“No, you mustn’t tempt Fate. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”
She laughed, and while previously, he’d been humored by her perky character, since his return, everything about her grated.
Her hair was too dull, her eyes too plain. He found her to be too immature, too inexperienced. She was always trying to please and entertain, but her merriment seemed forced, her gestures predictable. He was beginning to wonder if she didn’t stand in front of the mirror and practice her sprightly expressions.
He’d known her since she was a baby, had watched her grow from a silly, frivolous child, to a charming, refined young lady. From the time he was a boy, he’d understood that he would probably be her husband.
He could have refused the match, but after his father’s death, the union had taken on a new significance.
For James, it meant massive financial assistance. For Tristan, it meant a fleet of ships, of becoming affluent through imports and exports without having to beg James for an allowance.
When James had recommended that the betrothal occur, Tristan had ridden to the country the very same day to propose. He hadn’t given the matter a second thought.
Until now.
The notion of being shackled to her was so distressing that he felt ill. The impending decades loomed like the gates to Hell. What would it be like to face her over the breakfast table every morning? The prospect was enough to make him want to sail away and never come back. He gazed up at the evening sky, the stars so bland compared to how they twinkled out on the water.
Harriet, he lamented, where are you? Are you all right? Do you ever think of me?
The months he’d spent with her had been the most satisfying of his life. How could he have let her go?
He didn’t care about societal restrictions, about rank and station. He didn’t care that she was beneath him in every way. James had claimed that her father was Charles Sinclair, and Tristan didn’t even care about that!
He loved her and wished he’d told her so. If he had, would it have made any difference? On that quiet night, when they’d spoken vows to each other, their words had seemed so weighty and binding. How could he have disregarded them?
He grinned, recalling how tough she’d been, how brave and undaunted by adversity. He missed her so much.
“Why are you smiling?” Miranda asked, yanking him out of his reverie.
He had to stop pining over Harriet, had to accept the current circumstance. He was marrying Miranda—very soon—and he had to quit measuring her attributes in relation to Harriet. When Miranda always came up short, it was a road to frustration and discontentment.
“I was remembering the island,” he said. “Although the living conditions were primitive, some of it was very enjoyable.”
“Have you had any contact with Harriet Stewart?”
Her query was much too casual for his liking.
“No.”
“James told me she is sister to a woman who worked for us last summer.”
“He mentioned it to me, as well.”
“He said their father is Lord Trent.”
“He mentioned that, too.”
“I suppose that explains many things.”
“What do you mean?”
She blushed a fetching shade of pink. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s just that...ah...I’ve heard stories about your friendship with her. I guess you were very...close.”
“Hmm...”
How was he to reply to such a statement? How was he to discuss such a topic with his fiancée?
“I’m not judging you,” she hastily added. “Nor am I blaming you. I’m certain it was all her fault.”
Suddenly, his cravat was much too tight.
“Oh...good.”
“I’m very aware of what her sister Helen is like.”
“Really?”
“She was carrying on with every man in the house, but with Trent’s blood flowing in her veins, who could expect better conduct?”
“You don’t say?”
“They must take after their mother. Obviously, she was loose with her favors. They’re simply following in her footsteps.”
Tristan took a deep breath and let it out. Took another and let that one out, too.
He wanted to shake her, wanted to shout at her, and he was alarmed by the wave of virulent dislike that swept through him. He tamped it down before he uttered every biting, cruel word perched on the tip of his tongue.
His prior affection for Harriet was irrelevant, and she had to fade into the past where she belonged. Miranda was his future. They would be fine together!
She was clutching his arm, and she pulled him to a halt. She peered up at him, her eyes wide, her expression wounded.
“Please promise me that you won’t see her again,” she begged. “If I learned that you were involved with her, I would be so hurt.”
“No, I won’t ever see her. I have no desire to.”
“Thank you! I’ve been so worried.”
She flung herself against him, and almost with distaste, he hugged her. He envisioned their wedding night, what it would be like to have sex with her, and he felt ill all over again.
In contrast, his affair with Harriet had been so...
No! He wouldn’t think about that, wouldn’t recollect Harriet while he was holding Miranda. It was insane behavior.
Anxious to clear his head, he forced himself to focus on what James had confessed about Miranda’s nuptial scheming.
“What about you, Miranda?” he inquired.
“What about me?”
“Since I’ve been back, I’ve talked with James. Quite extensively.”
Her smile wavered. “About what?”
“I realize that I was gone for ages and that it must have begun to seem that I would never return. So I don’t blame you either.”
“Oh.” She stared at the grass.
“But I must ask: Do you still want to marry me?”
She whipped her gaze to his. “Of course. What a silly question.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely positive.”
He scrutinized her, curious as to whether she was being truthful.
“All right then. I’ll get a Special License so we can proceed without delay.”
Miranda chatted with a group of guests, pretending to be ecstatic over Tristan’s rescue. She was glad he was alive, but she couldn’t help wishing that Captain Bramwell had been a tad less successful. If only she’d had a few extra days to wrangle a proposal out of James!
She was determined to find a way out of her predicament, particularly now that Tristan’s name was linked to that doxy Harriet Stewart. Miranda was the laughingstock of the entire city. She couldn’t step out the door without some busybody sharing every salacious rumor.
Would those Stewart sisters never cease to plague her?
To her consternation, a furor erupted in the front foyer. There was shouting and an object was thrown. Why the uproar? Was someone too drunk to be civil?
She sighed and hurried down the hall, surprised to encounter James who was mad as a hornet and berating the butler. He yanked off his coat and hat and pitched them at the man.
Miranda was just about to remark when he spun and saw her, and his hatred was so visible that she blanched.
“Tell me what you did to Helen Stewart!” he demanded, advancing on her.
She cringed, afraid he might actually strike her, but the moment she noticed she was cowering, she straightened and firmed her resolve.
“Helen...Stewart?” She acted as if she scarcely recalled the woman.
“Tell me what you did to her!” he roared with such volume that the candles flickered in the chandelier over their heads.
“I refuse to converse with you when you’re in such a state.” She struggled to look aggrieved. “When you’ve composed yourself, you may—”
He grabbed her arm and shook her. Hard.
“You conniving, deceitful shrew! You told her I was marrying you. You lied to her; you tricked her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As if on cue, tears surged into her eyes and splashed down her cheeks. “I don’t know why you’re behaving like this. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I loved her,” he ludicrously proclaimed, “and she left because of you!”
Behind her, Tristan rushed up.
“James!” he scolded. “Calm down. You’re making a spectacle.”
James still hadn’t released her, and she glanced over her shoulder to observe that many guests had followed Tristan. Everyone was eavesdropping, so the details would be spread all over town and more people would be laughing at her.
She seethed with fury, yearning to be bigger and stronger so she could pummel James into the ground.
She was the one he should have loved. She was the one he should be desperate to wed. Who cared about Helen Stewart?
James shook her again.
“You waited until I was away from home, then you sent her out into the streets with no money and nowhere to go. I ought to take a whip to you.”
“James!” Tristan reached out and eased James’s hand away.
“She married someone else,” James bit out, his hot gaze never leaving Miranda’s. “Are you happy now? Are you proud of yourself?”
“I don’t have to—”
“I’ve always been kind to you,” he raged, “and after this stunt, I’m asking myself why I ever bothered.”
“You’re upset, James,” Tristan cut in, “and everyone is staring. Let’s retire to a parlor where we can have some privacy.”