ring, taking on anyone who wanted to hit and get hit. He would have stayed there, too, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the thrill of each landed blow, but Bennet appeared and just stood beside the ring, glaring at him.
That was precisely what Tristan had hoped to avoid by leaving the house so early. After he’d walked away from Miss Bennet the previous night, leaving her flushed and flustered behind Lady Malcolm’s potted palms, he’d just kept walking: out of the ballroom, out of the Malcolm house, all the way across town into the narrow lanes behind Covent Garden where a man could lose himself in gin houses and gaming hells. Because he’d needed to be lost. Good Lord above, he’d gone and kissed the Fury—and his mouth still hungered for the taste of hers. Not even a river of spirits could quench it.
This was a serious error, and not one he was prepared to repeat. Nor was he anxious to face the inevitable questions from her brother. What the hell could he say, anyway? It would have almost been preferable to have let Jessica Elliot find him, no matter how peevish she’d sounded when she almost discovered him behind the potted plants with Miss Bennet. And he’d thought staying hidden would be the wise choice—which proved his instincts worthless, frankly.
He ignored Bennet while he finished his bout, but Bennet stalked around the ring when he ducked out and headed for the tub of water in the corner. Tristan leaned over it and poured a few ladles of water over his head and chest. A servant held out a length of towel, and he draped it over his dripping hair. “What?” he said once his face was safely hidden.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” snapped Bennet. “What the devil were you thinking to dance with my sister?”
Still toweling his hair, Tristan shrugged. “I felt sorry for her. She didn’t dance a single dance.”
“That’s hardly your fault! I daresay she doesn’t like to dance anyway, being taller than most of the men in the room.”
Bennet didn’t know his sister well, if he thought the woman didn’t like to dance. There had been a kind of excitement in her face, a delight that was both wistful and determined, as if she meant to enjoy every moment of the dance no matter who her partner was. That expression had kept him awake far too long last night, and in fact was partly behind his quest for punishment today. She wanted to dance—longed to dance, even—and he hadn’t been a very charming partner. “It’s not her fault she’s tall. She didn’t have to accept when I asked her.”
“But why the devil would you ask her at all?” Bennet demanded. “You were the one who said she was trouble and ought to be avoided; now my mother wants to tear a strip off my hide for exposing her to you! She accused me of wagering you into dancing with Joan—horrid thought, risking money on anything involving my sister!” He grimaced. “She’d do whatever it took to make me lose, I’ve no doubt.”
Tristan tossed aside the towel. “Are you here to defend your sister’s honor, or to mock me for dancing with such a harpy? You’re not making sense, Bennet.”
His friend followed him into the other room. “Both, unfortunately. Mother came to my door herself this morning to give full vent to her spleen when she learned you danced with Joan—and a waltz, no less.”
“Everyone waltzes. In fact, I thought I saw you with a fetching blonde in your arms during that same waltz.”
Bennet flushed. “Well—yes—Mother insisted I lead out Miss Drummond again.”
Tristan uncorked a jug of cool water and took a long drink. He was still avoiding facing Bennet, which was cowardly but damned if he felt like changing. “Was I not supposed to dance, while you were swanning about the room yourself? You made me go to the blasted ball.”
“Not to dance with Joan,” growled Bennet. “Blast it, Burke—” He stopped, and ran his hands through his hair. “You know my mother never
That was precisely what Tristan had hoped to avoid by leaving the house so early. After he’d walked away from Miss Bennet the previous night, leaving her flushed and flustered behind Lady Malcolm’s potted palms, he’d just kept walking: out of the ballroom, out of the Malcolm house, all the way across town into the narrow lanes behind Covent Garden where a man could lose himself in gin houses and gaming hells. Because he’d needed to be lost. Good Lord above, he’d gone and kissed the Fury—and his mouth still hungered for the taste of hers. Not even a river of spirits could quench it.
This was a serious error, and not one he was prepared to repeat. Nor was he anxious to face the inevitable questions from her brother. What the hell could he say, anyway? It would have almost been preferable to have let Jessica Elliot find him, no matter how peevish she’d sounded when she almost discovered him behind the potted plants with Miss Bennet. And he’d thought staying hidden would be the wise choice—which proved his instincts worthless, frankly.
He ignored Bennet while he finished his bout, but Bennet stalked around the ring when he ducked out and headed for the tub of water in the corner. Tristan leaned over it and poured a few ladles of water over his head and chest. A servant held out a length of towel, and he draped it over his dripping hair. “What?” he said once his face was safely hidden.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” snapped Bennet. “What the devil were you thinking to dance with my sister?”
Still toweling his hair, Tristan shrugged. “I felt sorry for her. She didn’t dance a single dance.”
“That’s hardly your fault! I daresay she doesn’t like to dance anyway, being taller than most of the men in the room.”
Bennet didn’t know his sister well, if he thought the woman didn’t like to dance. There had been a kind of excitement in her face, a delight that was both wistful and determined, as if she meant to enjoy every moment of the dance no matter who her partner was. That expression had kept him awake far too long last night, and in fact was partly behind his quest for punishment today. She wanted to dance—longed to dance, even—and he hadn’t been a very charming partner. “It’s not her fault she’s tall. She didn’t have to accept when I asked her.”
“But why the devil would you ask her at all?” Bennet demanded. “You were the one who said she was trouble and ought to be avoided; now my mother wants to tear a strip off my hide for exposing her to you! She accused me of wagering you into dancing with Joan—horrid thought, risking money on anything involving my sister!” He grimaced. “She’d do whatever it took to make me lose, I’ve no doubt.”
Tristan tossed aside the towel. “Are you here to defend your sister’s honor, or to mock me for dancing with such a harpy? You’re not making sense, Bennet.”
His friend followed him into the other room. “Both, unfortunately. Mother came to my door herself this morning to give full vent to her spleen when she learned you danced with Joan—and a waltz, no less.”
“Everyone waltzes. In fact, I thought I saw you with a fetching blonde in your arms during that same waltz.”
Bennet flushed. “Well—yes—Mother insisted I lead out Miss Drummond again.”
Tristan uncorked a jug of cool water and took a long drink. He was still avoiding facing Bennet, which was cowardly but damned if he felt like changing. “Was I not supposed to dance, while you were swanning about the room yourself? You made me go to the blasted ball.”
“Not to dance with Joan,” growled Bennet. “Blast it, Burke—” He stopped, and ran his hands through his hair. “You know my mother never
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