Chapter 13


To remove stains from furniture, mix a powder from black rose oil, alkaline soap, and bullock’s gall. Be sure to use only in a room with an open window. It is quite difficult to scrub whilst unconscious.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Tristan strode down the path, still mulling over Reeves and his secrets. The morning sun was just breaking over the sea, a brisk wind lifting over the cliff. The last week, he’d gotten up earlier than necessary in order to walk the cliff.. It cleared his head and gave him a certain peace of mind. Today, it gave him no peace at all. All he could do was think about Christian.
Waiting was hell on earth. Tristan would give Reeves one week to produce his brother. One week and no more.
He wondered what Christian would think of Prudence. The thought brought to mind the tempting armful that arrived every morning arrayed in a blue cloak, her hair tightly pinned, her brown eyes warm with laughter. Prudence. Just the sound of her name in his thoughts made life seem more bearable.
Today the path was strewn with glassy puddles, the stones covered with a slick moss. He tramped his foot onto the hard path, fire shooting up his leg. He winced, grinding his teeth against the pain. He would not let this wound beat him. Nothing would beat him. If Prudence had taught him anything, it was that even the irksome in life could be dealt with if approached with patience and diligence.
It was a fact he’d known, but had somehow in the weeks and months of his convalescence, allowed to slip away.
He rounded the corner, and the cottage came into view, sturdy and strong against the thrashing winds. Tristan forced himself to walk the remaining steps down the path to the garden gate at an even brisker pace, keeping the bruising pace with each step, his breath harsh in his own ears.
Perhaps if he walked more forcibly, made the muscles in his leg stretch and reach… perhaps he would get better. He clenched his teeth and forced himself onward. Only the steady crunch of the cane and the thud of his boots mattered. Only that.
He would reach the gate.
He would not falter, no matter the cost.
No matter the pain.
Just the gate…
He made it. Tristan grabbed the top board and leaned on it, lifting his burning leg and bowing his head. Pain coursed through him, but he welcomed it. It didn’t pay to fight the pain. Instead, he let it ripple through his leg, following the course of the lead ball that had almost killed him.
It had always been that way for him—first he fought and then he accepted. Fate had never sat on his shoulder but had mocked him from afar, showing him what he could have, but did not. It did that with his father, with the injury that ground him from the sea, and now it was happening with Prudence.
He wanted her. Wanted her in his life even after this farce with the trustees was over. But it would never work. She was cultured, educated, and from a world he’d only viewed from a distance. Yet every day he ached for her in a new way. He’d been right about Prudence from the first; she was the sort of woman one married if one was also cultured, educated, and from that world.
He was not. His father had seen to that.
Tristan placed a hand on his leg and scowled down at it, the pain in his heart fresh and new. He wasn’t even whole. Had his life been different, he might have been able to provide for her, offer her something more than a sealess captain.
The truth was he had nothing to offer. Nothing to give her. Unless he won the fortune.
But… would that be enough? He thought of her face when she mentioned her late husband, Phillip. She’d loved the man; that much was obvious. Tristan’s jaw ached. How much had she loved Phillip, and did she still?
A crunch sounded on the path behind him. “Good morning.”
The warm voice was at odds with the chilled wind, which tried to whip away the round, mellowed tones. Tristan turned to see Prudence coming down the path toward him, the wind tugging strands of her dark hair free and whipping them across her face. She caught his gaze and paused, leaning against the yew tree, her eyes dark with some indiscernible emotion.
Was it pity? Bile rose in his throat, burning him, burning his thoughts. “You are early,” he said, his voice harsh even to his own ears.
She raised her brows. In most women, the gesture would seem somewhat imperious, or at least questioning. But on Prudence, with her flyaway brows, the effect was different. On her, a quick lift of the brows made her look mischievous.
He swallowed his irritation. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. It is damp.”
She shrugged. “It is not as cold as it was last week.” Her gaze drifted past him to the sea. “It is beautiful from here.”
“Indeed it is.” He glanced up at the gray sky and frowned, unable to tell the hour because the sun was hidden. “Is it time for breakfast?”
“Reeves sent me to find you.”
Tristan took the cane firmly in his hand and strode toward her, his teeth clenched against his limp. He paused when he reached her side and silently held out his arm.
She smiled and curtsied before placing her hand on his arm, her fingers resting lightly on his sleeve. “Very prettily done,” she said with a blinding smile that made his body react in a most inappropriate way.
Taking his lustful thoughts firmly in hand and tamping down any emotion he might feel, he returned her smile, realizing with a sinking feeling that one day soon, she would no longer be here. No longer come out onto the path looking for him.
But at least he had her for today.
He placed a hand over hers. “Let the lessons begin.” With that, he escorted her through the terrace doors and inside.
Prudence undid her cloak. Tristan took it and laid it across a chair. She watched him, wondering if his hands were indeed lingering on the soft wool or if it just appeared that way. She frowned. There was something different about him this morning. Something… uncertain.
The table was set as it always was, everything just so. Prudence stood beside her chair and waited for the earl to approach the table.
To her surprise, she found that she rather enjoyed breakfast in such a high fashion. It was especially nice seeing Tristan each morning, his large, brown hand cupped about the delicate china, a ready smile in his green eyes.
This last week had proven difficult on many levels, not the least of which was the way Mother waited at home at the end of each day, her eyes full of hope.
It had become painfully obvious Mother harbored some ill-founded hopes for Prudence and the earl far beyond that of tutor and pupil. Her incessant questioning was beginning to grate on Prudence’s temper. The earl might well be attracted to Prudence, but it was nothing more than a physical spark, a connection of a rather earthy nature. One she was well aware of and, to be honest, very tempted to sample.
And why not? she asked herself rather determinedly. She might be a widow, but she was not dead. She missed being with a man, and seeing the earl in such close proximity was stirring her passions anew. And all too soon their time would be over.
The earl walked toward her, his hand clasped about the cane. She frowned when she noticed his limp was a bit more pronounced today. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am fine. But you…” His gaze raked her from head to toe. “You look lovely.”
His green eyes seemed darker this morning, too, as if he’d been carrying some weighty thoughts. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him. There was concern in his gaze…and something else that sent her heart thudding against her ribs.
Their eyes met and the air closed in. He walked closer, then slowly circled her. Like an animal on the hunt, his attention was completely on her. Prudence’s skin heated, and it was all she could do not to turn and watch him as he closed in behind her, his legs brushing against her shirt. She held her breath as he reached past her, his chest touching her back lightly, his breath brushing her neck as he reached out…
And pulled a chair from the table. He murmured in her ear, “Pray have a seat, Mrs. Thistlewaite.”
The jackanapes, she thought even while fighting to still her pounding heart. She took the seat reluctantly, waiting for him to find his own chair.
He took his seat and lifted his brows. “Well?”
“That was nicely done. Except the touching part.”
“Oh. Did I touch you?” He was all masculine innocence… if there was such a thing.
“Yes, you did. You were a bit close.”
“You don’t like close?”
“Not that close. Our aim is to practice politeness.”
“I thought I was polite, pulling your chair from the table.” He watched her pour the tea, then said in a thoughtful tone, “However, now that I think about it, I suppose your sentiments explain why you don’t have any children.”
She almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said! It’s just that—” She took a deep breath. “It is not correct to mention such topics.”
“Such topics?”
“As having children and—and being touched.”
“I didn’t bring up the touching. You did.”
She had, hadn’t she? She sighed. “If this was a real breakfast, then you should not mention either of those topics.”
“Never?”
“Well, not directly, of course.”
He paused in placing his napkin across his lap. “What do you mean ‘not directly?’ ”
“I have heard women talk about another woman they said was ‘increasing.’ ”
He chortled. “If she was going to have a child, I daresay she was increasing.”
“Yes, well, it’s not a topic a gentleman should mention, so please do not,” she said stiffly. Goodness, but her cheeks felt hot. She cleared her throat. “Now, let us talk about dinners. When the trustees arrive, you may want to—”
“Wait. This is not a ‘real breakfast,’ as you said.” He leaned forward, his elbows coming to rest on the table before him. “Tell me, Prudence, why didn’t you have any children?”
Her jaw tightened and a low, almost forgotten ache arose in the region of her heart. She lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip, more to still their trembling as to give her time to regain control. “As I said, that is not a topic for polite conversation.”
“Ah, but we aren’t polite society, are we?” he answered softly, leaning back in his chair. “Not yet. For now, you and I are the outcasts from society. The expatriates.”
“I am. But you will not be for long.” It was true, with the title and the fortune, he would be accepted in any home in London, while she… She put down her cup. She would be left behind.
Something was happening here. She was slowly beginning to feel something for the earl. Lust, she told herself firmly. It is just lust. Unfortunately for her, it was a lot of lust.
“… and it happens every time.”
She blinked, realizing he was speaking. “I’m sorry. I did not hear you.”
“I said that women often forget I am present. One moment they are speaking to me, the next they are staring at their teacups in a trance-like state.”
She had to smile. “Was I staring at my teacup?”
“Yes. I tried not to take it personally, but I failed.” A reluctant smile lurked in his green eyes.
He really was a handsome man, especially when he grinned at her like that. She cleared her throat. “Well. This is certainly a lovely repast.”
Every day she did this to him. He’d get a little too close, a little too emotionally intriguing for her comfort, and out came her teaching face. He’d be forced to make impersonal small talk until he could turn the topic back into more interesting lines.
She buttered her toast. “Orange marmalade is the best thing on earth.”
“No.”
She paused, knife hovering over her toast, her brown eyes questioning. “ ‘No’ is not an acceptable answer to a comment. You should agree or expound on your reasons for not agreeing. You do not just say ‘no.’ ”
“I wasn’t talking about the marmalade. I was saying I don’t want to make inane small talk today. I’ve had my fill.”
Prudence put down the knife. “We have done quite a bit of social banter. Perhaps we should discuss something Reeves mentioned to me. He has suggested that in the days before the trustees arrive, we should attend a local gathering, a country dinner of some sort to test your new skills.”
“I would rather talk about you.”
Tristan saw her rejection before she uttered it. She shook her head almost vehemently. “Let us instead talk about the coming visit from the trustees.”
He sighed. She was not going to make this easy.
“Very well. I will give you three minutes to talk about the trustees, and then I do not want them mentioned over the table again today.”
“Three minutes? That won’t do.” She bit her lip, her dark eyes assessing him. “Ten minutes will be better.”
“Four minutes.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Seven.”
“Five minutes and that is my final offer.”
“Done! When the trustees first arrive, what will you do?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Stevens will admit them. Reeves is working with Stevens right now so he will know what to do and say. Two of my men— MacGrady and Toggle—serve as footmen. Reeves is training them as well. They will take our guests’ coats and hats and hang them in the front room. Then, Stevens will escort the trustees in here, to the study. That is where I will dazzle them with my lack of wit and stiff manner of speaking.”
“How will you dazzle them?”
“I will greet them, shake their hands or bow as they indicate, and then seat them. Depending on the time they arrive, I may or may not offer them a drink.” He sent her a dark look. “That is a fact that offends me greatly.”
“You cannot offer them brandy before noon.”
“I daresay some, if not all, have drunk much stronger libations and much earlier than noon. I personally believe we will all want a nice large drink, perhaps two. I daresay they are looking forward to our meeting as much as I am, if not less.”
“You could be right. Still, you want them to think of you as genteel, and you never know when someone might have a prudish streak.”
“I suppose,” he said, completely unconvinced.
“You are coming along nicely,” she said, blinding him with her smile.
The problem was, he didn’t want to “come along nicely.” He wanted to come along in a way that wasn’t nice at all. In a way that was heated and sensual and decadent. One that took him beneath her skirts and between her thighs.
She took a sip of tea, her lips touching the edge of her cup in a damnably attractive way. “Very well, my lord. After you’ve seated the trustees, what will you do?”
“Make mind-numbingly inane conversation. At some point, I will ask them about the will, but during this earlier time, I am to establish myself in their eyes as a gentleman of the world.”
“Excellent! You will do marvelously well.”
“Oh yes. This week has been a great success. I can now bow like a boot-licker of the worst kind, listen to frivolous coxcombs as if they had something of value to say, and speak a full half hour without saying anything at all.”
She laughed then, a gurgle of a laugh that made him smile in return. “I am sorry the skills seem so useless.”
“They are useless.”
“Not to the trustees.” Her lashes dropped down over her cheeks. “My lord—”
“Tristan.”
“I cannot—”
“I am the earl here, not you. I want you to call me Tristan. Please,” he added softly. “We have spent enough time together that I thought you might consider me more than a neighbor, but a friend.”
Her brows rose. “That was very prettily said! My lord, may I ask you a question? It is something—well, you might not wish to answer.”
“Ask anything. Just know that I shall return the favor.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Neither do I. So what do you wish to know?”
“About… when you became a sailor. You were pressed into service at such a young age. Was it very difficult? You certainly seem to have grown to love it.”
“I did grow to love it. However, the first year was very difficult. I was homesick and angry and would learn nothing unless it was at the tip of a cat-o‘-nine-tails.”
She glanced at his shoulders.
“Yes. There are scars. Many of them. I was as stubborn as a child as I am now, if you can imagine.”
“You said you were but ten! Surely they would not whip a ten-year-old.”
“They did and do. It’s a hard life.”
“That is barbaric!”
“I agree. For that reason, I did not use impressed men on my ships.”
“Good for you!”
“Oh don’t make me into a saint. It is a safety issue. I had no desire to wake up with a knife in my back.”
“I can see how that might happen!” She frowned a bit. “Tristan, if you didn’t press your men into service, then how did you keep your crew?”
She’d used his name. He hid his triumph only by moving his aching foot a little and wiping his smile off his face before it fully came to rest. “The sea is a hard life, but a profitable one if you have a good captain, as I was.” Was. That was certainly hard to say. He swallowed and continued, “I believe that only poorly qualified captains must press their crews.”
“When you were pressed, was your father aware of what happened?”
“Reeves said my father was out of the country at the time. I don’t think he knew what happened to either me or my brother—”
“Brother?”
“I have a twin. He and I were separated when I was pressed.” Tristan gave a mirthless smile. “I told myself for years that my father really cared and would have prevented my mother’s arrest as well as my own fate had he been aware. But now I rather doubt it. I daresay in his way, he was glad enough to see my brother and me out of the way. He certainly made no effort to find either of us. Not until recently, that is.”
Tristan looked down at the dinner setting, at the sparkling silver and delicate china. “My brother escaped. I looked for him, but was unable to locate him. This morning, Reeves told me he has found my brother. I haven’t seen him in so long—” Tristan could not continue.
Silence filled the air between them. Tristan wondered about Christian, where he was, what he was doing. Why hadn’t he come to see him? What “business” did he have to attend to before he came? It was possible that—
A small, warm hand covered over his. Tristan did not know what to do. It was a simple gesture, one that probably happened hundreds or thousands of times each day. Yet he could not remember a single time someone had done such a thing—reached out to him with nothing more than the spirit of human kindness. Touched him for no other reason than to reassure him.
For a moment, Tristan could only stare at the delicate fingers that slipped over his. He followed the line of that hand to the narrow wrist and on to the sweetly curved arm. From there, he found Prudence’s well-defined shoulders, graceful neck, and finally, her sensually velvety brown eyes.
He turned his hand and laced his fingers with hers. A flash of heat exploded through him, so strong and so sharp that he almost gasped aloud. Good God, but he wanted this woman. But it wasn’t just lust. He’d felt that before. This was different, lust and… possession. He didn’t simply want to taste her; this time, he wanted more. He wanted to devour her, possess her, take her and mark her as his. He wanted to languish in her arms, savor her feel and the scent of her skin.
His body tightened with need, with desire, and he fought it with all of his strength.
She squeezed his fingers in apparent sympathy. “I am sorry about your brother. I am sure you will find him.” She withdrew her hand. “I feel I have asked so many questions—I didn’t mean to pry.” She suddenly brightened. “Well! Now you may ask me a question or two.”
Still bemused, he leaned back, struggling to regain his thoughts. Everything seemed far away, like waves crossing a storm-washed deck. She’d held his hand, touched him with the most innocent of intentions and he’d exploded into a sea of lust. He fought for breath. “Yes. I—I—ah, there is one thing I’ve wanted to know for the longest time. Mrs. Thistlewaite… Prudence.” He lifted his brows in earnest inquiry. “What is your favorite color?”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it. She’d asked him such a personal question, she’d been certain he’d do the same to her. But… “My favorite color? It is red.”
“I thought as much,” he said, a sense of satisfaction sitting about him.
She pursed her lips, feeling a bit let down. “Is that all?”
“I may ask another?”
She nodded.
“Well then…” His voice deepened, strengthened. Slow and silvery his words slipped about her, an actual touch. “Why did you choose to come to Devon, of all places?”
Despite herself, her gaze flickered toward the window, toward the sea where it crashed and flashed below.
“Ah,” he said, his voice warm and appreciative.
“Since I was a child, I have loved the sea. It pulls me somehow.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I cannot sail for I get deathly ill.”
“You haven’t been on the right ship.”
“I’ve been on three. They were all different and they all made me ill.”
“You were never on the Victory.”
“The Victory? Nelson’s flagship?”
“My ship.” His voice rang with simple pride.
She smiled. “Your ship, then. Was that the ship—” She glanced at his leg.
His gaze followed hers, a shadow crossing his face. “Yes.” With an abrupt movement, he placed his napkin on the table and stood. “Come. Have a look at her.”
“Look? She’s here?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He took Prudence’s hand and pulled her to her feet, then led her to the furthest wall. On it hung a large picture of a neat little rig fighting storm-sized swells.
She remembered looking at it the first day she’d come. “So this is the Victory.”
He nodded, his hand still clasped about hers. “Nelson himself gave me that picture when I first received command of her.”
Prudence tried to admire the painting, but she was too aware of where Tristan’s hand engulfed hers. He had very masculine hands, she decided with approval. Large and brown and curiously callused, one of his easily encompassed hers. For some reason, the sight sent a tremor through her, a faint quiver of excitement.
How silly. She pushed the ridiculous thoughts aside just as he turned to face her, pivoting a little on his cane as he did so. He was so close… so very close. If she tilted her head back and lifted her lips to his, he would be within reach. She wanted to kiss him. If she was honest, she wanted much more, too.
Prudence closed her eyes and stepped away from the temptation that so beckoned her. But as she did so, her heel hit the earl’s cane and she wavered an instant. His arm instantly shot out to catch her. In the space of a second, Prudence found herself held against the earl s broad chest, her breasts pressed against his coat, her face upturned to his.
He looked down at her, his eyes on her mouth, his own lips parted. His skin was sun browned, his cheeks and chin covered with rough stubble that begged to be touched. She was aware of the warmth of his arm about her waist, of his strength as he held her so effortlessly, of the fact that by the simple expediency of lifting her face to his, she could touch her lips to his…
He slowly released her, allowing her to slide down the length of his body with the utmost slowness. Prudence’s heart pounded noisily in her ears. Her whole body ached with unspoken desire. God, but she wanted him. Wanted him so badly that she could almost taste his tea-scented kiss, feel the roughness of his scruffed chin on her bared skin.
Though he’d allowed her feet to rest once more on the ground, he made no effort to release her. Prudence knew she should move out of reach, but the feel of a man’s arm about her was so comforting, so right, that she did not do anything at all but stand in place and savor the moment. A moment certain to pass swiftly.
“I suppose I should release you,” he murmured, his voice low and hot.
She closed her eyes, soaking in the feelings, the scents. The fresh sea smell of his coat, the starch scent of his white shirt. “I—I suppose you should.”
“A gentleman would.”
She had to lick dry lips before she could respond. “A gentleman would,” she agreed.
Neither moved. The moment stretched, the air thickening with each breath. She could feel his chest moving in and out, slowly and inexorably, and she found herself breathing to match his. Her skin prickled with awareness, her breasts tightened and peaked. How she wanted him. It was like being swept along in a tidal force, drawn resistlessly into the dark of a whirlpool. But she had to resist. She had to.
“Prudence…” The word stirred her hair. His lips brushed her temple. “Prudence, we should—”
She kissed him. With one gesture, she poured out the burning want and aching desire she’d been fighting since she and the earl had first crossed paths. It had been so long since she’d given in to passion, so long since she’d allowed herself to feel anything at all that it threatened to overwhelm her.
Tristan reacted instantly. His mouth moved possessively over hers, and he clutched her to him. Somehow— she was never certain how—he managed to maneuver them into the nearby chair without the slightest of staggers.
Prudence wanted to ask him if he’d hurt himself but forgot the words when Tristan’s mouth grazed her ear, his heated breath sending a cascade of shivers through her.
She burrowed her face in his neck, then wrapped her arms about him tighter. His hands slid from her waist, down her hips to her thighs. She could feel every nuance of his touch through her morning gown, the sound of their erratic breathing filling the air. Prudence gasped when his hand found the bottom of her skirt and he brushed it aside and cupped her calf, pulling her deeper into his lap. He was already erect, hard and straining, and she could taste the passion in his kisses, in the urgency of his touch.
Her own body answered, and emboldened by him and his wandering hands, she ran her fingers over his chest, pulling at his cravat to reach his skin.
He lifted his head and muttered a curse. “Too much damn clothing.”
For a moment, Prudence could only stare at him. Then a quivering smile tickled her lips. He was so dear just then, tousled and frustrated, his eyes dark with passion, his erection firm beneath her. Prudence would never know what possessed her. Indeed, later that very night, she would stare up at the ceiling of her own bed and wonder what wanton spirit overtook her.
Somehow, she found herself straightening, her gaze locked with Tristan’s as she slowly undid the tie at the neck of her gown.
She paused as the tie fell loose at her neck. This was it—the last moment she could turn away. Yet she knew in her heart that this was right—that being with Tristan right now, this instant was where she belonged. They might not be destined to be together for all time— indeed circumstances and their own personal paths made such a thing an impossibility—yet there was no denying she belonged in his arms at this moment. And right now, nothing else mattered.
Before her bemused eyes, his breathing quickened, his lips parted. He could not look away and she knew she held him in her thrall. It was a heady experience. It had been a long time since she’d excited just such a look in a man’s eyes and she drank it in now. It fueled her desire for the moment even more.
He watched as she pulled the neck of her gown open, then pushed it over her shoulders and to her waist.
Tristan groaned, his chest moving rapidly as he seemed to struggle for breath. His gaze brushed over her, lingering on the shadows of her breasts, clearly visible beneath the sheerness of her chemise.
Tristan didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. She sat on his lap, proudly bared except for a bit of lace and silk. The chemise might cover her breasts, but they did so with a clinging touch that left little to his fevered imagination. The lace at her throat emphasized the delicate lines of her throat and shoulders. A tiny silk rosebud rested between her breasts, anchoring the center seam of the chemise.
It was all he could do not to lean her back and take her right there. Yet as anxious as he was for her, a part of him savored her, savored the moment. She was offering herself freely, without reservation. Yet, he knew he should not accept her gift. A real gentleman would stop now. A real gentleman—
She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.
Tristan groaned. “I cannot—”
She leaned forward, and the chemise dropped away from her breasts. He could see the rounded swells, almost taste the tempting tautness of her nipples.
Prudence placed a hand on his cheek and looked directly in his eyes. “Please.”
It was the only word she uttered. A true gentleman did not leave a lady wanting.
Breathing her name, Tristan swept her to him, kissing her madly, savoring the softness of her inside his arms. He worshipped her mouth, tasted her sweetness. Suddenly, she stood, untangling from his clasp, her gown falling to the floor. Only her chemise and stockings separated them, her slippers apparently having been kicked off when he wasn’t paying attention.
He took a shuddering breath, his gaze devouring her. The silky scrap of lace and seductive silk drove his ready excitement ever higher.
As quickly as she’d stood, she now knelt before him, her arms over her head as she slowly withdrew the pins. Within seconds, her hair tumbled down about her, curling and frothing like the waves of the ocean.
Tristan’s heart thundered so hard he thought it would stop. For weeks he’d dreamed of her just like this. Never had he wanted anything more. She was wild and fresh, a rain-kissed sea after a hard storm. And for the moment, she was his. His and no one else’s.
She reached for his foot. “You need to undress, too.”
He grabbed her wrist. “Let me.”
She set back on her heels, watching as he carefully pulled his boot free, then the other. He stood and somehow, in moments he would never recall, he undressed, Prudence’s eager hands assisting him.
As soon as he was bared, he stood before her. Her dark brown gaze traveled over him, lingering with appreciation hither and yon. He did not move when she reached out and gently traced the thick white scar that ran from his knee to his ankle.
She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t. At this moment, he wasn’t sorry about one damn thing. He took her hands and hauled her to her feet, swooping her against him, the silk of her chemise sliding against his bare skin. “I don’t give a damn about anything except you.”
She was so beautiful, standing before him, the firelight flickering across her hair, lining it with streaks of gold. He plunged his hand into that silken mass and pulled her mouth to his.
His hands never stilled. Her chemise soon dropped to the floor. Somehow, they were no longer standing, but on the settee, the cushions lifting her hips to his. They came together with a breathless joining that sent a million spirals of pleasure through Tristan’s body. He sunk into her as if he’d never before had a woman. As if his life to this second had not existed. As if all the exultant days at sea had collided into this one, perfect moment.
Beneath him, Prudence shivered and moaned, grasping his shoulders urgently. She moved with the passion and ardor of a woman who loved loving, her hips pressing against his, her lips parted as she gasped with each thrust.
The pace increased and all too soon, Prudence rasped out his name, her legs clenching tightly about him as she rode the waves of pleasure. Her passionate cry undid Tristan. He grit his teeth against the onslaught, but the hot passion tore through him as he slid into her one last time.
For a long moment, they lay there, spent and exhausted. Their harsh breaths mingling. Tristan wasn’t sure how long they held one another, but eventually, Prudence stirred a bit beneath him. Tristan immediately lifted on his arms.
She smiled, a sleepy sort of smile. “I would call that brilliant.”
He grinned. “It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me.”
Her smile faded only slightly before she said with perfect seriousness, “There are times when it is good to be a gentleman, and times when it pays to be a pirate.”
A laugh broke from him and he kissed her swiftly. “You, my lady, are a delight.”
A shadow passed over her eyes. She shifted in his arms and he rolled upright to give her more room. He hadn’t meant for her to leave his embrace, only to lift his weight from her, but she did just that. She stood and collected her clothes, her movements jerky and hurried.
Tristan raised up on one elbow. “What’s wrong, sweet?”
Prudence used her chemise to wipe her thighs. Her mind was a welter of confused thoughts. She hadn’t meant for this to happen, but she could not in all honesty say she was sorry. It had been every bit as fulfilling as she’d imagined it would be. All she regretted was that this was all they had—this moment of closeness— and then it would be back to their usual arrangement. It had to be that way.
Whatever the earl may be now, he would always be a bit of a pirate. She saw it in everything he did and said. Even when learning the rudiments of comportment, there was a barely controlled wildness to him. He was not the sort of man one should marry. He was the sort of man one loved and then, as quickly as possible, left. The thoughts pained her more than she could say.
She finished dressing. He watched, making no move to dress himself. Alter a moment, she sighed. “Tristan, please. You must dress; someone might come.”
“I don’t care. Prudence, did I hurt you?”
The concern in his gaze was palpable. Prudence had to fight to swallow. “Of course not! It’s just—this cannot happen again. I am supposed to teach you manners, not… this.”
His laughter silenced her. For an instant, she stiffened, outraged that he could take her concerns so lightly.
“Prudence, don’t look at me like that! I have been thinking about you for days now—weeks! Dreaming of this.” His lips quirked into an adorably lopsided smile. “It was even better than my dreams, and that says quite a bit.”
She bit her lip, wishing she could banish the sinking feeling in her stomach. Was that all it had been? A fulfillment of a dream? She busied herself pinning up her hair, all the while wondering at the disappointment that weighed her spirits. She’d wanted their lovemaking to mean—what? What could it mean? Tristan had never led her to believe their attainment of pleasure was anything more, but somehow—to her and only her—it meant more. A lot more.
She turned on her heel and walked to the other side of the room, each step a feat of will over want. Each click of her boot heels rang like a nail in the coffin of what-could-be. She reached the window overlooking the garden and pretended to peer out at the bay. “I do so love the sea,” she said rather inanely, struggling to find something to fill the silence.
Behind her, she heard his sigh and then the rustle of clothing as he dressed. It took every ounce of strength she possessed not to turn and run back to him, to throw herself in his arms. She knew he was affected by her as much as she was affected by him; she’d seen it in his gaze, in the way his breath had quickened, in the ardor in his eyes.
They could not give in to this flare of passion. Of all the things they had, a future was not one of them. He was not the sort of man one fell in love with and married. No, Phillip had been that. Calm, logical, practical—none of those were adjectives she’d attach to the earl. She and Tristan didn’t even have a commonality of interests or beliefs or—anything. All they had was passion.
She took a steadying breath and turned. “My lord— Tristan—I am sorry, but we must not—”
The door opened and Stevens bounded in, a silver tray in one hand, a letter in the center. “Aye there, Cap’n—I mean, me lord! Ye’ve a letter!”
Tristan’s expression darkened. He met Prudence’s gaze for a long moment, and then turned away and held out his hand.
Stevens bustled up with the tray, the letter sliding side to side. “It just came this very minute!”
Tristan caught the letter as it flipped over the side of the tray. He held it out at arm’s length, water dripping from one corner.
“I’m not the best with the trays yet, me lord,” Stevens said in a confidential tone. “I spilled a lot of tea on it this morning when I brought in the pot.”
“Next time, dry the tray before you use it again.”
“And dirty a towel?” Stevens looked outraged.
Tristan shook his head and opened the letter carefully. He held it up to the light. “The ink has smudged. I can’t quite read…” His gaze narrowed. “Damn.”
Stevens leaned around the earl’s arm to read the letter himself.
Reeves entered the room, pausing when he saw Stevens.
“ ‘Tis a letter,” the butler/first mate said proudly. “I carried it all the way from the front door on the silver salver like ye told me to!”
“That is very good, Master Stevens. However, it is very rude of you to read his lordship’s mail over his shoulder. The missive could be an issue of a personal nature.”
Stevens’s face fell. “I can’t read any of his mail?”
“No. That is one of the sad facts of being a good butler. We never get to read the good mail.”
Stevens sighed. “ ‘Tis a lot more fun bein’ a bad butler.”
Tristan gave a muffled curse. “Blast it to hell. It is from the trustees. They are coming to visit next week.”
Prudence caught her hands together. “So soon?”
Tristan nodded grimly. “I daresay they are anxious to make an end of this. They will be here a week from Thursday.”
“Thursday!” Prudence pressed a hand to her forehead. “That’s too early!”
Reeves pursed his lips. “We will just get ready a bit quicker than we anticipated.” He looked at Tristan. “My lord, I hope you don’t mind, but I ran into Squire Thomas in town. I believe you are acquainted with him.”
“Aye. He’s invited me to his house on many occasions, though I’ve never attended. I don’t need that sort of foolishness.”
“Actually, that is just the sort of foolishness we do need. I made certain the squire knew of your change in circumstances and he immediately requested your presence at his house for a small dinner party early next week.” Reeves glanced at Prudence. “We spoke of perhaps attempting an event of some type, though I had no notion of doing it so soon.”
Prudence nodded, trying her best to look assured when all of her thoughts were jangled by her own impropriety. “Yes. The dinner party would be excellent practice for the earl.”
“I don’t need practice,” Tristan said, his brow lowering.
Reeves sighed. “My lord, the more at ease you feel with your new situation, the more in command you will be with the trustees. I strongly recommend that you go.”
Tristan sent a hard glance at Prudence. “And you?”
“What about me?” she returned, frowning.
“Will you be going as well?”
Reeves cleared his throat. “The invitation did not involve Mrs. Thistlewaite.”
“If she is not going, then neither am I,” Tristan said in a distinct voice.
Prudence blinked. “But—”
“You have been with me through this entire charade. I won’t go without you there. I will need your advice if I run aground.”
“But I was not invited! Reeves, explain things to him!”
Reeves was looking at Tristan, a considering look on the butler’s face. “Perhaps his lordship is correct. Let me see what I can do to rectify this oversight.” He met Prudence’s amazed gaze. “It would be good if you were at his side, madam.”
Tristan crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk, looking far handsomer and far more masculine than was necessary. “There. We go to the dinner party together, you and I.” His gaze met hers, a promise lurking there. A promise of mischief and seduction. “We shall both have a fine time. A very fine time indeed.”
That was, Prudence decided, exactly what she was afraid of.

Chapter 14


Social functions are the tests of your effectiveness. Is your employer well turned out? Are there any smudges on his leathers? Any stains on his velvets? Any wrinkles in his linens? These are the things by which we are judged.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

On the day of the dinner party, Prudence arrived at the captain’s house at exactly seven. It was already dark, with faint thunder rumbling and lightning flashing in the distance. She paused on the step and glanced behind her at the vivid display, the long forks of brilliant gold streaking over the black sea.
She loved the wild weather. When she’d first arrived in Devon, exhausted after dealing with all of the weighty difficulties surrounding Phillip’s death and subsequent burial, she’d found the weather oppressive. The skies were as dark and gray as her spirits. But little by little that had changed.
Now she welcomed the testy wind and the arrogant thrash of the rain. The wildness of it reminded her that she was alive. As did the earl. Smiling at her own nonsense, she pulled her cloak more tightly about her neck as she lifted her face to the wind and soaked in the frosty breeze.
It was freeing and exhilarating, but it was also cold. She was glad the earl had sent his carriage or she would have been too uncomfortable to enjoy the scenery. Sighing a little, she turned and knocked on the door.
Stevens opened it almost immediately. “There ye are, madam! I’ve been waitin’ on ye!”
Without being asked, he assisted her with her cloak, falling back a step when her gown was revealed. “Coo’ee, madam! Ye look as fine as nine nails, ye do!”
Prudence’s cheeks heated, her hands unconsciously smoothing the blue silk. It was actually one of Mother’s gowns, her best in fact. Prudence had been surprised when Mother had brought it to her room.
It was of shiny blue silk under white netting, and had tiny blue and pink rosettes sporting the tiniest of green leaves. The skirt was deeply set, the white netting split to reveal the sheen of the blue silk at the front. The sleeves went to the elbows, a white ribbon tied at each.
It was a beautiful gown, although the neckline was lower than Prudence had ever worn, the deeply cut edge decorated with a hint of white lace, which drew the eye rather than disguised the lowness.
She’d argued with Mother about perhaps sewing a bit more lace in the opening, but Mother had waved aside such suggestions by pointing out that Prudence was a widow, and no longer “in the first blush of youth.”
Prudence frowned, catching sight of herself in the lone mirror in the front hall. Perhaps Mother was right, even though Prudence was only thirty-one. It was far beyond the expected age for missish airs and false modesty. She might as well enjoy that small positive notion any way she could.
“Ye look like a frigate in a full moon on a glassy sea, madam,” Stevens said, looking her up and down, frankly admiring. “The cap’n will be glad to see ye lookin’ so fine.” The butler turned to the hooks by the door and carefully hung up her cloak.
“Thank you, Stevens. Where is the earl?”
“In his room. Reeves is helpin’ him dress. The cap’n—I mean, the earl—looks fine as a galley himself.” He led the way down the hallway. “The cap’n— I mean, the earl—was feeling a bit low about this evenin’s entertainment and I thought perhaps ye were feelin’ the same, so I set some sherry on the sideboard in case ye might want a fair drab to tide ye over.”
“Thank you, Stevens! Sherry would be just the thing.”
Stevens laid a finger beside his nose and nodded wisely. “I can tell these things, ye know. ‘Tis me gift. Me mum could do the same thing, she could.”
“Well, whatever spirits whispered in your ears, I am glad they did.”
Stevens puffed up mightily and opened the door to the library, standing to one side.
Prudence noted all of the new and improved touches in Stevens’s manner compared to the first day she’d come to see the earl about the sheep. Funny, she hadn’t thought about it, but the sheep had stopped jumping the gate the second she’d begun tutoring the earl. That was certainly odd—
“Here’s the sherry! I took a swig of it meself, but ‘tis a wee bit too sweet.” Stevens went to pour her a glass. “The cap’n—I mean, the earl—will be down as soon as Master Reeves convinces him to wear that pink waistcoat.”
Prudence took the glass from the erstwhile butler. “Pink?”
“It looked pink to me and the cap’n—I mean, the earl—but Reeves insisted it was not. He called it ‘puke,’ which is a horrid name to call anything, though in this case it do seem appropriate.”
She choked a bit on the sherry. “I’m sorry. But do you think perhaps the name of the color is ‘puce’?”
“Aye! That be it! Still, call it what ye will, pink is pink and that’s not the proper color fer a man to wear, especially one like the captain. ‘Tis rather like seein’ them geld a fine stallion.” Stevens straightened his shoulders. “Speakin’ of which, I had best be goin’ to see if Reeves needs any help. Will there be anything else afore I leaves ye?”
Prudence shook her head, smiling. “Stevens, you have become quite the butler. You sound just like Reeves.”
Stephens brightened, his cheeks glowing with pleasure. “Do ye think so? He’s been teachin’ me how to do things proper, though it has been a horrible burden to bear, puttin’ up with always bein’ wrong.”
“I’m sure it is,” Prudence murmured. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. “I hope the earl won’t be long, or we’ll be late.”
Stevens held up a hand. “Never fear! I’ll light a fire beneath him. Just wait ‘til ye see the captain in his new clothes; he will have all the ladies a-twitter.” Stephens appeared much arrested by this thought. “Perhaps the cap’n will find a woman at the squire’s to marry.”
A stab of irritation flashed through Prudence, melting her previous good humor. “We are not going to the squire’s dinner for his lordship to find a wife.”
“Why not? He has a title now, don’t he? And money, if he can pull the wool over the eyes of those trustees. Why shouldn’t he also get a wife? He will need someone to help him spend it.”
Prudence could think of a thousand hazy reasons, but none she could express. Fortunately, Stevens suddenly remembered he’d been on his way to fetch a pin for Reeves when she’d arrived. Bowing quickly, he skittered from the room and left her alone with her thoughts.
Prudence took another sip of sherry. Stevens was right; perhaps Tristan should be thinking of finding a good woman to marry. Once she was finished smoothing out his rough edges… She paused, thinking of the earl smiling at another woman. Of the earl holding another woman. Of the earl kissing another woman the same way he’d kissed her—
“Oh bother,” she snapped, spinning on her heel and facing the door. Her temples suddenly pounded. Which of the local women would want anything to do with the earl? The thought held her. Good God, every blessed one.
“The earl,” she reminded herself. Tristan was indeed an earl, a soon-to-be-wealthy earl. A soon-to-be-wealthy earl with startling green eyes and a lopsided smile that could make one’s heart leap. It wasn’t who would be interested in the earl, but rather, who wouldn’t be?
She rapidly reviewed all of the women who would be at the party. Mrs. Reed, of course. The young widow had been pursuing Reverend Olglethorpe diligently, though he had been adamant in his refusal to countenance her interest.
Prudence was certain the vile widow would willingly reset her sights on Tristan. Prudence sniffed. It was a pity the woman was so puffed up with her own consequence or she’d know that her nose was several sizes larger than it should have been.
Then there was Miss Simpson, whose father was the local magistrate. She was reportedly a handsome girl, though Prudence found her unforgivably overbearing. Surely Tristan wouldn’t be interested in such a girl, even if her father was the richest man in the area.
Other names of eligible women flittered through Prudence’s mind. Oh damn. Damn. Damn. Frowning mightily, she poured herself yet another glass of sherry.

Reeves stepped back and surveyed his handiwork from head to toe. “My lord, you look a gentleman.”
Tristan gritted his teeth, enduring the inspection. He felt like a ship with a broken top rudder, adrift in an oily sea, left to the fickle winds and the hands of fate.
Reeves nodded. “You look well, my lord. Very well.”
“I will not wear the pink waistcoat.”
“You are wearing it,” Reeves pointed out gently. “And it is not pink, but puce.”
“Putrid is more like.” Tristan turned to pick up his watch fob when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Tall and broad shouldered, his hair was neatly tied back, and his shoulders were outlined by the black evening coat, the only colors he wore were the pale puce waistcoat and the sparkle of a ruby in his cravat.
Reeves came to stand behind him. “You look just like him.”
Tristan’s hands curled into fists. “It is not a likeness I treasure.”
“Perhaps you should. I’ve often thought it a pity we do not celebrate the good that sometimes comes out of the bad.”
Tristan met Reeves’s gaze in the mirror. “It is a greater pity when there is no good.”
Reeves pursed his lips. “I am afraid I would have to disagree with that, my lord. The old earl left you his title and funds, though he did have other options. He could have legitimized one of his other unfortunate relatives and named another heir.”
“You are right. I should be thankful. And I am. Only… not to him.” Tristan looked once again into the mirror, into his own green eyes. “Still no word from Christian?”
“No, my lord. We can only hope he is getting his affairs in order so that he may assume his position without—” Reeves bit his lip.
Tristan turned to face the butler. “Without what?”
“There are times one should leave one’s past in the past.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I shall leave it to Master Christian to tell you.”
Tristan regarded the butler with frustration. “You are damned cryptic at times.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I am aware of that, my lord.” The butler sighed. “I wonder… how old was Master Christian when you last laid eyes on him?”
“We were ten.”
“It has been over twenty years. He might be greatly changed.”
“I would know him anywhere.”
“Given the right lighting and the correct circumstances, I think you would, too.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. Only… it would be well to acknowledge that the brother you think you knew might no longer exist.”
The thought was unsettling, to say the least. Tristan picked up his cane. “No matter what, I want him back in my life.”
Reeves bowed. “I shall let you know as soon as I hear from him, my lord.”
A knock sounded on the door. Reeves went to open it and Stevens stood there. He brightened on seeing Reeves. “What do ye know! Someone did open the door when I knocked.”
“Amazing, is it not?” Reeves said, shutting the door.
“Sails and oars, Cap’n!” Stevens shook his head. “Next ye’ll be wearing skirts and a bow in yer hair.”
Tristan raised his brows.
The first mate flushed. “I didn’t mean that, me lord! It just slipped out fer I know ye’d never wear no skirt or bow. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Tristan growled.
Stevens sighed. “I was just a mite out of breath from seein’ Mrs. Thistlewaite to the library. She looks a picture, she do.”
“Mrs. Thistlewaite always looks a picture.” Which was annoyingly true. Even red nosed from the cold, her hair wind tossed, her clothes a bit wrinkled from the walk to his house, she managed to look delectable.
“Indeed, she’s a fine woman,” Stevens agreed. “But tonight, she looks a lady born. Ye’ll have yer hands full keeping the beaus from overcoming her on the dance floor, mark me words!”
Tristan frowned. “Beaus?” He looked at Reeves.
The butler nodded. “That is, after all, one of the purposes of a country party. To provide some social opportunities for those looking for a wife… or a husband.”
Tristan didn’t like the sound of that at all. He wondered if the doctor would be there, ready to pant over Prudence and annoy the hell out of Tristan. “Whoever is there, they had better leave Prudence alone.”
Reeves seemed to contemplate this. “Unless she wishes it, of course. Then you cannot, in all honesty, interfere.”
“Interfere? I will be there to protect her.”
“Mrs. Thistlewaite is not a child, my lord. Unless she requests your assistance, you cannot do anything. I only hope she might find someone who will make her happy. She is such a lovely woman.”
To Tristan’s irritation, Stevens nodded. “She’s a trim rig, make no doubt about it. Daresay there are any number of gents willin’ to—”
“Enough!” Tristan glared at Stevens and then Reeves. “I don’t wish to hear another word.”
Reeves bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Scowling, Tristan walked out the door and made his way downstairs.
Bloody hell, what did Stevens mean by suggesting that Prudence would have the ill thought of flirting? She was not that sort of woman. He remembered her in his library, of her hair unbound and her mouth swollen from his kisses—well. Perhaps she was the type, but only with him, damn it! He glanced down, annoyed to find that he’d hardened at the mere memory of touching her.
She was his. His until he was through with her or she him. And he would allow no one else to broach the subject. If some drunken coxswain thought to jump Prudence’s deck, Tristan would be ready to discourage the jackanapes with a pistol if need be.
He scowled to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was a good thing Stevens had mentioned such a happenstance or Tristan might have been caught asleep at the helm.
He made his way down the narrow hallway, the light from the library shining into the gloomy passage, a beacon from a dark shore. Less than a month ago, he’d been peaceful here, watching his life drift by, only the concern for his men giving him a reason to rise from bed, Now, things were more clear…more hopeful, somehow.
Tristan paused outside of the library and looked down at his clothing. The cloth was softer than he was used to, though it bound him tighter. He adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time, using a finger to loosen it a bit about the neck, certain he was creasing it in some way that would horrify Reeves.
It seemed as if his father was reaching from beyond the grave to irk him, to punish him further for the ignominious fact of his existence. But Tristan was made of sterner stuff.
He would not allow this inconvenience to interrupt his plans. He would help his men, establish a real home for the sailors, and then forget about everything else.
All he needed was the funds and he would be free of this silly playacting. Then he could be who he really was. And Prudence would be his for the taking.
With that thought, he walked into the library—and came to a stunned halt. Standing before the fire was Prudence. She was dressed in a blue-and-white gown of some sort, though that was not what he really noticed.
What he did notice was that the bright blaze from the fire backlit Prudence’s entire body through the thin silk that draped over her. He could see the enticing curve of her hips and the long, supple length of her legs. There wasn’t a curve out of place. She was breathtakingly perfect and she set his loins afire without even knowing it.
“Ah! My lord, there you are.”
Her soft voice shook him from his reverie. He stepped forward, fighting the urge to grab her up and carry her to his room. Had he been able to be himself and not this shell of an earl, that was what he would do.
A sudden thought shook him. What if Prudence unknowingly stood before the fireplace at the party at the squire’s? Every bloody man there would be enthralled. They would all see her as he did now. A low roar began to sound in his ears.
“You look very well,” she said, a shy note in her voice.
Tristan gathered himself with some effort. “As do you.” He forced his gaze to move up from her outlined form, his heart jumping when he realized the charms of her bodice. Bloody hell, who had allowed her to wear such a daring gown? He could keep her from standing before the fire, but how was he to cover her shoulders and chest?
She smiled, blithely unaware of his growing consternation as she walked to the sideboard to replace an empty glass she held in her hand. He noted that she wobbled just the slightest bit as she did so.
He looked at the near-empty decanter and he almost groaned aloud. Good God, he was escorting the world’s most beautiful woman and not only was she underdressed, but she was tipply. “I don’t want to go to this dinner.”
“You must. It’s our last chance to practice.” She came to his side, leaning against him until her breasts pressed the back of his arm, her smile warm and inviting. “Don’t worry. I will be with you all evening.”
He looked down at where her hand rested on his sleeve, right beside the enticing swell of her bosom.
His hand closed over hers. If he stayed here, he would end up making love to her. He knew it as clearly as if it were written in ink on a piece of blinding white paper. Perhaps it would be better to be around others. At least until one of them was of a cooler, more composed mind.
Tristan pressed his lips to her fingers. “I will not let you out of my sight.”
“Then let us go.” With that, she half pulled him to the door, looking entrancing and exciting and thoroughly sensual. “ ‘Tis an adventure!”
Tristan followed her, feeling very grim indeed. He would go to this blasted dinner party and, at the first possible moment, take his leave, making certain Prudence went with him.
God, but he hoped it would be a short night. He didn’t think he could make it through a long one.