Page 24 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
Edward peeled out of his slouch, brandy flecking his crisp, white cuff. “You haven’t asked her yet? Oh, this is a fine fiddle. I assumed a graceless proposal was the problem.”
Tristan released an affronted snort. “Not to divulge too much about private matters, but she ran away before I could.”
Edward’s mouth opened, advice Tristan didn’t want to hear set to tumble out when they were fortuitously interrupted.
“Rutherford, about your sister—” The man, a corpulent baron who imagined himself an academic, stumbled to a halt in the doorway. Tristan had met him on two occasions and had come away from both unimpressed. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t know you were entertaining. Evening, Your Grace.”
Tristan tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Quigley.”
The baron shifted from one foot to the other. Tristan had been told he had an unnerving way of staring at people, which he often used to his advantage. “Let me leave you two to your talk. I’ll send a note around, arrange a time. What say you, Rutherford?”
Tristan shot an exploratory glance at Edward, catching his startled expression, the fingers tapping a jumpy rhythm on his knee, and decided to play the game. After all, his friend had wanted a spot of fun, hadn’t he? “Oh, my no, Quigley. I’m a family acquaintance of long-standing. You can speak in front of me.” Rising to his feet, Tristan strode to the sideboard, poured a liberal measure, and offered it to the baron. No one in society would turn down a drink from a duke.
Not when the duke rarely offered.
“Now that you ask, I think I will sink in for a little chinwag,” Quigley said and dragged a threadbare chair Tristan hoped would hold him into their circle.
Tristan reclaimed his seat and gestured to Quigley. “You were saying, about Lady Bellington…” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Edward deflate like a balloon pricked by a barb, sliding low in his chair as he drained his glass.
“I can’t allow her to speak at the botanical society meeting, Rutherford, I simply can’t. You understand I’m sure.” Quigley misinterpreted Edward’s groan as directed at him when it was likely meant to describe the general situation the marquess found himself in. “She’s been writing to us for two years as this C.E. Bellington fellow. Lots of marvelous information on ways to fertilize azaleas and calm acute oak decline. This latest variety of plum is news the entire botanical world must hear. But, and this is the kicker, who’d imagine an intelligent bloke like that to be…to be awoman?”
Tristan sipped slowly, the fury that had frequently bitten him on the battlefield nipping at the base of his spine. “A female botanist. Quite remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Absurd is what it is,” Quigley said around a smacking swallow.
Edward whispered an oath and hung his hands between his legs, staring at them rather than joining the conversation.
Tristan let the mantel clock tick off ten seconds before speaking. “I think it’s fascinating. Charming. Courageous. Like the lady.”
Quigley paused, the tense undercurrent in the room finally piercing his awareness. “What’s it to you, Mercer?”
“Ah, well”—Tristan balanced his glass on his belly and steepled his fingers atop the crystal—“it means quite a lot to me actually. The world, as it were.”
Quigley’s blotchy cheeks expanded with his breath. “Fancy bluestockings? No idea. Thought you were into actresses.”
Tristan clenched his jaw and listened to the clock tick, half a minute this time. “I’m a benefactor of the National History Museum, Quigley, did you know? The events we’ve attended there over the years ring a bell? Your society, my funds. Botanical prints are rather expensive, as I recall. When most in thetonaren’t able to afford the expense. To put it tastelessly, I would hate for your group to lose the opportunity to acquire them.”
Quigley blustered and rocked forward in his chair. It squeaked and swayed but held steady. “The botanical illustration collection? But we’ve found a new print by an artist in Wales that is easily the best rendition of an ophrys apifera you’ve ever seen.”
“I do not doubt as I’ve seen none.” Tristan pulled a thread from his sleeve and flicked it to the floor. “Is this spectacular Welsh artist willing to donate his work, by any chance?”
Quigley swallowed, his jaw clenching as he started to get the picture. “Well, in fact, no.”
“Excellent! A fine businessman your artiste in addition to being a creative genius. We’re agreed then.” Tristan sat up and held out his hand to seal the deal, an American tradition he planned to start regularly employing because his countrymen disliked it so much.
Quigley set his glass on the table with a click but kept his hand in his lap like Tristan had threatened to sever it at the wrist. “Agreed towhatexactly?”
“You let C. E. Bellington speak at your esteemed society meetings any time she feels the need, and I continue to underwrite paintings of carrot roots and sunflowers and the like.” Tristan experienced the strangest surge of happiness as the next words rolled from his lips, proving he was, indeed, desperately in love. “Your venerated society certainly wouldn’t take part in rebuffing a duchess.Myduchess.”
“She’s going to kill you,” Edward muttered behind the fist he dragged across his mouth.
Quigley collapsed in his chair, astonishment evident in face and form. “What is England coming to when a duke chooses an intellectual? A woman who reads actualbooks. Not novels, mind you, but science texts. And writes articles fit for an Oxford professor. Society is crumbling, frankly decaying around us. They’re going to take over. This is what you’re setting in motion, Mercer. Women ruling the world.” He reclaimed his glass and knocked it back, a crimson drop running down his chin and bleeding into his crumpled collar. “My God, her needlework is probably horrific. You’ll have no uplifting quoted cushions scattered about, that’s my verdict.”
Tristan looked to Edward, who shook his head sadly.
“Cheer up, Quigley. She can’t sew a stitch, play the pianoforte or paint adequate landscapes, true.” Tristan’s smile was swift and sharp. “But those plums are the bloody best you’ve ever tasted in your life.”
CHAPTER8