelve to stand up during a country dance with his cousin Lucy and be oohed and aahed at by a host of smiling relatives. Already he could see Lady Jersey measuring him from between narrowed eyelids, wondering whether or not she could coerce, bully, or otherwise persuade him into partnering any of the limp wallflowers that seemed to consider Almack’s their own private hothouse.
But there was nothing else for it—as it was Wednesday, and if he were to seek her out this evening, Almack’s was the logical place to start. Not that he planned to single her out for anything as ridiculous as the Scottish reel now in progress, even if the celebrated violinist, Niel Gow, was the one sawing away on the strings. He winced involuntarily as Lord Worcester whirled by with Lady Harriett Butler, the two of them panting and sweating like dray horses after a long run.
The things I won’t do for my country, Tristan thought to himself as he pushed his lean body away from the pillar he had been reclining against and began another seemingly leisurely stroll around the rooms, his dark eyes searching—ever searching—for a sight of Mary Lawrence.
It was nearing the hour of eleven when at last his vigilance was rewarded and he espied his Aunt Rachel entering the vestibule, her tardy charge in tow. Mary was in looks tonight as, he reminded himself with a snicker of self-derision, she was every night, drat the infuriating chit anyhow. After disposing of her shimmering taffeta cloak, now being lovingly carried away by one of the stewards, Mary turned to face the ballroom and gave the assembled guests their first glimpse of her ivory-colored gown (that complemented her gleaming ivory shoulders and half-exposed bosom perfectly, Tristan could not help but notice). The entire bodice of the gown, along with at least ten inches of the hem and demi-train, were lavishly sprinkled with diamante dewdrops that winked and glistened with every move she made, every breath she took.
Twinkling diamonds lent an extra sparkle to her dark curls and glittered in her ears—even her dainty slippers were adorned with brilliant diamante bows. On another woman the abundance of sparkle would have appeared overdone, even slightly vulgar, but Mary carried it off beautifully. All around him Tristan heard the indrawn breaths of jealous debutantes and the hissing whispers of their disgruntled mamas, while the comments of the gentlemen within earshot only served to start a fire in Lord Rule’s blood that had little to do with his zealous interest in the welfare of his homeland.
He was drawn to Mary’s side almost without realizing he had moved, and the dozen or so hopeful swains who harbored plans of their own concerning Miss Lawrence hastily stepped off in other directions, unwilling to challenge Ruthless Rule’s claim to the Incomparable for the country dance just forming.
The sparkle of Mary’s attire dimmed beside the hard glitter now in her huge green eyes. After the way they had parted only that afternoon—and most especially after she had issued her threat to physically assault him if he ever dared approach her again—she had wondered about this meeting, even fantasized about it a bit, picturing the arrogant Lord Rule hopping about some ballroom in his elegant black dress, looking for all the world like a huge crow flapping its wings as he favored his injured shin.
But now reality, in the form of that infuriating man himself, was staring her straight in the eye, daring her to make cakes out of both of them within the most hallowed, and most prestigious, walls of Almack’s. Almack’s—the holy grail of young English womanhood, ever longed for, prayed over, dreamed about, and once attained, cherished close to her bosom forevermore. Damn his devious soul! she cried inwardly—he knows I can’t make a scene here. He knows it and is standing there smirking at me, laughing at me, because once again he has won and I have lost.
But then Mary remembered her plans for this evening, plans she had somehow been reluctant to cancel even after Rule’s admission that afternoon that he no longer considered her to be a French spy. Why not? she thought as she swallowed down hard on her ride and smiled at her worst enemy, holding out one French kid-encased hand to accept his invitation to join the other young couples on the floor.
As Tristan smiled at her knowingly, being human enough to savor the moment of his triumph—and male enough to be so foolish as to show it—Mary’s gloved fingertips bit hurtingly into his forearm, reminding him once more that this particular kitten, although she looked so outwardly soft and cuddly, was not averse to using her claws. He may have satisfied himself that she was not the person he had been told to seek—the English connection in a Continent-wide plot to free Napoleon—but she was still an unanswered question in his mind. And Tristan didn’t like unanswered questions. For all he knew, she could be twice as dangerous as the conspirator he sought, both to his friend and mentor Sir Henry and his cousins Lucy and Jennie.
Yes, he told himself as they parted momentarily due to the movements of the dance, he mustn’t allow Miss Lawrence’s obvious beauty and charm to blind him to the very real fact that now he had not one, but two problems. He held out his hand to Mary, leading her into the next movement of the dance even as he assessed her yet again, looking for clues he was not certain he would recognize even if they were pushed into his face, and wished once more for the simplicity of war, where your enemies were so much easier to spot. “You are, as usual, in fine looks this evening, Miss Lawrence,” he baited her as they rubbed shoulders lightly before moving on, “and that heightened color in your cheeks is most flattering.”
I believe I just might murder that man, Mary mused satisfyingly as she whirled out of earshot for a moment. “I do confess to feeling a bit of excitement, sir,” she owned sweetly as they faced each other yet again. “I had heard so much about Almack’s, you know, but the reality far exceeds the dream. Did you ever see so many exalted personages in one place at one time? I vow I am impressed!”
“You impress easily, Miss Lawrence,” Tristan responded,