Chapter 17

It took all of Carys’s acting skills not to show her impatience during the rest of the morning. She took breakfast, then helped Maddie welcome assorted guests as they arrived, showing them to their rooms in the various wings of the sprawling architectural monstrosity that was Trellech Court.

The imposing outer ramparts were just one part of the overall structure; the rest was an astonishing cluster of styles that seemed cobbled together as if by some mad, drunken architect. A crumbling medieval tower butted up against an Elizabethan gable—a half-timbered redbrick section that didn’t have a straight line on it anywhere. Another wing, sprouting from the other side, was pure Palladian, all elegant cornices, huge windows, and pillars.

The overall effect was a confusing blend, almost too ridiculous to be believed. Every generation of Davieses had tacked on their own section, just to leave their mark. No doubt it gave Tristan—the architectural purist—heart palpitations. The disorder probably hurt his soul.

Carys herself loved it; it was chaotic and comfortable, brazen in its refusal to conform to any single architectural style. Much like herself, no one could ever accuse it of being dull.

“Have you seen Tristan?”

Carys willed the guilty blush on her cheeks to cool and shook her head at Maddie’s unexpected question. “Err, not recently, why?”

“He said he might ride over this morning, but he must have forgotten.” Maddie shrugged. “He’s been so busy working on finishing that new house of his.”

Carys had heard all about that during the carriage ride from London. Tristan was building a house on the Montgomery side of the river valley. It was several miles away from his father’s estate, not far from the folly where they’d agreed to meet later, and Maddie seemed to think the project was to showcase his skills as an architect to potential clients.

Carys, however, strongly suspected that Tristan had a secondary motive: to get it finished so he had somewhere to bring a new bride. Her heart gave a funny little twist. No doubt Lavinia would approve.

The thought of Tristan married to Lavinia—to anyone, really—made her cross, and she reminded herself that it wasn’t Lavinia who was meeting him in the forest at four o’clock. She would forget about the future and enjoy the present. Seize the day.

Rhys and Morgan’s arrival shortly after lunch provided some respite from her impatience. She played a leisurely game of shuttlecock with Rhys, while Morgan bellowed unhelpful advice as if he were still on the forecastle of his ship and simultaneously flirted with shy Cordelia Rutledge, one of the single guests.

At two o’clock Carys took a couple of the visitors on a tour of the menagerie and introduced them to Buttercup, the South American spectacled bear she’d rescued from a street performer over a decade ago.

By three o’clock the butterflies in her stomach had intensified to an almost unbearable level. Since all three of her brothers were used to her riding out into the countryside unaccompanied, none of them batted an eyelid when she oh-so-casually said she was going to take a ride.

“Can’t say I blame you,” Morgan said. “Been feeling a bit cooped up myself.”

Carys caught her breath, afraid he was going to offer to join her, but then he glanced over at the doorway to where Harriet, Tristan and Maddie’s London cousin, had just arrived.

Morgan’s expression took on a diabolical cast. “On the other hand,” he muttered, “staying here has definite appeal. Just remember to stay on Davies property.”

“I will.”

Back in her bedroom, she dithered over what to wear. She needed to look her best—she had a reputation to maintain, after all, even in deepest Wales—but it was imperative not to look as though she’d gone to much trouble. No need to bolster Tristan’s already insufferably huge ego by letting him know she’d made a special effort on his behalf.

Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her day dress. Perhaps Tristan had deliberately made her wait until this afternoon, to prolong the torture? She wouldn’t put it past him.

What did one wear for one’s own seduction? And how far was Tristan planning to go today? He’d mentioned kissing, but what else? He couldn’t possibly be planning to make love to her in broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon.

Could he?

She settled on a forest-green riding skirt with a matching jacket, worn over her short stays and a thin cotton chemisette collared to look like a man’s shirt where it showed between the jacket’s lapels. The green made her hair shine like garnet and, remembering Tristan’s comment about letting her hair down, she instructed her maid to dress it in a half-up, half-down style, as a symbolic compromise.


There was no sign of anyone as Carys rode up to the ruined folly, so she tied her mare to a tree, removed her hat and gloves, and strolled around the clearing trying to look as casual as possible.

On her third turn she jumped at a noise behind her and turned to find Tristan leaning against a crumbling pillar, his long legs crossed at the ankles. His smoky blue-gray jacket blended perfectly with the dappled shadows thrown by the trees. Her heart stuttered.

“I haven’t been here for years!” she called out breathlessly. “The boys and I used to play knights and castles here all the time when we were younger.”

She surveyed the tumbledown structure with affection. A few walls and part of one crenellated tower were just visible beneath a wild tangle of ivy and moss. When she’d been a girl she’d spun fanciful daydreams here, entranced by the lush green of the forest and the sunlight slanting through the leaves. The hushed, magical quality of the place conjured thoughts of fairies and secrets, of a time before humans walked the earth.

She glanced over at Tristan. “I love places like this. Just think of all the ancient history we’re treading on.”

“I hate to break it to you, but this place isn’t that old. My great-grandfather had it built. He was of the firm opinion that no country estate is complete without a dilapidated classical temple somewhere on the grounds. He even paid for a live-in hermit.”

Carys pouted in mock disappointment. “Oh. Still, I love a picturesque ruin. There’s something so romantic about it.”

She almost laughed at Tristan’s expression of disdain.

“Romantic? It’s like the setting of some dreadful gothic novel.”

“Haven’t you read The Mysteries of Udolpho? Ruins are a necessity. The overwrought heroine needs to trip over a crumbling staircase, or fall from a wobbly parapet. There’s no potential for disaster if she’s chased around a well-maintained castle.”

Tristan shook his head, but his lips twitched, as if he was amused despite himself, and her heart gave another little jolt. Making him smile felt like such an achievement.

“What good is a wall without a roof? A window without glass?” he asked. “They’re not doing their jobs, which is to keep people warm and dry.”

“You’re missing the point. They’re romantic because they remind us of the passage of time, of our own mortality.” Carys skimmed her fingers over a moss-furred wall. It was soft, like velvet. “Everything perishes. In a million years even these stones will be nothing but sand and water.”

“That’s melancholy, not romantic.”

She shrugged. “Romantic poetry’s strewn with rubble. Shelley’s ‘Ozymandias’ is all about a giant sculpture, half buried in the sand, all that’s left of a once-great empire. It reminds us to seize the moment.”

As she was doing now.

Tristan pushed off the column and started toward her. Suddenly skittish, she scurried away to inspect a marble statue half hidden by the undergrowth. “Oh, I’d forgotten about these!”

Four statues stood guard at various points around the folly.

Tristan’s boots crunched behind her and everything in her body tightened.

“Each one represents one of the four elements. Water, fire, earth, and air.”

She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see how close he was. The scent of his cologne reached her nose and a coiling sensation twisted in her belly. She almost yelped in surprise when he reached out and smoothed the lock of hair that curled over her shoulder.

“You’re fire, Carys Davies.”

His voice was low, full of gravel. It made her knees go weak.

She managed a brittle laugh. “Ha! Little Flame. That’s what my brothers used to call me, you know—because of my red hair. After Fiammetta, the writer Boccaccio’s muse.”

If she was fire, then what was Tristan? Her opposite, water?

No, he did nothing to dampen her desires. If anything, he was the wind, fanning the flames. She’d read a quote like that recently, by a French writer. Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great.

Tristan had been away for years, first at war, then on his Grand Tour. Had his absence fanned the flames of her love for him?

Carys stilled. Did she love Tristan? Or simply desire him? She didn’t dare trust her own heart to make the distinction: She’d confused the two before, and look what trouble that had caused.

“Turn around, Carys.”

His low command shivered through her. She sucked in a fortifying breath and swiveled to face him, but one glance at him, so close, had her on the verge of panic. This wasn’t something impetuous and unplanned, like their kiss at the opera. If she kissed him now there’d be no blaming it on the excitement of the evening, or emotional distress.

“Maybe we should … wait for night?” she muttered.

A cynical smile curved his lips. “So you can pretend I’m someone else? Maybe you’d like me to come to your room in secret and make love to you in the dark, like Cupid and Psyche?”

Ugh. He could read her so well. In the dark she could deny she was thinking of him. Here in the daylight there was no pretending she was kissing someone else.

He took a step closer. “Darkness won’t work, you know. You’d still recognize the scent of me. Just as I know the scent of you with my eyes closed.”

Her heart fluttered as she inhaled his smoky cedar and spice.

“You’ll know my touch too. And my taste,” he murmured.

God, he was good. He wasn’t even touching her and her body was already aflame.

“I’ll know every inch of your body. Every line, every curve.” His eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts beneath her jacket; they rose and fell faster as her breathing quickened. “Darkness won’t make a blind bit of difference.”

She swallowed.

“Are you going to cry off?” His soft tone was a challenge.

“No.”

“Good.”

She tensed, expecting him to touch her, but instead he took a step back, then another, retreating until he stood in the center of the leaf-strewn clearing. He crooked his finger at her. “This was your idea.”

Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself forward and stopped when her skirts brushed his boots. He nodded his approval.

“Good. Now, did Howe kiss you?”

“Yes.” She screwed up her face at the memory. “He pushed his tongue in my mouth. I didn’t like it.”

“Idiot,” Tristan murmured. His clinical blue gaze searched her face and she felt like a botanist’s specimen, a puzzle to be solved. “Has no one else kissed you since then?”

An embarrassed flush heated her cheeks. “No one except you. At the opera.”

He nodded again, thoughtfully. “That was an angry kiss. A frustrated kiss. This one will be different.”

“How?”

“Slower. More deliberate.”

Carys gazed up at him, both excited and terrified. He was bigger than Howe. Taller, more muscular. He filled her entire vision, blocked out the sun. And yet she felt no trepidation. His physical power was so much greater than hers, but she trusted him not to take advantage of that fact. He made her feel oddly safe.

She was still marveling at that paradox when he raised his brows in definite challenge—a look that said, I’m waiting …

She reached out and cupped his jaw, her fingers tingling as they skated across his cool cheek. Giving in to temptation, she let the pad of her thumb slide over his lips, following the movement with her gaze as if spellbound.

He huffed out an unsteady breath. And when she lifted her face he dipped his head and settled his mouth against hers.