Bringing the porcelain cup up to his lips, Tristan swallowed a mouthful of hot, gritty coffee and paused, drawing his brows together. Smacking his lips against the acrid bitterness and granules coating his tongue, he refrained from spitting out his own saliva into the cup. Why was his coffee so mucky?
He set the cup on the porcelain saucer with a solid chink and sighed in exasperation. Instead of complaining to the servants, he rose and trudged back upstairs, toward his dressing chamber. He was already an hour late anyway.
After the valet assisted him in dressing, he surveyed his appearance in the full-length mirror one last time, only to pause, noting something wasn’t quite right.
His boots.
Glancing down, he drew up his right foot, to better inspect the black leather, before setting it back down. For some reason, his boots were scuffed.
He blinked, realizing they were the same boots he’d worn the night he had met … her. He must have scuffed them against the railing he’d climbed. He hated scuffed boots. He hated it about as much as he hated being late. It was obvious his focus was waning.
Before leaving the house, Tristan rang for his valet one last time and had the man repolish his boots. Slamming the front door behind him, he stalked out toward his waiting carriage, annoyed with his inability to focus. Settling into the upholstered seat, he rapped on the ceiling to signal his driver onward and yanked out his pocket watch.
It was almost noon. Blast it. His entire schedule would have to be rearranged. Tristan glanced toward the house across the square and shifted his jaw. He was already an hour behind. He supposed it wouldn’t matter if he casually drove by her house on the way out. Perhaps if he could glimpse her in passing, and in full daylight, he could convince himself that she wasn’t as attractive or as interesting as he had allowed himself to believe. He could then move on with his life and not worry about it again. And though, yes, it was a very stupid approach toward rationalizing his own preoccupation with a woman whose name he didn’t even know, he was well used to stupid approaches when it came to women.
Shoving his watch back into his vest pocket, he unlatched the window of the carriage, pushed it open and called out to the driver, “Round the entire square once before our departure.” He hesitated. “Slowly.” He hesitated again. “Though not too slow.” He didn’t want to be too obvious.
“Yes, my lord!” the driver called back.
Tristan slid closer to the window and waited as the neighboring townhomes alongside the stretch of the street dragged past. And dragged and dragged and dragged past.
He rolled his eyes and refrained from cursing. Though the carriage was going far too slow, so slow he could actually see into every single window that passed and see all of the furniture and servants belonging to every family in the neighborhood, he didn’t bother to yell out to the driver again lest he bring even more attention to himself.
Eventually, the carriage rounded the end of the square. The sun, which had been partly hidden behind a large cloud, poured a bright patch of light across the vast whitewashed Georgian home.
Tristan leaned forward and casually glanced over to the long row of glinting windows, pretending he was merely admiring the architecture.
To his disappointment, each window that edged past held no movement or the face he was hoping to see. As the carriage clattered past the last four rows of windows, he froze, noticing a dark-haired woman tucked in a chair, sitting beside one of the windows. Her eyes were downcast as her bare hands appeared and disappeared above the sill, fastidiously occupied with intricate needlework.
It was her.
And unlike the last time he’d seen her, her thick, black hair was prettily swept up into a simple chignon. An alabaster cashmere shawl covered her slim shoulders, obscuring the curve of her breasts and sections of her azure morning gown.
She glanced up from her needlework and momentarily met his gaze through all the glass separating them. Her hands stilled at the exact moment his heart did.
Haunting gray-blue eyes, highlighted by the bright sun streaking her face, intently held his as the carriage edged on. He’d never realized a woman’s eyes could force a man to reconsider his entire life.
She shifted against her wicker chair, her bold gaze following him as he rolled past. He leaned far forward in an effort to hold her gaze and offered a curt nod in her direction, wishing to inform her that despite the fact that he hadn’t called, it did not mean he wasn’t smitten.
Her full lips spread into a stunning smile that rounded her elegant cheeks. She waved him over, silently inviting him to call.
God save him, she needed to learn that respectable women did not wave men over. He shook his head, signaling that he wasn’t quite ready to entertain the idea of calling on her. He needed more time.
Her smile faded. She shrugged, cast her eyes downward and occupied herself once again with her needlework.
As his carriage rounded the corner and headed out of the square, Tristan edged back against the seat and sighed. Sometimes he really wished he was capable of being more spontaneous. Sometimes.
On the outskirts of London
TRISTAN JOGGED UP the set of stairs leading to his grandmother’s vast terrace home, reached out and twisted the iron bell on the side of the entrance. Moments passed, and with them the occasional clattering of coach wheels and clumping of horses’ hooves from the cobblestone street behind. He waited and waited, yet for some reason, no one answered.
Leaning back, he eyed the vast windows, noting all of the curtains were open. His gut tightened as he twisted the iron bell again, praying that nothing was amiss. Eventually, eight solid clicks vibrated the large door and at long last, it swung open.
“Oh, thank the heavens!” Miss Henderson bustled out, grabbed him by the crook of his arm and yanked him inside.
Tristan stumbled to a halt, his top hat tipping forward as the chambermaid released him. Stunned, he blinked past the lowered brim of his hat at the hall decorated with potted ferns. “Miss Henderson.” He pushed his top hat back into place. “Was that necessary? I could have easily walked in.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milord.” She scurried around him to shut the door. “Seein’ how you always insist on knowin’ the particulars, here it be plain—Lady Moreland’s been in a foul mood all week. More foul than I’ve ever been privy to, to be sure. And with you bein’ late, it appears to have agitated her into a state of panic.”
“I see.” Tristan eyed the silver tray laden with food that sat unattended on the bottom landing of the sweeping staircase. He pivoted toward Miss Henderson. “Is there a reason you’ve been tasked to answer doors? Assure me Lady Moreland hasn’t dismissed yet another butler.”
She sighed. “That she did. Turned the poor man out not even two days ago when he complimented her on her appearance. She doesn’t give a rottin’ fig for men, does she?”
That was an understatement. “No. I am afraid she has endured far too much hardship to warrant that.”
In her debutante years, his grandmother had been hailed as an extraordinary beauty by all, including her own esteemed cousin, His Royal Majesty. Her beauty had seen her married to an extremely wealthy Marquis, which had pleased her father far more than herself. Sadly for her, the match had resulted in many years of vicious beatings at the hands of a libertine husband who flew into irrational, jealous rages brought on by cruel whispers that she and her cousin, His Majesty, whom she had always intimately associated with, were lovers. Which they were not. As a result, now it was Tristan’s poor grandmother who was irrational.
Miss Henderson finished bolting each of the eight locks on the main entrance door. “The butler wasn’t the only