Chapter 10

Tristan had never been kissed by a woman who clearly wished to be rid of him, and apparently, he'd been missing a delightful experience. She wanted him gone, or at least away from the assembled women. He'd have to change that, transform what was clearly meant as a distraction into something desired, something real. Because if he had to choose between discovering her secret and convincing her to marry him, he chose the latter.

For now.

He fit a hand to the base of her skull as he slanted his mouth over hers, still gentle, teaching her, learning her. Delighting in her, too. Her hands wrapped around the back of his neck felt right. Would feel righter without a cravat keeping her skin from touching his.

He ached to deepen the kiss, to part her lips, but he needed her to know first. Because he did not dissemble, and he would not start now.

He lifted just enough to peer down at her. "You mean to distract me. Do not think I do not know what this is."

She blinked, her chest rising and falling with unsteady, rapid breaths. "No." Her cheeks pinked, and her gaze darted away.

"Horrid, little liar. You're hiding something, and you do not want me anywhere near those women." With his lips, he brushed a line up her jaw to whisper at her ear. "I'll let you distract me, though. For now. A man like me does not let opportunity pass. I plan to take full advantage of it." And God, he loved a challenge.

She lifted her chin and raised a brow, her arms around his neck tightening, bringing their bodies so close together, the heat of them might singe their clothes away. "Then do not waste your breath with idle threats, Mr. King—"

He kissed her, hard this time, parting the seam of her lips with his tongue, nipping her bottom lip, and taking advantage of her gasp to delve deeper, to taste her. He meant to undo her, but damn if she didn't undo him instead when she tangled her tongue with his own, taking her own tentative tastes.

She'd been running from him, but she'd stopped. Not to be courted. To be kissed. Important, that. He'd ponder it later when she wasn't soft and malleable in his arms, when she wasn't making little squeaks and mirroring his every move. Her arms tightened around his neck, and her body swayed against him, as if she needed his strength to hold her up. Whatever she needed, he'd give her. He pinned her more tightly against the wall, pressing his hips against hers, knowing she'd feel every hard inch of him, becoming harder by the breathless moment.

She lost her breath, too. It rushed out of her, followed by a sweet, innocent moan as her fingers plunged into the hair at the nape of his neck, tangled, clung.

Good. So bloody good. He could stay like this all day. Ignore his papers, ignore Lady Eldridge. Ignore every damn responsibility in the timeless comfort and heady passion of her artless kiss.

But he couldn't.

Just a little longer, then. Long enough to cup her face and feel the soft roses of her cheeks, long enough to stroke his thumb against her jaw line as he explored the slope of her neck. Long enough to tease the bodice of her gown, the gentle dip barely visible between her breasts. And long enough to slip his leg between hers and lift a knee against her cunny.

Did she jolt awake from her dreamy hold on him and shove him away?

Of course not. She clutched him more tightly and rolled her hips against him.

"Feel good, my daring captain?" he asked between kisses.

"Yes." She bit her bottom lip, her glazed eyes fixated on his lips.

"Do you even know"—he nipped her earlobe—"what it is you're feeling? Do you understand it?" He dragged his lips down her neck.

She spoke through a shudder. "Yes." Then she froze, her muscles tightening, and her hands in his hair becoming claws, slowly withdrawing until her elbows hit the door behind her. "No. Oh no."

He kissed her collarbone and tugged her sleeve over the round of her shoulder.

"You should stop that." Her palms found his chest and pushed, not hard, just enough to let him know she meant her words.

He sighed. "So close." And he released her, tried to distract his body with horrid thoughts. Hands smashed in printing presses. Falling into the sea during a squall. Catching his father entertaining two tavern maids in nothing but his smalls. Nothing quite heinous enough to calm his desire she'd aroused in him so easily. He studied the street outside the window for a long moment.

She had said she understood. Did she truly? Had her mother explained it all before she died? Perhaps her… unmarried sister?

"You should leave."

"Distractions done with, my lady?" He turned and found her still pressed against the door, her hands fisted together at her belly. She looked rumpled and kissed and… she understood?

How? The answers to neither question mattered, truly, in light of a greater truth: she enjoyed. He could use that. Nothing in Clearford's book about seduction, but Tristan would write his own page if it was likely to work.

"I'll leave. If you do something for me."

She scowled. "Scoundrel."

Chuckling, he found his hat and the parcel he'd left with it on a chair near the door when he'd first arrived.

Still leaning against the door, she flinched away from him when he approached, crowding her but holding the parcel between them, an allowable barrier for now.

"Take it." He nudged her hands with it.

She glanced down. "What is it?"

"Open it and see."

Her fingers uncurled on a wave of curiosity, and she pulled the parcel from his grasp, untied the twine, and unfolded the paper. They both fluttered to the floor, and she lifted the leather-bound book up to study it. She cracked it open to read the title page, and an adorable line appeared between her brows.

"Pride and Prejudice? You brought me a book. I told you I do not read new books."

"It's hardly new after five years."

Still, she frowned at it.

"Don't think of it as a book. Think of it as a candle. Whether you read it or not, I'm not taking it home." He clasped his hands behind his back. "It's yours. Put it on a shelf to gather dust if you wish."

"You're very presumptuous. You do know it's not proper to give a lady a gift."

"But I'm courting you." He chucked her chin, making her scowl take deeper roots. "Accept the gift, and I'll leave, Captain."

She snapped the book shut. "Very well. I accept."

"Then I'll be off." He clapped his hat on his head and pinned her with a stare.

"Yes, Mr. Kingston?"

"You're in the way." He tapped the door right next to her head.

"Ah!"

She jumped away from the door. He opened it and began to climb the stairs.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, following him.

"To check on Alex."

She retreated to the foyer. "Yes, of course." Her gaze flickered in the direction of the drawing room she'd been in when he'd arrived. "Farewell, Mr. Kingston."

He bowed, then ascended. Checking on Alex took only a few minutes. The boy had uncurled to lay on his back, a leg hanging off the settee, his mouth slightly open, a strand of drool dropping from the corner of his mouth. Tristan chuckled and wiped it with his coat sleeve. Then he put the boy's leg back into place and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked so young asleep. He was young, and he should not have to carry doubt and fear and pain.

Andromeda would help. She had helped today, giving comfort in her own sharp yet soothing way. When he'd caught her putting Alex to sleep, he'd seen into his future—a wife, a family, a home. For Alex. And Andromeda was a crucial piece of the puzzle.

"Alex." He nudged his brother. "Wake up now. It's time to go home."

The boy grunted, his face squishing into a puckered frown. "Kiiiiing, go away."

"Why does everyone ask me to do that? Walk out of here on your own two feet, or I'll pick you up."

Alex snored.

"Very well, then. You asked for it." He knelt and pulled his brother into his arms, cradled him tight as he stood, as he had all the boy's life, and he carried him down the stairs. In the foyer, he headed for the door.

Until laughter floating down the hall caught his attention. He'd promised to leave. He managed to open the door and bundle him into the carriage waiting around the corner.

He settled into a seat, then jumped up and out, the laughter from the drawing prodding him into action. He'd had more than one purpose this afternoon, and one remained unfinished. "Wait a moment, Mr. Grant. I'll return shortly. I forgot something inside."

The driver nodded, and Tristan ran back inside and strode down the hall toward the drawing room. The door stood slightly ajar, and the laughter that had passed through those few empty inches before had become a tense buzz of low conversation. He stepped softly, and though he should have pushed through immediately and announced his presence, he didn't.

He listened.

"The count is an arse if you ask me," a woman said. "He may have a massive appendage, but he's not a gentleman. I like gentlemen. At the end of the day."

"The count is misunderstood," another woman said. "That's what the shadow imagery is about. They're his shadows. Metaphorically speaking."

"Except for that one scene," a third woman said, "when he whips it out in front of his betrothed. That time there's an actual shadow."

"Absurd." That voice he recognized—Andromeda. "Men's members cannot be as large as these books say they are."

A bevy of chuckles shook the room.

"Says the lady with no experience," the first woman said.

"We'll never have experience if you deny us suitors." He could hear the sniff in Andromeda's voice.

What did she mean by that? If you deny us suitors.

"What about that strapping young newspaperman following you about?" the third woman snapped. "Seems to me you've got prospects. He may be a bastard, but he's still an earl's son. And easy on the eyes."

"Can we focus, ladies?" Andromeda's sister's voice—Lady Charlotte. "My sisters' marital prospects are not the purpose of these monthly teas. Can we focus on the count's"—she cleared her throat—"massive appendage?"

Hell. She understood because she read about it, discussed it with others. They clearly ran some sort of book club for naughty stories. Impressive, that. Arousing, even.

But also… Tristan needed a woman to improve his respectability, and Andromeda was an unwed woman reading—oh hell, he understood the slip of paper he'd found now.

The Shadow of the Cockerel.

A book. And she read books like that.

"Did anyone venture into the reading last night?" one of the women asked. "Lady Aphrodite's reading."

"Lady Aphrodite?" Andromeda asked. "Who's that?"

"No one knows. But she holds private salons during balls."

"At balls," another lady corrected.

"She reads her own poetry aloud." A third voice.

"Good poetry," the previous lady corrected.

"And by that, Hetty means naughty poetry."

"Every ball?" Lady Charlotte asked. "That seems difficult to hide."

"She hides well enough. Wears a mask, few candles in the room where she recites her work."

"How do you know about her?" Andromeda's voice was laced with worry.

"Just like with you girls. Those who need to know, know."

Tristan left the house, less worried with some unknown naughty poet than with the revelations about Andromeda. He returned to the carriage and slumped onto the bench beside his brother. Alex's soft snores filled the space as the carriage rolled forward.

What now?

And she was hosting a book club for a certain type of book.

Quite scandalous. He should abandon the courtship. Clearly, her morals were looser than a boxer's teeth. Everyone knew ladies with carnal curiosity were irredeemable wantons.

But…

Lady Andromeda? Morally loose?

Nonsense. She soothed ill boys. She mourned her mother and loved her sisters. She kissed like it was her first ever, and she caught on quickly. She challenged him. She made him think of something outside of work, outside of striving and climbing. She felt like heaven in his arms.

Let the lady read what books she wished. The ladies who read them with her wouldn't tell tales or name names. What reasons had they to do so? Their reputations were as much at stake as her own. Her literary preferences offered no impediment. To him.

But what if, by some chance, the secret became known? He might not care, but Lady Eldridge would.

Alex snuffled in his corner, scratched his nose against the upholstery, then sighed back into a quiet sleep. Something of the young boy in him still, the toddler, and the infant. Tristan pulled out his beaten, silver pocket watch. A gift, a reminder of his purpose, his strength. Each second of Tristan's life ticking by, did so in service to Alex, to keeping him safe and happy.

Seemed impossible these days, a variable he failed to control.

No. He would not let this, his brother's well-being, be the only thing he failed at. Not when it meant the most. More than his writing, his papers, his other ventures… more than finding a wife.

Tristan's fingers clawed into the seat, dug deep, seeking answers, finding only the beginning bite of pain. He'd set his sights on Andromeda because of Alex. Would he give up the hunt because of Alex, too? And just when he'd realized how much he wanted her? Wanted her not just because she possessed a well-respected, powerful family, and he needed that support. Not just to make amends for kissing her. But because she was kind. Funny. And a little lost. And he wanted to be her lighthouse. Her map. The prince who followed her into the maze and helped her break her shadowy curse.

But she seemed to like shadows. And things done in them. And no matter how much that made him like her even more, what he wanted was not nearly as important as what his brother needed.