“Indeed. And then of course there was the race that almost happened.” Althorp chuckled, dabbing his mouth. “Pity about that. A lady lifting her skirts across the south lawn in the dark would have been quite a sight.”
Tristan looked at him with the particular expression he reserved for people who were testing the outermost limits of his patience. “If you will excuse me, Althorp, I believe the first course is arriving.”
“Of course, of course.” The man turned obligingly toward the soup.
Tristan’s eyes drifted, without his permission, to the other side of the centerpiece. Miss Quinten seemed to be engaged in a spirited conversation with a young baronet.
Eldrige? Seriously?
The man was known not only as a bore but also as a rake. Yet, Miss Quinten was practically preening. Was the conversation truly spirited, or did his family diamonds persuade her to be more amiable?
The man is a buffoon.
Miss Quinten was wearing a high-collared gray gown. Her hair was pinned back into a bun so tight it must have been painful. It felt more like a suit of armor than a party dress. To everyone who would look at her, she looked dull and uptight, the opposite of a seductress.
A clever disguise, Tristan thought, his eyes on the pulse point on her neck. He imagined he could see it throbbing, a red-blooded woman hiding within a cold nun who would only laugh at a buffoon’s jests.
The vision of her in her chemise was still vivid, as she trembled in fury and fear. Her hair had been wild and unpinned, as was she. A hot temper and a passion hid within that woman; he had caught glimpses of it. Watching her play a part for thetonmade him wonder how many buttons it would take to cajole the fire to the surface.
At the moment, Cathy was not looking in his direction at all. She was behaving as if the competition and the shared bed had never happened.
Tristan could not help but stare and keep staring.
He watched even the way her throat moved as she swallowed a little of her wine. He watched how those intelligent eyes sparkled at something the baronet said. She might be Miss Priggish to everyone present, but he had felt the heat of her palm. He had heard her voice as she straddled sleep and wakefulness. How could she be so gracefully composed when mere hours ago, she bit his palm?
“It is quite a tragedy. Would you not think so?”
Tristan blinked as he was pulled from his current reverie. He forced his gaze onto the woman sitting to his right. Anne looked quite virginal in a gown of cream and blue silk. Tomorrow, she would be wearing white. She was smiling, but he could swear the mirth did not reach her eyes.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Longrove?” he asked.
“I am referring to the Quintens,” Anne whispered, leaning closer. Her floral scent assaulted his senses. “Last night was a ghastly affair. One would think Miss Quinten would behave appropriately given the current state of their finances and their father’s vices.”
Anne gestured subtly toward Harleigh Quinten, who was sitting at the other end of the table. Cathy’s father seemed close to dozing off in his seat, his chin already resting on his chest. His wine glass was empty, though it was clear it was not his first of the evening. Instead of his usual disgust at people who shamed their families so openly, Tristan felt a pang of sympathy for Cathy. He caught the pity in her eyes for her father. A moment of raw shame appeared on her face before she masked it with a smile for the baronet.
“Miss Quinten carries a heavy burden,” he said softly. “As Harleigh Quinten’s eldest daughter.”
“Well, she is not carrying her burden with enough grace,” Anne retorted. She said it firmly. Then, she quickly switched to a much sweeter voice, which made Tristan wonder if the former was merely an act. “She is doing it with unladylike arrogance. My mama says that women in Miss Quinten’s position should always carry themselves with humility. Challenging a duke to certain games was embarrassing for everyone last night. Do not fret, though, Your Grace. I have already forgiven your part in that mess. I know men can be easily tempted by such challenges. It is in your nature to be competitive, after all.”
Anne reached out to pat his hand. Tristan guessed it was meant to be reassuring, but her hand felt cool and possessive over him.
“Nevertheless, I truly apologize for my unseemly conduct,” he said, the words feeling rehearsed. “I can find no excuses for it.”
“Oh, Your Grace, please do not mention it,” she purred, her eyes darting to something else. “We will proceed as planned and get married tomorrow. Everything has been forgotten and forgiven.”
And yet, they were just talking about it.
As the dinner progressed, the guests were served endless courses of the finest meat, such as pheasant and venison, followed by a dessert of tarts and cake.
Cathy was laughing with the baronet and yet another young man who inserted himself in the conversation. The laughter sounded genuine, slicing through the dull atmosphere of the dining hall. The rich, melodic sound elicited a sharp sense of jealousy. What joke could the baronet have told that might soften Cathy’s icydemeanor?
I do not care what she does. I should not care who she laughs with.
In his own little corner, her grandfather, Lord Norman, was talking about fighting in the Peninsular War. His voice was too loud because he was likely unable to hear himself or anyone else well.
“The Frenchman earlier asked me about the aspic,” the baron barked. “I was talking about the war, and he asked me that.”
The young woman sitting next to him looked confused, while his wife appeared to be holding on to the last of her self-control.