Carys had never taken such pains to dress for an occasion, and her outfit was possibly the most scandalous she’d ever worn. Even the unflappable Madame de Tourville had raised one thinly plucked eyebrow when she’d ordered it. The costume had been meant for tomorrow night’s fancy dress ball, but it would be just as perfect for tonight.
For the second seduction of her life.
Actually, it would probably be more accurate to call it the first seduction of her life. Whatever Tristan was going to do, it would be a thousand times better than Christopher’s pathetic attempt.
Carys glanced at her own reflection with an impish smile. Her legs were enclosed in tight masculine breeches, and the smooth, soft buckskin did little to hide the feminine curves of her hips and waist. The cut of the jacket accommodated her chest, like a riding jacket, and a pristine white shirt and frothy cravat peeked from between the lapels like those of the most fastidious dandy. Even her leather riding boots had been made to her precise measurements by Hoby, ordered under the fictitious name of Signor Palladio.
She wouldn’t have dared to wear the ensemble in London, not even if she’d been masked, for fear of being accosted, but here in Wales, at a private house party, it would be just about acceptable. Especially for one as scandalously eccentric as herself.
She had no doubt that Gryff, Morgan, and Rhys would find it highly amusing. She’d often worn their castoffs to ride or muck out the animals when they were younger. Of course, she’d had smaller breasts and less shapely calves back then.
Her eyes twinkled with devilry as she twisted her hair up and tucked it beneath a black top hat. She looked like a beautifully turned-out—albeit short—gentleman of the ton.
Her undergarments, in contrast, were deliciously feminine. Madame de Tourville had hinted that such gorgeous underthings were only suitable for an opera singer, or an elopement, but Carys had fallen in love with the pale-peach silk and lace. The blush tone was only a few shades darker than her own skin and it dripped over her body like poured cream.
She’d chosen the outfit to be memorable, to stand out from the crowd. She wanted to be like one of Shakespeare’s intrepid heroines, the ones who disguised themselves as men in order to speak and move more freely. Rosalind in As You Like It, or Viola in Twelfth Night. She’d dress as she wished to be: as confident and as liberated as a man.
Now she was even more glad of her choice. She wanted to be different from every woman Tristan had ever made love to before. He might have divested his lovers of a hundred skirts and petticoats, a thousand ribbons and stays, but she’d bet he’d never disrobed a woman dressed like this.
It might not be the first time for either of them, but it could still be a night to remember.
The house was nowhere near quiet as she slipped out of her room, but she had intimate knowledge of Trellech’s secrets. The numerous additions and improvements to the building had produced a bewildering warren of hidden passages, priest holes, and hiding places. She and her brothers had spent hours playing in them when they were younger. Now she stepped through a bookcase in one of the upstairs bedrooms and emerged beside the stable block.
She was just saddling Medusa, her favorite mare, when Nanny Maude shuffled from the shadows, her diminutive form swathed in her customary Welsh shawl to ward off the chill.
Carys bit back a silent curse. Her old nursemaid had the unerring ability to know when one of her charges was up to mischief. The talent hadn’t dissipated, even after twenty years.
“And where do you think you’re off to, Carys Davies?”
“I have an assignation.”
Nanny Maude’s brows rose as she took in the masculine clothes. “Dressed like that? I hope you’re not planning to join a game of faro down at the Red Lion in Trellech. You’ll be fleeced. Again.”
“I’m not, I swear. But there’s something I have to do. To … gather information.”
That much was true. She could just as easily be going to talk to the circus owner to dig up some dirt on Howe. She sent Nanny Maude a pleading glance. “Please don’t tell the boys.”
Nanny Maude’s wrinkled face creased into a grin. “Ach. Well, I’d be lying if I said you were the first Davies I’ve ever caught sneaking about the place. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard those brothers of yours, six sheets to the wind, trying to climb in through that library window, thinking they were being quiet and making a racket fit to wake the dead!”
She shook her head with a fond chuckle. “I think it would be rather hypocritical to stop you. You’re dressed as a man, so I’ll treat you as one. Just take care, my love.”
Carys gave the old woman an impulsive kiss and a hug. “Thank you, Nanny Maude.”
Her fond squeeze was returned. “Now I know Morgan taught you an impressive right hook, but have you got a knife? Just in case?”
Carys patted her boot. “Just as you taught me.”
Nanny Maude had been most disapproving of Carys’s formal education at Miss Wickerstone’s academy. The old Welshwoman was of a far more practical and pragmatic disposition. She firmly believed that a woman needed to know how to look out for herself.
“Good girl. Make sure you’re back before you’re missed.” Her black eyes twinkled with a knowing mischief that made Carys wonder if she didn’t suspect her mission was of the more passionate kind. “And remember: If you can’t be good, be careful.”
Carys’s heart was pounding with a mixture of terror and anticipation as she secured Medusa in the newly constructed stables behind Tristan’s house. The feeling that she was trespassing, doing something naughty and forbidden, sent a frisson down her spine.
The house was dark, but the back door from the terrace was unlocked, so she slipped silently into the vast white hallway. The huge chandelier tinkled in the disturbance of air, sending a shower of refracted moonbeams onto the floor beneath her feet.
Her boots made a series of staccato clicks on the stairs; there were no rugs or carpets to soften her tread.
Was Tristan even here?
Drawn by some invisible force, she pushed open the door to the master suite with hands that were not quite steady. Faint moonlight shone through the curtainless windows, outlining the bed in a silvery halo, and she swallowed back a nervous laugh.
The fact that the bed was the only piece of furniture in the room was certainly symbolic, a stark reminder of the reason she was here. There were no other pieces to detract the focus, nothing to lend the room a personal touch.
Because this wasn’t personal. It was just a physical transaction, one body showing another body pleasure. No deeper emotions were supposed to be involved.
And yet something that felt very much like guilt nibbled at her, the sense that she was somehow being unfaithful. Or forcing Tristan to be. This was the bed where he would eventually make love to his wife; he shouldn’t be making love to her in it. It seemed disrespectful.
But a petty, vindictive part of her wanted to give Tristan this memory of her, here, in his arms, whenever he closed his eyes.
She wanted to bloody well haunt him.
The creak of a floorboard behind her was her only warning of danger. She started to turn, but an arm snaked around her waist and another clamped over her mouth. Her hat went flying as she was lifted bodily off the floor and crushed against a huge, rock-hard body. She let out a muffled scream against her assailant’s palm.
“What the fuck do you think you’re—Carys?”
Tristan’s murderous growl softened in a heartbeat when he realized his mistake. His arms loosened and his hand dropped from her mouth as he spun her round to face him.
“Bloody hell, I thought you were a trespasser!” he scolded. “Why in God’s name are you dressed like that?”
Carys let out a wheezing exhale and willed her racing heart to calm. “It’s a disguise, you dolt. In case anyone saw me on the way here. It’s my outfit for tomorrow night’s costume ball.”
His features relaxed. “I assumed you’d be wearing your handkerchief dress again.”
“Me? Wear the same dress twice? I’d never live it down.”
Tristan’s grip on her upper arms tightened as he raked another—slower—glance down her body and his dark brows lifted in obvious appreciation. “I didn’t think any outfit could be as provoking as your handkerchief, but you’ve proved me wrong.”
Her blood warmed at the compliment, but she sent him a severe look from under her lashes. “You said I looked like a Venetian courtesan.”
“You looked a hundred times better than a Venetian courtesan, and you know it. You looked like a Renaissance work of art.”
“Don’t you dare say I looked like a Michelangelo,” she warned. “I’ve seen pictures of his women, and they all look like muscly men with breasts added on as an afterthought.”
“Your breasts are definitely not an afterthought,” he said, solemnly. “They’re perfect.”
“I believe you called them spectacular.”
“Magnificent,” he corrected. “I called them magnificent. But spectacular will do just as well.”
His gaze slid to where they were constrained beneath her jacket and her nipples beaded against her silk chemise.
“I’m amazed you can even see me, with so little light,” she said breathlessly.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and she inhaled the delicious scent of night and cedar from his clothing.
“I don’t need light to see you. I know what you are: a beautiful, infuriating force of nature.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he pressed his fingers over her lips. “And for the rest of the night, you’re mine.”