Carys stilled, expecting him to thrust her away from him in disgust, but Tristan’s fingers tightened on her arms. And then his lips returned the pressure of her own with an urgency that almost made her swoon.
He was kissing her back?
There was no time to process the astonishing reversal; when she gave a shocked gasp, his tongue swept inside her mouth to tangle with her own.
Darkness and wicked heat consumed her. This was no tentative exploration; it was hot and wet and hungry, and Carys clutched the front of his jacket, drowning in a sea of sensation. One of his hands slid to her waist and he leaned into her, holding her against the wall with a delicious pressure that made her stomach swirl. And then he cupped her jaw, his long fingers angling her head to taste her more fully. Her senses reeled.
Good God, she’d had no idea kissing could be so pleasurable!
Howe had kissed her with slobbery insistence, grinding her lips against her teeth.
Tristan reached inside her and stole her soul.
How had she ever thought him cold? The taste of him was enough to melt her into a puddle on the floor. Heat flashed from the tips of her breasts to the juncture of her thighs. She flattened her hands against his chest and slid them up over the hard slope of his shoulders, but the moment her fingers touched the warm skin above his cravat he seemed to come to his senses. He jolted back with a stifled curse.
“Bloody hell.”
Carys sucked in a breath, bereft at the sudden loss of contact. Her chest was rising and falling in agitated gusts and she opened her eyes wide, trying to gauge his reaction in the semidarkness.
What the hell had just happened?
They were enemies. He didn’t even like her. And yet her blood was like magma, her limbs liquid and shaky.
Tristan took another step back, jerking his coat from her grip. “That … shouldn’t have happened.”
His voice was lower, rougher than she’d ever heard it, like a bear awakened from a nap. “You need to go back to the box.”
She managed to nod.
“I won’t follow you. Tell Maddie I’ve gone to my club.” Without looking at her, he straightened his coat, pulled on his cuffs, and raked his hand through his hair, even though it was still perfectly unruffled.
Carys smoothed her own skirts, amazed that the fabric hadn’t burst into flames. Her cheeks were still burning, her blood surging in her veins. This, clearly, was the lust the poets talked about. Dear God, she’d had no idea! In less than three minutes he’d shown her the narrow range of her experience—and given her a desperate craving for more.
When Tristan took yet another step back she pushed off the wall and rushed past him, desperate to escape.
There was no one in the corridor. She tripped back to the box on unsteady legs and sank onto a velvet chair. Gryff sent her an absentminded nod over his shoulder, then returned his attention to the stage.
Oh, God, what a disaster!
The frustration of dealing with Howe combined with the humiliation of having Tristan find her at her lowest ebb had pushed her into another rash, impetuous act. She snapped open her fan and tried to cool her flaming cheeks. She was an idiot.
But he’d kissed her back.
Why on earth had he done that? He wasn’t the kind of man to get swept away with passion. Had he just been taking advantage of the opportunity she’d so shamelessly given him? Or had he somehow known that she’d needed the distraction, the comfort—even when her mind rebelled against taking such things from him?
It didn’t matter why.
It had been a mistake of epic proportions. A moment of idiocy that would never be repeated. He was probably trying to forget it. It would be best if she did the same.
That would be a great deal easier if she never had to see him again, of course, but the universe clearly had a perverse sense of humor, because they were both expected to attend Gryff and Maddie’s country house party in Wales next week.
Facing him would be excruciating, but at least if he was in Wales he would be far away from Howe, which would prevent him from doing anything stupid, like challenging him to a duel.
Carys’s heart gave a strange twist. Of all the men in London, Tristan Montgomery was the last man she’d have expected to want to defend her nonexistent virtue. It wasn’t like him to become embroiled in such drama. He was always so cool, so unemotional. His love affairs probably all ended with perfect civility. He was probably desperate to wash his hands of this whole sordid affair.
It would be the height of foolishness to imagine him in the role of savior. He wasn’t her knight in shining armor. She just had to remind him of that fact when next she saw him. If she could bear to look him in the eye.
Tristan forced his shaking hands into his pockets and tried to calm his raging pulse.
Had he completely lost his mind?
Carys Davies had the worst effect on his self-control. He only needed to get close to her and every ounce of willpower disappeared, snuffed out like a candle in a gale.
Dear God, he’d never kissed a woman—any woman—as thoroughly as he’d just kissed her, and the unexpected passion of her response had almost brought him to his knees.
The scent of her lingered in the air and his erection throbbed painfully in his breeches. What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been thinking. At least not with his head. He’d been moments away from taking her up against the wall, blinded by the hazy need to block out the misery he’d heard in her voice. He’d wanted to take it into himself, to give her something else to focus on, something a hundred times more enjoyable.
The impulsive gesture was so unlike him. He never did anything without thoroughly weighing the pros and cons, but whenever he was near her logic and reason abandoned him. He’d acted purely on instinct. And that instinct had been to take her in his arms and shelter her from the world. To make her forget everything except pleasure.
“Bollocks.”
It wasn’t his place to protect her. She’d said it herself.
He scowled into the darkness. Desire hadn’t been the only emotion driving him. The rush of fury he’d felt when she’d revealed what Howe had done was like nothing he’d ever experienced, even in wartime. He wanted to tear the bastard limb from limb.
Carys might believe herself equally to blame, but Howe was older and more experienced. He’d taken advantage of a naïve, passionate girl, and then ruthlessly abandoned her. And now, to compound his wickedness, he held the threat of ruination over her head like the sword of Damocles.
The bastard didn’t deserve to live.
Tristan ached with the need to avenge her. If someone had done that to Maddie, his sister, he would have killed him without a second thought. He doubted he’d even have bothered to challenge the man to an official duel first.
He hissed out a frustrated whoosh of air. Carys’s brothers would no doubt react in exactly the same way if they learned the truth. Her desire to keep it a secret from them was entirely understandable, given the circumstances.
God, how had he ended up tangled in such a mess?
There would be no avoiding her; he’d see her in Wales next week. They might not be sleeping under the same roof—the Davieses would be staying in their monstrous eyesore of a castle, Trellech Court, whereas he’d be at the Montgomerys’ neighboring Newstead Park—but Maddie had a whole week of mingling planned. Picnics and excursions to the coast, trips to see her archaeological digs, visits to the cave where she and Gryff had found the gold that had restored the Montgomery fortunes.
He was bound to see Carys at some point in the proceedings. The question was, where on earth would they go from here?