Carys declined to accompany the rest of the guests to the circus at Trellech the next morning, under the pretext that she’d already seen it at Hampstead.
While she was desperate to find out the owner’s connection to Howe and repeat her offer to buy the poor abused bear from the man, it was unlikely she’d get a chance to speak with him privately, and she didn’t want to arouse Christopher’s suspicions. She would sneak away some other time to do some digging.
A steady stream of guests had been arriving from London all morning, invited for the final event of the house party tomorrow evening: Maddie’s grand costume ball. Neither Frances nor James had been able to attend—James had been called to an ailing relative’s estate in Cornwall and Frances was attending a christening with her family—but Carys had been delighted to see Lord Ellington among the new arrivals. She was, however, glad to escape to the menagerie again. The unconditional affection of the animals was always a welcome balm, especially when her body and mind were in such turmoil. Flashes of what she’d done with Tristan yesterday had given her a restless night.
She released Huginn and Muninn from their enclosure and watched as they flapped off into the sky, cawing merrily. No doubt they would have a wonderful time stealing from the guests; they were as bad as magpies, delighting in filching small, shiny objects. They regularly appeared with such gifts for her: shoe buckles and hatpins and coins. She cherished every one.
Buttercup’s enclosure was one of the farthest from the house. Since the bear spent most of his time up in the trees, she put down the basket of scraps she’d collected from the kitchens and picked up the battered tin music box kept by the entrance to his cage. A jolly, tinkling sound floated from the cheap instrument when she cranked the handle, and she started to sing the words that accompanied the lilting melody.
“Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea,
Silver buckles at his knee;
He’ll come back and marry me,
Bonny Bobby Shafto!
Bobby Shafto’s bright and fair,
Combing down his yellow hair;
He’s my love for evermore,
Bonny Bobby Shafto!”
She trailed off into silence. She’d been as naively optimistic as the girl in the song, once. She’d thought Christopher would marry her, but now she could only be grateful he hadn’t. Her life would have been ruined in an entirely different way.
I will make you two promises, neither of which is empty. One: I promise to give you pleasure, to the very best of my ability. And two: If you’re dissatisfied with my performance, at any time, you can tell me to stop and I will.
Tristan’s low words came back to her in memory and she tried to shake off the strange melancholy they provoked. She’d agreed to their scandalous bargain with her eyes wide open, and Tristan had done exactly what he’d promised, so why was she fighting a niggling disappointment, besieged by a gloomy sense that everything was coming to an end, just as she’d discovered a whole new world of possibilities?
Tristan had done her an enormous service. He’d shown her passion, true physical pleasure. She might have gone her whole life without ever experiencing something so sublime. How tragic would that have been?
And yet perhaps she’d have been better off not knowing what she was missing. What could she do with this incredible newfound knowledge except yearn for more?
Even if she discarded the possibility of marriage to Ellington and vowed to remain a spinster forever, it would be too risky for her to take a lover when she got back to London. She was bound to be caught, however careful she tried to be. The ton had a thousand eyes and an unerring nose for scandal. She’d be ruined in truth, and she would drag her family down with her.
She could stay here in Wales, she supposed. Take some strapping local lad as a lover and hide herself away, far from the gossips. She’d become an eccentric recluse, a cautionary tale for the debutantes.
There were several problems with that plan, of course, not least of which was the depressing fact that she didn’t actually want any of the strapping local lads. The only man who made her burn that way was Tristan.
Second, she loved London. The fashion, the variety, the entertainment. To be banished from there forever would be unbearable. The city and the country fed two different parts of her soul; she liked the peace and the wildness of Wales just as much as she needed the sophisticated bustle of town. She needed a balance of the two—just like Tristan’s blasted gardens.
As if the thought had summoned him, her skin prickled with awareness, and she turned to find him striding toward her along the shady avenue of trees.
Her breath caught in her throat and she watched him greedily, relishing the width of his shoulders, the muscular flex of his thighs above his leather riding boots. He was strong and lean and so handsome it was almost irritating. Why did he always have to look so perfect? It wasn’t fair.
“I hoped I’d find you here.”
The simple greeting was enough to make her pulse beat heavy in her throat, even though there was nothing remotely suggestive in his expression. Her body seemed impervious to pleasantries, however. It knew what wonderful things he could do, and it wanted them again.
A liquid heat, a thrum of anticipation, clenched her innards. Carys frowned. The damned man had bewitched her. Ensnared her. Made her a prisoner of her own desire.
In a flash, she truly understood the phrase be careful what you wish for. She’d wished to see the heat that Tristan hid beneath his cool exterior, and he’d given her a glimpse. But if she was this addicted to him after the limited exposure she’d already had, what would she be like if they went even further? If she actually took him inside her body?
She’d be lost.
The wisest course of action would be to stop now. To thank him for his efforts and release him from their bargain. He’d kept his word; he’d shown her pleasure, and surely the climax she’d already experienced was the pinnacle of feeling? It couldn’t be all that different with another part of his anatomy, could it?
It was no good. She had to know. To find out what it was to burn. Even if she was consumed.
She sent Tristan a wide, welcoming smile. “You’ve found me.”
Buttercup chose that moment to amble out of the undergrowth and provided a welcome distraction. He lumbered up to the gate and she thrust her hand through the bars to give him a welcome scratch behind the ears. The bear grunted in appreciation.
“So this is the famous Buttercup?” Tristan’s spicy cologne teased her nose as he came to stand beside her.
“Yes.”
He gave the music box in her hand a questioning glance.
“Oh, this is the music box his original owner used to play to make him perform. I took it when I rescued him.”
“You still make him dance?”
“Of course not. I wanted him to go back to being as wild an animal as possible, not think he had to dance every time he heard music playing.” Carys ruffled the bear’s furry muzzle as he pushed it into her hand, eager for attention.
“I realized I could change his bad memory into a good one. At first I’m sure the music was an unwelcome reminder of how cruelly he was treated, but I played it to him every day, and each time I rewarded him with honeycomb. Now he only needs to hear the music, or me singing the tune, to come to the gate. I think he finds it soothing.”
She reached into her basket and unwrapped a small chunk of honeycomb. Buttercup reared up in excitement, his black nose twitching, and swiped at it through the bars. When down on all fours he was only three feet high at the shoulder, but up on his hind legs he was as tall as Carys. Tristan took a wary step back.
Carys, however, laughed at the bear’s eagerness. “Greedy!” she admonished fondly. She handed him the treat, taking care not to be scratched by his sharp claws or eager teeth.
“What kind of bear is he?”
“Do you see the white patches of fur around his eyes that look like eyeglasses? They give this kind of bear its name; he’s a spectacled bear. He’s come all the way from South America, haven’t you, Buttercup?”
Buttercup was too busy devouring the honeycomb to answer.
“Each bear’s markings are different, so they’re instantly distinguishable.”
The honeycomb had disappeared and Buttercup was snuffling around for more, so Carys handed him an apple.
“Does he not eat meat?”
“Not much. I did some research into his diet when we first got him. Spectacled bears are foragers, and he mainly likes fruit and vegetables. He especially loves strawberries and carrots.”
Carys emptied the remainder of her basket of produce into Buttercup’s cage and the beast gave a delighted whuffle.
“How long will he live?”
“I’m not sure. Bears like him haven’t been studied much. I’ve had him for ten years already, but he could live for another ten, or more. It’s definitely a long-term commitment. Like those oak trees you’re planting in your garden.”
She waved a hand to indicate the animal’s roomy enclosure. “This is what I want for that bear at the circus. No chains. Lots of space to move around.” She gave a wry shrug. “And yes, before you say anything, I am aware of the argument against menageries like this one. Though these cages are larger and more luxurious than the ones at the circus, they’re still cages. And as someone who values her own freedom a great deal, I admit to being torn. I recognize the hypocrisy of keeping any animal contained.”
Tristan looked like he was about to say something, but she pressed on, keen to make him understand. “I trust Buttercup to get this close to him because I got him when he was still a cub. He, in turn, knows I won’t hurt him, but it’s taken years to build that trust—and even then I still can’t forget that he’s a wild animal. He’ll follow some commands, but he’s only minimally trained. He has a will of his own.”
As if to prove her point, Buttercup flopped to the ground and rolled over onto his back, paws in the air, so she could scratch his belly. Carys obliged.
“I would love to be able to release him back into the wild,” she continued, “but for animals like him, it’s just not possible. He’s so used to human contact that he couldn’t possibly survive on his own. I’ve spoiled him.”
She sighed. “So the question becomes, is it better to set him free but risk him dying sooner, or give him a long and hopefully happy life here?”
She glanced over at Tristan and found him watching her. Her cheeks warmed at his scrutiny. “I don’t know the answer. Maybe I should find him a female to mate with. But then that would be yet another animal in captivity, would it not?”
“You haven’t ‘spoiled’ him,” Tristan said gruffly. “His captivity isn’t your fault. The blame lies with the men who captured him, brought him here, and sold him. You’re just trying to make the best of a bad situation.”
She bit her lip. That was true of both Buttercup’s situation and her own. And now that she thought of it, what Tristan was doing for her was very much like what she was trying to do for the bear; both of them had taken a negative experience and turned it into something positive.
Ugh. Why did he have to be so understanding? It made him far too easy to love.
She caught in a breath. No, not love. To admire. Yes, that was it.
Most men saw things in terms of black and white, right and wrong. Tristan was intelligent enough to see that life really consisted of varying shades of gray. There was no perfect answer or solution. All one could do was try to stay closer to goodness rather than wickedness.
She glanced sideways at him and her pulse gave a funny little thump. She wasn’t entirely sure she was succeeding at being good. Tristan made wickedness look terribly appealing.
“You are kind, Carys. And brave.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. How often had a man praised her for anything other than her looks, or her wit? Uncomfortable with the compliment, she tried to wave it away. “Oh, pish.”
“And not just with your animals. I heard you took a caning for Frances, when you were still at school.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Frances told James, and he told me.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
“Is it true?
“Well, yes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I was tougher than Frances. I had three rough-and-tumble brothers, and I’d fallen out of trees and been shied off my horse hundreds of times.”
“Who hit you?”
“The schoolmistress, Miss Wickerstone. She was a humorless old bat.”
“Where did she hit you?”
“Three strokes on my palms. And three on my bottom.”
Tristan’s gaze swept down to the rounded curves in question and her stomach gave another little flip. “Frances was always so skinny,” she said breathlessly. “You could see her hip bones and her ribs. My bottom was always more … padded.”
His lips twitched in appreciation, but his eyes were serious. “I wish I could have been there to take them for you.”
He reached down and caught her hand, uncurling her fingers one by one, then pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, where the cane had landed all those years ago. Her heart stuttered.
He gave her hand a slight tug and she stepped forward until they stood toe-to-toe.
“And if I couldn’t have taken them on your behalf,” he murmured, “then I wish I could have been there to soothe the sting.” His left hand slid to her hip, then lower, to cup her bottom. A wicked flare of heat flashed in his eyes. “I would have kissed it better.”
Her lips formed a perfect O of surprise.
“We need to meet for your next lesson.”
“It can’t be here,” she croaked. “There are guests everywhere. We’d be caught. No matter how discreet you try to be, the staff always know who’s sleeping with who, and they will gossip. The news of a Davies and a Montgomery together would be too delicious to keep quiet. It would be all over the village by morning, and in the scandal sheets in London by teatime.”
“Then meet me at my new house. We won’t be disturbed.”
Carys’s blood pounded in her ears. If she was going to tell him she’d changed her mind, now was the time. “Yes,” she heard herself say. “What time?”
“Eleven tonight. Can you get away?”
She nodded, almost dizzy at the sensation of being held in his close embrace. She lifted her face to his, shamelessly angling for a kiss.
His arm tightened around her waist and he caught her lips in a swift, hard kiss. She melted into him eagerly, but he pulled back with a sharp exhale.
“No. We’re not starting something we can’t finish!” he growled, and the savage yearning in his voice was enough to make her knees go weak.
He stepped back. “I’ll see you tonight.”