Chapter 15

Tristan studied his reflection in the looking glass—starched cravat, single-breasted tailcoat, tight-fitting trousers, hair slicked back so that it actually stayed put, every drip of ink scrubbed from his skin and from beneath his nails. He looked like a stranger. He resembled his father. Like the earl he might have been, had things gone differently.

The true earl sat on Tristan's bed, swinging his legs. "Seems deuced uncomfortable. How long ya havta wear it?"

"All evening." He eyed Alex. "You must dress next. You'll be allowed to watch everything from the balcony over the ballroom with Clearford's sisters."

Alex sighed and flopped his feet to the floor. "I'd rather be allowed in the ballroom."

"I assure you that you would not enjoy it. Believe me. Ballrooms are your fate, and you could very well feel trapped by it one day."

Alex's mouth pinched into a thin line. "Yes. But the twins will be in the ballroom." He sighed.

Oh. Hm. He'd been rather busy the last two weeks, accumulating new presses for the Current and in talks for his newest acquisition. Andromeda had been busy as well, helping her sisters plan the ball. He'd not even seen her since the day she'd come to his printshop. What a horribly executed plan on his part. He was supposed to be seducing her, keeping her busy enough to disregard her other hobbies. But the ball planning seemed to be doing that well enough. He'd written, asking pointed questions about her daily activities, and she'd responded quickly. There'd been no more bookish meetings. No nefarious salons in the Clearford drawing room.

And Clearford's words of love had made Tristan cautious. He'd thrown himself into his work. And ignored his brother more than he should. He rubbed his chest, trying to soothe the familiar pang of guilt.

"You… like the twins?"

"King, they are the most beautiful, perfect specimens of womanhood I've ever seen." He looked like he might swoon.

Bollocks. Tristan could not laugh. He would. Not. Laugh. "They are, Alex, seven years older than you."

"Age doesn't matter when you're in love."

Tristan hiccupped a laugh, then trapped the rest of the sound behind his teeth. When he was sure he would not topple, he said, "You're in love? With… both of them?"

"Of course. They're twins." Alex strode for the door, then stopped, pausing with one leg bent. "Can I borrow your cologne?"

Lord help him. "I'll have it sent to your chamber."

He checked his reflection once more, picked up his gloves, and headed for the door again. Andromeda would laugh when he told her about Alex being sweet on the twins, and he could not wait to hear that rich and sultry sound.

But should he mention that word around her? Should he put the word love in the air between them when he did not know her expectations in that regard? He should stay focused tonight. No emotions other than passion. And no conversation other than reading. He needed her to confess her preferences to him so he could begin steering her away from them. For the time being.

They could also discuss Bashton. Indeed, they would have to.

Half an hour later, Alex ran down the stairs and into the foyer smelling as if he'd bathed in Tristan's cologne.

Tristan coughed but covered it up. "You look quite respectable and dashing, Lord Avelford." And he wasn't crinkling with each movement, so likely his pockets remained free of naughty drawings. A definite victory for the evening.

Alex grinned. "Do you think they'll approve of me?"

Tristan stepped onto the street before their house and headed for the waiting carriage. "How could they not? You know, Alex… a fellow only gets one wife at a time."

Alex jumped into the conveyance, and Tristan followed him.

"Who said anything about marriage, King," Alex said, "I'm only thirteen."

Oh, hell. Tristan tried. He truly did, but in the end, his laugh rocketed out and bounced around the carriage. "Apologies, Alex. I am not laughing at you. It's merely you make an excellent point."

The boy settled into a corner with a grumble, but his sour mood did not last for long. Soon, his leg jolted up and down as he flashed impatient glances out the window. "I'm glad we're arriving early."

They were doing so only for Alex's sake. Tristan would leave and return to be greeted formally by the family, accepted formally by the family in front of every curious eye gathered there. A bold statement. And Tristan planned an equally bold one, claiming both of Andromeda's waltzes for himself. Not that she knew that yet. Her expressions would shift from shock to disapproval to a warm sort of affection as he danced with her before the ton. She might roll her eyes. He welcomed it. Hoped for it, even.

Unlike Alex, Tristan kept his limbs still, controlled, but the same impatience flowed through him. What gown would she be wearing? How would she style her hair? Would she wear gems? Pearls? He wanted to know. He wanted to show her off. Then he wanted to strip it all off her. Not that it would happen this evening. Too many people about. But soon.

Not quickly enough, the carriage rolled to a stop, and before Tristan even flinched a muscle, Alex jumped out of his seat, out of the door, and onto the street. Made him feel old, it did. Like he had creaky knees.

He followed Alex, who was already rushing inside. "Slow down! It'll be busy in there, no doubt, and you might—"

Crash.

"Hell." Tristan bolted for the door and straight into—

"And chaos," Andromeda cried out as he entered the townhouse. She lifted her skirts and dashed down the stairs. "Alex, is that you?"

Alex lay on the floor in a puddle of water and blooms. "It's me." He groaned.

Tristan knelt beside him just as Andromeda did, and she wrinkled her nose. "Do the flowers smell like—"

"No." Tristan pulled Alex to his feet. "Lord Avelford is wearing my cologne. All of it." He mouthed the last three words over the boy's head. "Are you injured?" he asked his brother.

Alex shook his head. "No, but I'm wet." And he was, one entire side of his jacket and his hair, entirely drenched. "What do I do, King?"

Andromeda surveyed the busy foyer. "Ah! Johnny!"

The footman from the day she'd visited Tristan's office trotted over. "Yes, my lady?"

"Would you please go to Mr. Kingston's home and request a change of clothes for the earl?"

"Yes, my lady." Johnny bowed and sped off.

"Now." Andromeda ushered Alex toward the stairs. "Let's get you upstairs where you can wait for your fresh clothes. It's a shame you had this mishap. You look quite handsome, my lord. Even drowned."

"If I weren't already in love with the twins," Alex said, beaming up at her, "I'd fall in love with you, I think."

Andromeda's head fell back on her long, slender throat, and she laughed as Tristan had in the carriage. She didn't try to hide it, and it didn't seem to bother Alex.

But in the busy foyer at the bottom of the stairs, Tristan was bothered. No, too tame a word for what he felt. Slightly jealous. Though of which individual, he could not be certain. Impressed. Impatient to have her to himself. Anxious. Another pale word. It felt like spinning out of control. He hated spinning out of control. His entire adult life had been in pursuit of control, and that bit of steel-centered fluff with lovely lips had turned him into a top.

His foot found the bottom step. He'd follow them. But he stepped back, barely missing a passing maid with a vase of flowers, presumably to replace the one Alex had shattered. No, he'd not follow. Too many unknowns inflating in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Instead, he wandered down the hall and found Samuel's study. It alone seemed untouched by the preparation for the evening.

He found the portrait, too, but more than that he found her, five years younger, just a girl, with an entire life dreamed up in the sparkle of her eye.

"There you are." The painting spoke in her voice.

No, not the painting. He found her standing in the doorway in a simple muslin gown, the soft smile spread across her lips more appealing than anything he'd ever seen.

"You're not dressed yet," he said, then wanted to take it back. What a useless observation, so very obvious.

"No. I will in a minute. I wanted to let you know Alex is ensconced in a guest bedroom, waiting for his change of clothes." She laughed. "I wonder if Imogen and Isabella know he's sweet on them."

"Poor lad." He returned his attention to the portrait. "Andromeda—"

"You keep calling me that." She took careful steps across the study, hesitating more the closer she came to him. "Dropping the title. I did not give you leave, Mr. Kingston."

"The lady bit slipped away from me once, and I've not been able to locate it since. Do you mind?"

She tapped her chin, then grinned at him. "No, I don't think so. Should I call you"—she licked her lips, and her cheeks flamed to life—"it's rather embarrassing, isn't it?"

"It's not. You call me Tristan." Little space remained between them, and he raised his arm through it to trace the very tip of his finger down the naked back of her wrist. "You're not wearing gloves."

"I must have picked up some bad habits from you, Mr… Tristan."

Why did that undo him? His bones broke and reknit in the time it took her to say his name, the two syllables on her lips a rebirth, and his arms knew no other desire than to crush her to him. His lungs needed the scent of her to breathe.

Too much.

He dropped his hand and turned back to the painting.

She stepped beside him, looking up as well. "You are very handsome today. You appear almost tame."

"I'm not."

She elbowed him in the ribs. "Liar. A man who wants a wife to be a mother to his ward? You might as well be a tiny, purring kitten."

If he swept Clearford's desk clear of all its clutter and laid her down upon it, if he stepped between her legs and raked her skirts above her hips, she'd see how tame he was.

"I hate that painting," she said. "I hated sitting for it. We all did."

"The artist did an excellent job catching your likeness."

"Did he?" A musing wistful sort of voice. "I look so young and… innocent." The wistfulness was gone, replaced by loss, grief.

His hands balled into fists.

She sighed. "The painting is fine. It is only that I will forever associate it with my parents' death. Everything ended that day, and I cannot look at it without seeing girls who no longer exist."

"Past Andromeda, what did she dream of? What did she want? There's a gleam in her eye that I don't see in yours."

She bent her neck and bowed her head, and he tried to stop himself, but could not, so he stroked his knuckles down the back of it. Up and down, appeasing somewhat the growling voice inside that demanded more—more touch, more her.

"She wanted very much to marry a man who loved her, to have a small regiment of children, mostly girls, naturally. She wanted to be whirled around ballrooms and kissed in shadowy corners. She wanted the fireworks of Vauxhall and the excursions to Gunter's. She wanted men to vie for her hand, even. But not for long. Just long enough to stroke the jealousy of the man she really wanted." She sighed. "That Andromeda was a silly green girl."

He wrapped his hand around her neck, softly, and nudged her silken earlobe with his thumb, softly, and softly he said, "What does this Andromeda want?"

She lifted her gaze to him then, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

The clock in the hall cried out, and Andromeda blinked as if coming out of a trance. "I must dress for the ball. Shall we dance?"

"Yes." He wanted to claim every dance, every song, every minute. But what she'd just said, wanting to be courted by many. Fine. He could give the London gents tonight a few dances, a few tepid conversations, and moments in her presence they did not deserve. Because he'd take her forever after that.

"Give me the waltzes," he said. "Both of them."

"Daring of you. Presumptuous, too."

"Do you call any other fellow by his Christian name?"

Her mouth parted, and he kissed her. A kiss of pure impulse, a kiss that had called to him from every tattered piece of his body, asking only for her.

When he lifted from the gentle, breathy thing, he asked again, "Do you?"

"No." Said on a sigh as her body swayed toward his.

"Good." But… "Not even Bashton?"

She jerked away from him. "Oh. Yes, well—" She swallowed hard. "I really must dress, or I'll be late." She slipped away from him, toward the door.

But he caught her wrist, held her. "We need to talk about that baron of yours."

Her face seemed like a mask, impossible to read. "Yes, you're right." She rotated her arm in his grip, her velvet skin sliding against his rough, calloused palm, and she wrapped her hand around his wrist. The lightest of holds, a gentle squeeze, locking him in chains forever. "It's merely… everything is changing. So quickly. And I find… after years of stagnation, I'm a bit rusty with it all."

"Don't be scared."

"Can't help it." She laughed, a nervous sound like glass breaking. "But I'm trying not to be."

He pulled her until their bodies collided, then he pushed his fingers through her hair and kissed her—hard, promising. "Keep at it, Captain. You'll beat back the sea monsters."

She rested her forehead against his chest—a moment gone too soon that would live in him forever. And then she bolted, running into the hallway, leaving him more dissatisfied than he should be at this point in the courtship.

She'd not offered a clear answer about Bashton. He saw in her gaze, her actions, how she let him touch her… she was giving the baron up. Yet something in her hesitated. Why? Had she failed to tell him to shove off? Not that the mysterious fellow hadn't already shoved all the way off to Cornwall. No wonder she'd never used his Christian name. Even when they wrote as often as Clearford said they did? Odd. And upsetting. Because Bashton remained, still, between Tristan and Andromeda. When Tristan would no longer accept any barriers.