The Duke's Suspicion (Rogues and Rebels) by Craig Susanna

Author:Craig, Susanna [Craig, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-12-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Tristan returned to the drawing room because he knew Erica was right. To do otherwise would invite uncomfortable speculation about what had transpired between them over the last quarter hour.

And exactly what had transpired?

More than a mere forfeit, despite what she’d said. And he was solely to blame. He’d gone after her. He’d asked uncomfortable questions to which he had no right to expect answers. Then he’d kissed her. Really kissed her. Given in to a temptation that had been plaguing him since the storm began.

Now that the storm had ended, however, would he be free of the temptation at last?

Not if the spark of lightning at their touch, the thunder of blood in his veins, was any indication.

Caroline looked up from her conversation with Beresford and smiled gently at him as he crossed the threshold, her expression mild as always. Every inch the duchess she expected to be.

A part of him had been hoping to see a flicker of disappointment at his return, he realized. Or jealousy. Anything that might reveal the depths beneath that placid surface. He was not quite fool enough to believe her as shallow and indifferent as she put on. Of course, if that were his goal, he might’ve guessed her charade and won the forfeit. Even a brief kiss surely would have told him more than her face seemed inclined to reveal.

“Back so soon?” Sir Thomas teased. “Couldn’t you find her?”

“No.” More lies. He began to regret that he’d had occasion to grow expert at telling them. “Miss Burke would seem to have asserted her triumph by retiring for the night.” Skeptical expressions made their way around the company, but no one challenged his story or disputed Erica’s victory at charades. “Another game, perhaps?” he suggested halfheartedly.

“Not for me.” Guin shook her head and rose, a gentle signal to all that the evening had come to an end.

Tristan stood at the door and bowed them out. “It would appear that the rain has moved on. In a day or two, when the roads have recovered somewhat, I suppose you’ll all be on your way.” It was badly done, he knew. Almost a dismissal. But he could not muster an ounce of regret to accompany it.

For their part, his guests exclaimed and began to chatter in what sounded suspiciously like relief. After a fortnight, the odd assortment of ladies and gentlemen had grown tired of one another’s company. Except, perhaps, for Lady Lydgate and Lord Beresford, who exchanged a look as the former left the room on the arm of her oblivious—or perhaps apathetic—husband.

Whitby alone sent him a disapproving glance. He had risen out of deference to the ladies but made no move to depart. Something to report, perhaps. Or to protest.

Save his old friend, Guin and Caroline were the last to leave, his stepmother fulfilling her role of chaperone to the end.

“Miss Pilkington.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then straightened without releasing her hand.

She made no attempt to pull away, though her eyes widened.

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