What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

Chapter 1

Tristan Wells, seventh Viscount Morford, stood alone in the drawing room of Lord Mottlesborough’s townhouse, watching the musicians unpack their instruments in preparation for the concert.

Lady Mottlesborough came scuttling into the room, her hand flying to her chest when she discovered him loitering behind the door. “Good heavens, my lord. You gave me a fright. What on earth are you doing hiding back there?”

Tristan blinked rapidly. Judging by the sight of the excessively large turban wrapped around the matron’s head, he should be the one clutching his chest. Beneath the voluminous folds of exotic silk, he imagined she was as bald as the day she was born.

“I am taking a moment to gather my thoughts.” Under present circumstances, she could hardly question his motives. Whilst mourning the loss of one’s brother rarely affected a gentleman’s social calendar, a more subdued countenance was only to be expected.

The lady gave a rueful smile. “I assume your mother has pestered you to leave the house again this evening.” She gestured to the musicians and whispered, “I doubt praise for their skill has dragged you here. They are hardly the talk of the Season.”

He snorted. “As you are aware, my mother makes no secret of the fact she is keen for me to find a bride.”

With Tristan being the only male member of the family, his mother’s eagerness for him to produce an heir bordered on desperation.

“I have heard she has a particular lady in mind.”

“She has many ladies in mind,” Tristan said with a derisive chuckle, “as long as they’re from good breeding stock.” In truth, he was beginning to feel like a reluctant bull being herded into a field full of heifers.

“I understand your mother’s urgency to see you wed,” Lady Mottlesborough said. “Despite her mourning period, no one would cast aspersions on the decision to protect one’s heritage. Indeed, we are all aware that one’s duty and responsibility must come before everything else.”

Tristan knew better than anyone the sacrifices one must make for the sake of patrimony. But with his mother still in full mourning, it prevented her from attending functions, and as such, he found it more preferable to wander the corridors of other people’s houses than to remain in his own. He also came in the hope of finding more stimulating conversation, something that did not involve talk of flounces and other such fripperies.

“For the moment, I have been granted a reprieve,” he said with a weary sigh.

Lady Mottlesborough nodded. “And so you linger in the shadows in the hope the ladies won’t find you.” She raised a curious brow. “Or perhaps it is one particular lady you wish to avoid. Where is the lovely Miss Smythe this evening?”

Miss Priscilla Smythe was lovely. She possessed a sweet, kind disposition, a generous heart, and a pretty countenance. Whenever he thought of kissing her, his mind conjured images of summer meadows, birds chirping merrily, and chocolate macaroons. On the whole, he imagined the experience would be pleasant, if not particularly memorable.

“I believe you will find her surrounded by a host of other ladies just as eager to discuss the merits of ribbon over lace.”

Lady Mottlesborough nodded despite the hint of contempt in his tone. “I am afraid we ladies tend to take the topic of haberdashery extremely seriously.” She chuckled. “Sewing and embroidery are subjects dear to my heart.”

Tristan wondered if that was why she wore the turban. Perhaps she carried her frame and threads around with her in case she found the evening’s entertainment too dull. “I’m certain that when you stumble upon Miss Smythe, she will be only too happy to hear all about it.”

The matron’s suspicious gaze drifted over his face. “Perhaps your interest lies elsewhere. Perhaps you have another lady in mind.”

Tristan knew to have a care. Friendly overtures were often used to drag snippets of gossip from unsuspecting fools. Many unwilling parties had been forced into an arrangement simply to stop loose tongues from wagging.

“This evening, I am only interested in listening to a soothing melody whilst enjoying my freedom for a little while longer.”

He wanted to say that he had no interest in titles or land. He had no interest in the begetting of an heir, or to be the husband of a woman who failed to ignite even the smallest spark of passion in his chest.

Lady Mottlesborough winced at the sound of the harsh chords as the musicians warmed up their bows. “I hate to be the one to ruin an evening, but the Baxendale Quartet are quite mediocre when it comes to Haydn.”

“Then I thank you for the warning,” he said with a smirk, “and shall take care to sit near the back.”

“A splendid idea. Had I not been the hostess, I most certainly would have joined you.” Lady Mottlesborough’s attention drifted to the door. “And now it seems your plan to go unnoticed has been foiled, my lord.”

Tristan followed her gaze to see Miss Priscilla Smythe and her companion, Miss Hamilton, enter the drawing room.

Lady Mottlesborough tapped his arm with her closed fan. “I’m afraid there is no escaping now,” she said before turning to greet the other guests pouring in through the door.

He suppressed a groan as both ladies smiled sweetly and came over to join him.

“I simply knew we would find you in here, eager to secure the best seat.” Miss Smythe chuckled sweetly, her golden ringlets bobbing up and down in response. She turned to Miss Hamilton. “Lady Morford said he simply adores Haydn.”

“You all know me only too well,” he said, his affable tone bringing on a bout of nausea. In reality, none of them knew him at all.

Tristan sighed

inwardly. It had not taken him long to fall back into the feigned modes of conduct he despised. Showing enthusiasm when he had none came easier to him than he thought.