“No, I’m afraid not. It burnt down several years ago. They are in the process of rebuilding, I understand, but are not yet finished. It took them less time to rebuild the Covent Garden Theatre; they finished that last year. That is where we are going tonight.”
“Two theaters burnt down?” Her lip worried her teeth. “Are they so dangerous?”
“Not at all. Mere coincidence.” He really had no idea but didn’t want her to back out. He’d planned this evening carefully so that they would have to spend a minimum amount of time in each other’s sole company. “No more dangerous than any other building.”
A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the tea tray; after the maid had departed and Charlotte had poured out, she said, “There is something I wish to speak to you about, Mr. Northwood.”
“I would prefer you call me Tristan,” Tristan said, “and I shall call you Charlotte, if that is acceptable.”
“As you wish,” she said, with a faint smile. “At any rate, I simply wanted to make it clear that I do not expect you to dance attendance on me. I understand that men have different interests and habits, and that they rarely overlap with those of ladies.” Her smile deepened. “I am
quite
sure that you would find my own activities deadly dull. So I was wondering if you could tell me what you normally do, and I will arrange my own schedule so that it does not interfere with yours.”
Tristan stared at her blankly a moment, then said, “Am I interfering in your schedule today, Lady Charlotte?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! I certainly did not mean to infer that! On the contrary—I know that it must be dull for you this afternoon to be closeted alone with a woman you barely are acquainted with, and simply wish to understand what you
do
find interesting.”
“Oh. Well.” There was that strange second sight she seemed to possess, at least as far as he was concerned. Or was it that he was so totally predictable? “I usually rise late as I am frequently out until dawn,” he said, quite honestly, “and spend most of the afternoon at Angelo’s or Jackson’s, or riding, or at my club. I attend social events in the evenings. Nothing too unusual.”
“I tend to rise early,” Charlotte mused, “and don’t attend many social events, although I suppose that may change, now that I am married and fixed in town for the time being. Do you regularly lunch at home?”
“Usually,” Tristan said wryly, “though I generally call it ‘breakfast’.”
She laughed. “Well, then, perhaps we should be sure that what is served will suit us both. Perhaps occasionally, too, we could share an afternoon ride? I enjoy that and try to manage it a few times a week. What is Angelo’s?”
“A fencing master,” Tristan said. “And Jackson’s is next door, and teaches boxing.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Like fisticuffs?”
“Like fisticuffs, but there is science involved. It is something most men find interesting, if only to observe, so there are usually many spectators at such events. I prefer to participate myself, but not in public, of course.” Except that one time in the Green Park….
“Never?” Was she smiling?
“Well… once. On a dare.”
“Did you win?”
Despite himself, he laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Bloodied my opponent’s nose.”
“What was the dare?”
“Well, it was more of a challenge, over something stupid. I can’t remember now—I imagine I was pretty well-to-live at the time. But someone challenged me to a boxing match in the park, I refused because one
doesn’t
, of course, not in public—and then he dared me to do it.” He sighed theatrically. “I simply cannot refuse a dare.”
“Why not?”
He blinked. “Well… I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because the inference is that if you refuse, you’re a coward. You have to accept because otherwise you’d be painted as a coward for all time.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Charlotte said thoughtfully, “but if you feel that way, of course you must be right.”
He laughed again, but this time there was a bitter note in the laughter. “That would be a first,” he said, then changed the subject. “So, tomorrow—do you wish to visit our new home after breakfast? We can confer with Mrs. Bayes and determine what changes you wish before we move in. Then in the afternoon, I thought—if it’s not too childish an entertainment—we could visit Astley’s….”
She squealed in delight. “Astley’s! I have forever wanted to go there, but Papa would never take me. And Gunter’s for ices afterwards?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you like.”
“I think,” Charlotte said, grinning up at him, “that I will like marriage to you quite well!”
Tristan
stood at the suite’s windows, looking out over a sleeping Albemarle Street. Behind him, in the dark, Charlotte slept the sleep of the not-quite-so-innocent-any-longer.
No
, he thought,
still innocent, just not a virgin
. His fingers tightened on the drapes he held clutched in his fist. He’d done his best, he’d thought, implementing all the patient little tricks and teases to coax a woman to climax; the stroking, kissing, licking that they all seemed to love so much, that made their bodies respond and welcome him. It was part of what fueled the rumor that he was such a good lover—that he took his time and made sure his partner always spent first before he did, at least once and hopefully more than that. And Charlotte was not unattractive; it had been no hardship for him to make love to her slowly and thoroughly….
Until she’d lifted her head and said thoughtfully, “Is all that really necessary? You needn’t fuss, you know.”
He’d been flabbergasted. “Fuss?” he’d echoed indignantly. “Fuss?”
“Really,” she’d replied calmly. “The kissing, and, and such. It’s pleasant, but I would really rather just get it over with, if you don’t mind.”
Get it over with.
Get it over with
? It was a miracle he’d been able to complete the act with that echoing in his ears. The strange thing was that even as his balls grew tight and the sparkling feeling shot through his spine, he thought she’d climaxed herself, her face tightening and her eyes screwed shut and her voice gasping little cries. But when he’d spent himself thoroughly in her and eased himself from her warm little channel to lie beside her, all she’d said, in a complacent little voice, was, “Well. Thank goodness
that’s
over with,” and rolled over to go to sleep.
He’d lain most of the night staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell had just happened. He’d heard enough whining from the women he’d bedded about their husbands just rogering them and then rolling over to fall asleep, when they’d wanted foreplay and cuddling afterward—which
he
had always made sure to provide. It was a strange little irony that here he was, in the same boat as all those women…. Well. Not exactly the same boat, and no doubt there were men out there who would be delighted to be married to a woman who made no demands on him. He should just stop feeling… what? Sorry for himself? Insulted? After all,
he
’d been satisfied. Or at least, he’d spent. Not quite the same thing, but close enough.
He dropped his forehead against the cool glass. Well.
When he’d turned seventeen and was just about to go up to Cambridge, his father had called him into his study. Heart pounding, wondering what he’d done wrong
this
time, Tristan had obeyed, standing hipshot and insouciant, faking the picture of careless youth, the pose he’d always taken in view of his father, at least since he’d figured out that nothing he could do would ever please him. The baron had given him a long, severe look, then said abruptly, “What has your tutor told you about women?”
Tristan had blinked, then replied carefully, “What
about
them?”
“About….” The baron waved his hand. “About relations with them.”
Tristan shrugged. “He explained the process.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“Amazing recall you have,” Tristan drawled.
The baron ignored him. “Have you ever had relations with a woman?”
Tristan considered the question. He hadn’t, actually; not unless one counted snatching a kiss from a barmaid in the company of his friends. Did he want his father to know that? No—that wasn’t what he was asking. He was asking about the Real Thing. “Not yet,” he said, still in that lazy, drawling voice (which he’d discovered a year or so ago drove his father insane). “I’m sure I’ll be rectifying that in the near future, however.”
To his surprise, the baron didn’t answer right away, merely studying his heir through narrowed eyes. Finally, he said, “You’re a good-looking boy; I imagine you’re right. Do you know what a French letter is?”
Tristan blinked again. “Yes, sir,” he said in surprise.
“Use them. It’s unkind to a woman not to, and although you have many faults, I have not heard that unkindness is one of them.”
Unlike you
, Tristan had thought, but merely inclined his head in acknowledgement of his father’s comment.
“One other thing.” Baron Ware had turned and walked to the window of his study, glancing outside. Over his shoulder, he’d said, “It is also only kind that you see to the pleasure of your partner before your own. A gentleman never spends first. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Tristan said. After a moment, he added, “My tutor said that ladies do not climax as men do.”
“Ladies may not. But women do. And in the end, they are all women.” Baron Ware turned back to Tristan. “Not as men do, precisely, but they do take pleasure in the act. Or they
can
, if a man is patient and considerate. It is a selfish and ignorant man who sees to his own pleasure without taking care of his partner. While you have thus far proven yourself both selfish and ignorant, I trust that your behavior toward women in whatever walk of life will not reflect those flaws in your character. And should you think that in doing so will be another slap in the face to me—understand that I will probably never know about how you treat women.
They
, however, will know. And whatever your feelings for me, they do not deserve unkindness from you.”
“Sir.” Tristan clicked his heels and gave a curt bow of his head.
“You leave for university next week,” Ware said, returning to his desk and reseating himself. “Franklin will be in contact with you regarding your allowance and living arrangements. I expect a regular report of your progress in your classes. You’ve shown an aptitude for numbers, therefore I’ve enrolled you in a program of mathematics. Franklin has the details. I give you good day.”
“Sir,” Tristan had said again.
He was almost to the door when his father spoke again. “Tristan.”
“Sir?”
“There will be plenty of opportunities for you to experience the intimate act. Do not be in a hurry.” Ware gave his son a humorless smile. “Hurry is never a good thing at such a time.”
“No, sir,” Tristan drawled, giving him the same insincere smile back. “So I understand.”
He’d
never hurried. It was the one piece of advice from his father he’d ever followed. He supposed the baron was right—women did not deserve unkindness, and it wouldn’t matter to the baron if he was unkind, so it was no hardship to take his time with his women. And it did make the whole process more enjoyable; not so much the actual activity, which he frequently could have done without, but witnessing someone take such intense pleasure at his hands. It was the one thing he
knew
he did well.