Page 9 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
All because of a woman he’d not known he needed.
A woman who’d wanted him once, when he hadn’t known to want her back.
An intelligent, beautiful, spirited woman recently engaged to a bloke Tristan felt sure he didn’t like.
Tristan had no idea what to do about that. About any of it. But he wasn’t leaving Isabel Fontaine’s home until he figured it out.
“Still here, Mercer? No one to debauch in London?”
He turned to find Viscount Ridley tottering down the grand staircase, a bulging portmanteau clutched in his fist. Tristan grinned. This day was getting better and better. “No, I’ve determined a longer visit at Longleat Manor is in order. Family friends and all. You know, I spent many a day here with Lady Camille’s brother, Edward.” He yawned, then nodded to Ridley’s luggage. “Looks like you’re haring back to Town, however.”
Ridley halted alongside Tristan, dropped his bag to the faded Aubusson, and snaked his gloves from his pocket. “My mother,” he said and jerked them on with a grunt. “I have to get back to her before Christmas, you know.”
“And leave your intended?”
Ridley paused, his smile dimming. “Well, Lady Camille’s with family. And she has her plants,” he muttered the complaint with less volume. “Plenty to keep her occupied. Countess Milburn’s ball, festivities in the village, and so on. I’ll see her soon. We’ve got to make plans, you see. Have the banns read. Plan the parties.”
“She has me to entertain, or be entertained by, you could also say.” A smidgen like stepping into a ring, this admission, a ring Tristan wasn’t sure he wanted to step into. In all honesty, he didn’t know what this meant for him, Camille, or Ridley, his deciding to stay for the holiday. Still, he wanted the man to acknowledge he was leaving his betrothed with a family friend, sure, but not a brother.
A family friend who’d found he carried an undeniable attraction for the betrothed in question. A family friend who, at times, had been correctly labeled a bounder.
Ridley looked up into Tristan’s face, searching. At times like these, Tristan was glad for his height. “Ah, hmm, I think I’ll stay for the tree cutting at least. A new tradition started in Germany, the countess told me, even though I think it’s dangerous. Fire hazard and all. Don’t need to rush back to London just yet. Mother will understand a slight delay.”
“Your mother likes Lady Camille I assume? Excited about the marriage?”
Ridley’s cheeks paled. “She’ll be thrilled. Absolutely.” He coughed into his cupped fist and did a nervous sidestep that said he wasn’t as sure as he sounded. “When I tell her. Which I will. By January first, no later. Thrilling news for a new year. I’m her only son, you know. One must wade into these topics gently.”
Tristan tilted his head as steps sounded on the floor above, signaling the rest of the group was marching downstairs. “For you, I hope so.”
Ridley raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t Mother be excited?”
Tristan snatched his greatcoat from the hall stand and shrugged into it. “Oh, no reason.” Working bottom to top, he buttoned while hiding his mirth behind a look of concern. “Lady Camille’s a bit of a hoyden. Independent. A handful, if you must know. Always has been. Didn’t you listen to the swan story? And her talk about botany? A fierce intellect housed inside a comely package. A sharp blade wrapped in rose petals, as it were.” Smoothing his lapels, he rolled his shoulders into the coat’s excellent fit. “I hope you’re prepared to manage herandyour mother as men must when they marry. You’ve stepped high, my man, with your selection.”
Ridley snorted and reached for his own coat. “Mistresses more your passion, aren’t they, Mercer? Talk about low stepping. What was the last one, an actress?”
Tristan frowned and gave Ridley credit for getting in a verbal nick. Then he turned at the sound of laughter and grasped he should have been worrying about his festering attraction to Camille, not trading barbs with her idiot husband-to-be.
Because she was exquisite. And he was in trouble.
Seemingly lost in thought, Camille trailed behind her aunt and Countess Milburn as they descended the circular staircase, her fingers stroking the banister as she floated along.
She wore another patched gown that looked like it should be given to the rag-and-bone man when he came to collect clothing, but the faded muslin, once canary yellow, he guessed and now somewhere closer to the color of wheat, molded to her delicate curves. As his hands had been starting to in her stale conservatory the morning prior. Her hair was collected in a loose chignon, wisps escaping to dust her cheek and temple. It looked like a hairstyle she’d adopted after crawling from bed, a consideration which didn’t help his state of arousal. At all.
He couldn’t keep his gaze from dropping to the curve of her breast, slight but utterly adequate, jiggling with each step she took. Yesterday, he had stopped himself before he set his broad palm there, over the delectable nipple stabbing through her bodice.
He’d stopped himself because that was going too far with a naïve, young woman. When he’d wanted to roll the hard nub beneath his thumb more than he’d wanted his next breath. In the dream still haunting him, he’d taken it between his teeth and made her cry out until she was breathless, taken a handful of her thick, golden-brown hair and gathered it in his fist as he slid into her welcoming body.
With an oath, Tristan snatched his beaver hat from the hall stand and placed it over his erection before anyone, God, please, not Ridley, noticed his dilemma.
Camille ignored him on her journey across the foyer when he knew she knew he was there. She graced Ridley with a smile as he assisted with her fur-lined pelisse, and he returned it with a genuineness that gave Tristan’s gut a firm twist. He sighed and tapped the hat against his thigh. The viscount, dullard that he was, was besotted. Who could blame him? Wearing a years-old frock, her hair a fright, her smile on this side of devious, she was lovely. And interesting. Clever. Tristan had never been involved with a clever woman. Shrewd ones. Beautiful ones. One here and there rather vile.
But not clever.
With a wicked gleam in her eye that said she was as unpredictable as he was. As sure of herself. As certain of who shewas.
He’d never encountered such a woman.
“There are two types, old chap,” Ridley whispered as if he’d read Tristan’s mind. “Those you shag and those you read headlines from theTimesto over tea and crumpets. Didn’t think it was possible to want both with the same woman.”