Page 4 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

He chuckled—another surprise when he’d believed amusement long dead—and spoke before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry about the swan story, Princess. It was a diversion from the things they wanted.” Grinning, he gestured with the bottle. “It’s just, I’ve never seen someone totally covered in mud, head to toe, and battling a violently angry swan. I smile every time I think about it. Which I’m sure says something base about my character.”

She frowned; he saw this clearly when a stray moonbeam struck her face. Then she shook her head, blew out a half-breath, and smiled right back at him. To say his response to that show of wit was like a jarring blow to the solar plexus would have been an understatement.

Proving her mettle, and lack of discretion, she pranced down the steps and to his concealed spot as if being alone with a man of his reputation was a fine idea. “You sound foxed, Your Grace.”

Tristan brought the bottle to his lips and watched her through olive green glass as he drank. Either this or give in to the insane urge to kiss her. “Not quite there, but I’m trying.”

“Why?”

He halted, staring up at her, incredulous she’d ask. If she was going to ‘your grace’him, did she really want to know? “Because they want a piece I’m not willing to share,” he finally said through clenched teeth, a statement he was astounded he uttered.

She tilted her head, chewed on what looked to be a plump lower lip, held out her hand. “Your greatcoat, if you don’t mind.”

He sat up, stunned but accommodating, and wrestled his sleeves off his arms. Giving it to her, he shrugged as if to say,now what?She had on a voluminous cloak herself, her body swaddled in woolen folds.

With a playful smile, Camille spread his coat out like a blanket, and in a relaxed move, settled next to him without flashing so much as a hint of ankle. “I didn’t prepare for a picnic, and this color of silk is unforgiving,” she said and gestured to her gown. Grabbing the bottle from his hand, she took a dainty sip. Ran her tongue along her teeth, then took another, deeper this one.

He studied her profile, moonlight turning the ends of her eyelashes gold, and a haunting tightness deep inside him released, like a lock being sprung. “I’m not going to talk about it.”

She wagged the bottle in his direction. “No need.”

He inhaled to clear his mind, bringing in the scent of peony and a dash of orange blossom. The air surrounding her was suggestive of English summers, and for some bloody reason, freedom. “I visited a rifleman’s family yesterday on my way here, a man under my leadership. He lived in Stamford, a staging point for the London to York coaches, so a convenient stop for my carriage and crew. I told this young man’s mother how he’d fought and bravely perished on a field in the Netherlands during Wellington’s war. La Haye Sainte was where we staged that final battle. Sounds regal, doesn’t it, when it was just a farm. And Daniel Larson, just a boy.”

She turned and stared until he was forced to face her. An owl called out, and the wind whispered between them. His heart ached, and he had no idea how to ease the pain. He reached for the bottle, but she shoved it behind her back. “Pretend I’m Edward or someone in your regiment you’d confide in. Say what you feel you can’t but must.” She brought her knees up and propped her cheek atop them, gazing out across the distance, letting his heart settle without her direct regard. “Sometimes, when I’m rooting a new species of plant, I talk, and the words reveal the answer, the how and why. The sound of my voice relieves the pressure and the mystery. Maybe you could try it. We were family friends of a sort once.”

So he did. Talked until his fingers were numb from the cold, until he imagined his nose was as red as the holly berries Camille had sprinkled across her aunt’s dining table. Talked until, like the girl who’d fought a swan in the Serpentine said he might, he felt the slightest release of the bands strapped around his chest.

The sound of footsteps on the terrace had them both glancing toward the house.

Tristan grabbed her arm before she rose, her pulse skipping where his gloved thumb covered her wrist. The fast tick belied the serene expression on her face. On a spurt of panic at their diminishing time, he said, “This hobby, your plants. I’m staying the night at your aunt’s invitation. Tomorrow, after breakfast, you could show me.”

“It’s a business,” she corrected and wiggled her arm from his grip.

“Despite what Ridley thinks.”

She snorted inelegantly while rising elegantly to her feet. Handed him his bottle and his coat. “Despitewhat the viscount thinks. He’ll have to get used to it.”

The idea of Ridley getting used to anything Camille Bellington dished out caused a twinge he’d best ignore to swim through Tristan’s belly. “Your grandfather’s conservatory? Is that where you conduct your business? I can meet you there. I remember where it is.”

She started toward the house, mumbling something that sounded like‘not chasing a duke’beneath her breath before glancing back over her shoulder. “Why, Your Grace, would you be interested in botany?”

I’m not. I’m only interested in you. Instead, he said, “My father’s garden is in terrible distress. Consider it an interview. More business for Bellington Botany at the ducal estate down the way. Imagine how old Ridley will turn eleven shades of crimson when he hears about it.”

Her smile was amazing to observe, unfolding like one of her blasted flowers. “I shouldn’t like that so much, but I do.”

Tristan rose to his feet, his head still light from the wine. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

He blinked, utterly unused to being denied. “Why not?”

“All you used the conservatory for was kissing back in the day. It’s a respectable place of business now. What would the flowers think?”

“What?”

Her laugh broke free, a sound as intoxicating as her balmy scent, in such contrast to the winter night. “Victoria Primrose. Remember?”

He muscled his hand through his hair, searching his memory.Ah, yes. “Blasted hell, I couldn’t have been more than fifteen. A bet with Edward. It wasn’t good, the kiss. I had no idea what I was doing. She certainly never asked me to repeat it.” With a shiver, he worked his arms back into his coat. “You must have had your nose pressed to a dirty pane to see the sad performance.”