Tristan was waiting at the edge of the dance floor when Carys and Ellington whirled to a breathless stop.
Ellington sent her an intrigued glance. “Lady Carys, are you sure you want to risk dancing with such a ruffian?” He gave Tristan’s costume an appreciative look.
Tristan, against all expectation, was dressed as some kind of pirate, in an open-necked white shirt and black leather breeches, with a red handkerchief tied around his throat in lieu of a cravat.
“I do believe I’ll cede the field.” Ellington chuckled good-naturedly. “Forgive me, my dear, but he’s armed to the teeth.”
It was true. Tristan had a brace of pistols thrust into his waistband. He really did look like a disreputable buccaneer, and she found this less-than-perfectly-attired version of him shockingly enticing.
She swallowed down her delight. “How good to see you finally embracing the wilder side of your nature, Montgomery.”
Tristan’s hot look made her toes curl. “It delights me to please you, Lady Carys.”
Carys felt her cheeks flush at his deliberately wicked double entendre and prayed Ellington wouldn’t notice their byplay. Flustered, she took Tristan’s arm and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
A glance to her left showed Gryff and Maddie already in each other’s arms, looking besotted and paying no attention to anyone else. Rhys and Morgan, however, had both noticed her accept Tristan’s invitation. Both of them were staring at her with the same combination of incredulity and suspicion.
Ugh, brothers.
The musicians played the opening bars of a waltz. Tristan put his hand at her waist, and anticipation surged through her.
“Pretend to look reluctant,” she hissed through her teeth. “As if we’re only doing this to keep Gryff and Maddie happy. Rhys and Morgan are watching and I want them to think we’re making a heroic attempt to heal the rift between our families.”
Tristan’s lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression back into its usual stern disdain. “How’s this?”
“Perfect,” she teased. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“I would rather be anywhere else!” he growled.
Carys tried not to laugh. Sharing a joke with him was just as much fun as teasing him. She forced her own face to look as though dancing with a Montgomery were worse than being stretched on the rack.
“I heard a Davies woman once stabbed a Montgomery man at a party just like this,” she said. “Back in the sixteen hundreds. She slipped a knife between his ribs during a gavotte.”
Tristan’s hand tightened on her waist. “I can believe it. You Davieses always aim for the heart.”
“I didn’t think Montgomerys had hearts,” she said lightly. “She must have nicked his liver.”
Tristan swirled her around in punishment for that little jibe, and she tried to contain her instinctive whoop of delight. It was an effort to keep a cool distance between them, to keep her elbows locked and her chest away from his, when all she wanted was to melt into him like warm candle wax. It was even more of a challenge to pretend she was hating this, when it was heaven to be in his arms.
She’d waited her whole life for this.
A lady’s skirts usually created a barrier that prevented her partner from getting too close, but her breeches meant that their legs were often entwined. Tristan’s thigh insinuated itself between her own as they circled and turned, and her blood heated to a low simmer. She was sure he was doing it deliberately, the scoundrel. The gossips would be having a field day.
It was a strange paradox, but dancing with him in public felt almost more scandalous than making love to him in private.
She glanced up at him, smiling with her eyes, if not with her mouth. “Do you know, I’ve been trying to get you to dance with me for years. Were you afraid I’d ruin your reputation?”
She kept her tone light, but there was a kernel of hurt behind the words. His constant rebuttals had stung.
“No. I was afraid you’d ruin me.”
Her heart stuttered. What did that mean?
“And have I?” she breathed.
“Completely.”
She missed a step, but he steered them effortlessly into another twirl, and when she glanced back up at him the intensity had gone from his eyes. She quashed a feeling of disappointment. He wasn’t being serious.
Determined to appear unaffected, she gave him a head-to-toe inspection, as Ellington had done.
“If anyone’s doing any ruining tonight, it’ll be you. You look as if you’d ravish a dozen virgins before breakfast and steal the silver on your way out.”
His lips quirked. “I believe I already told you I’ve never had a virgin, and I don’t intend to start. But if you’ve changed your mind about having someone avenge your honor, I’d be more than happy to put a bullet in Howe for you. He wouldn’t be the first person I’ve ever shot, but he’d certainly be the most satisfying.”
Carys caught a breath, secretly thrilled at this new, slightly bloodthirsty side of Tristan, but she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but no violence, remember?”
She cast her gaze around the room, looking for Christopher, but while she saw Victoria and her father talking to Doctor Williams, there was no sign of him.
Thankfully, Tristan seemed to take her refusal in good part. “I still haven’t figured out who you’re supposed to be, you know.”
“Your aunts think I’m George Brummell. But they’re wrong.”
“Who are you then?”
She couldn’t resist a grin. “Someone I’ve long admired.”
“A swordfighter? A lion tamer? A highwayman?”
“I’m you.”
Carys held her breath, afraid she’d revealed too much, but his reaction was not what she expected at all.
“You admire me?” He let out a bark of laughter that made several nearby couples glance over at them in shock. “I wish my aunts could hear you now.”
“Why?”
“Because they think admire is a dreadful word. Too weak.”
Carys tilted her head. “They’re probably right. Davieses and Montgomerys should use stronger terms to describe one another. Like hate, and loathe, and despise.”
His eyes glittered with mischief. “Or lust. Desire. Need.”
The simmer in her blood became a boil. She tossed her head and summoned her most flirtatious smile. “In that case, let me rephrase. I don’t admire you. I adore you. I pine for you. I’ll die if you don’t make love to me again.”
He laughed at her exaggerated dramatics, but her heart quailed a little at how close the words skirted to the truth. She tried to temper her expression, tried not to stare up at him like a besotted idiot, but surely the stars in her eyes would give her away. The attraction sparking between them must be obvious to every observer.
The waltz ended on a triumphant note and they swirled to a breathless stop.
“You look hot, Lady Carys,” Tristan said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Allow me to escort you to the terrace.”
He turned them away from a glowering Rhys and Morgan and steered her deftly through the open French windows that led out into the gardens. Carys went without demur.
A few other couples were already outside, enjoying the balmy evening air, but Tristan drew her down the shallow steps and away from the house. Lanterns had been placed on hooked poles at intervals around the flower beds, and the sound of the music floated after them as they strolled along the avenue of trees leading toward the menagerie.
Carys’s stomach was a writhing mass of nerves, and when Tristan finally stopped and turned to her she decided to grab the bull by the horns.
“We need to discuss our arrangement,” she said breathlessly. “We agreed it would last until the end of the party, and you’ve more than fulfilled your side of the bargain, so if you want to consider it over, then—”
“We’re not finished,” he growled. “The party doesn’t end until the fireworks at midnight. Or maybe not even until tomorrow, when the last guest leaves.”
Her stomach flipped in relief. “Well, if you want to be technical about it—”
He took a step closer and her heart began to pound. “I do.”
“We still have a few hours left, then.”
He nodded. “And until then, it’s my duty to show you pleasure.”
“Duty!” She scowled. “You make it sound like a chore!”
“Oh, it is.” He drew her into his arms, and she went with only token resistance. “A terrible chore. See how bravely I’m overcoming my natural revulsion for a wicked Davies.”
She stifled a giggle. “You’re doing a sterling job.” She pressed against him and wriggled provocatively. “I can feel how hard it is for you.”
“That’s my pistol,” he said, straight-faced.
She wiggled again.
“My other pistol.”
She flattened herself full-length against him, from breasts to thighs, and with them both wearing breeches there was no mistaking his desire. A thrill of feminine triumph coursed through her.
“And this?” she teased.
“That’s all for you.”
She laughed in delight.
“I can’t imagine what else you still have to show me,” she murmured, quite truthfully. “I thought we covered it all last night?”
His slow smile made her weak at the knees. “Which just proves your education in debauchery is still sadly incomplete, because I can think of a thousand wicked things to do out here in the dark.”
He slid his hand around her nape and tilted her head upward, and her stomach clenched in delightful confusion.
“It sounds as though you admire me, Montgomery.”
He shook his head. “You’re dreadful. You drive me bloody mad.”
She lifted up on tiptoe so her lips brushed against his. “Good. Because you do the same to me.”
Tristan kissed her, hard, and Carys shivered in delight. She’d never dreamed she’d have this effect on him. His tongue stroked into her mouth and his hands molded her body as lovingly as a sculptor smoothing clay.
A fierce joy filled her. She wanted him naked, beneath her, their layers of clothing gone. Would he forget himself so much that he’d make love to her here, in the gardens? The irony of that almost made her laugh against his mouth; for the second time in her life she was in danger of being made love to in a garden, but unlike the first time, she desired this ravishing with all her heart.
Was it still “bedding” if they did it in a flower bed?
She’d just grabbed his lapels and started to peel off his jacket when Tristan froze. She stifled a frustrated moan of denial, but then she heard it too: the heavy thump of rapidly approaching male footfalls.
She straightened with a curse. “Oh, damn it! I bet that’s one of my stupid, interfering brothers.”
But the sound was coming from the direction of the menagerie, not the house, and she gasped as Christopher Howe suddenly stumbled out from behind a bank of rhododendrons.