What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

“I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Fellows,” Miss Smythe said fluttering her lashes, which appeared to be a nervous habit as opposed to a means of flirtation.

“Mr. Fellows?” He made an attempt to look interested.

“My friend’s brother. Do you not remember me telling you that he has recently returned from a spell in India?”

She could well have mentioned it amongst all the talk of bonnets and bombazine. “Of course,” he lied.

Miss Smythe gestured to the gentleman with wavy black hair and ridiculous side-whiskers who, upon catching their eye, nodded to the row of chairs at the front.

“Oh, there he is.” In her excitement, Miss Smythe hopped about like a bird on a perch. “He did say we should all sit together.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “I prefer to sit at the back. I find one can appreciate the melody much more when it is carried through the room.”

Miss Smythe’s bright smile faded. “Oh. But Mr. Fellows is here alone, and it would be rude not to accompany him now he has gone to the trouble of securing the best seats.”

Tristan suppressed a smile. “You and Miss Hamilton may sit with Mr. Fellows. I shall sit elsewhere. Besides, I find Haydn can best be appreciated when there are no pretty distractions.”

The lady blushed. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He inclined his head. “And poor Mr. Fellows looks as though he could do with some company. Now, make haste before someone attempts to steal the seats from under his nose.”

Miss Smythe gasped at the suggestion. “Shall we all meet for refreshments in the interval?”

“Certainly,” he said with an affected smile.

Tristan watched them hurry away before heading to the empty row at the back. Dropping down into the chair, he gazed over the sea of heads and stifled a yawn.

Good Lord.

What the hell was he doing?

With each passing day, he lost sight of the man who spied on smugglers, got drunk on cheap wine, cursed and laughed with labourers and farmhands. He hated behaving like a preened prig. Had his mother not been so distraught over the death of his brother, they would be sharing a few stern words.

Tristan closed his eyes, but the low hum of mumbled whispers from the crowd, interspersed with a few strained chords of the cello, proved too distracting. He peered between the rows of shoulders to see Miss Smythe seated next to Mr. Fellows. Perhaps the gentleman had developed an affection for her. Tristan sincerely hoped so as it would ease his burden a little.

As the musicians began to play and the haunting notes filled the air, a sudden shiver raced through his body. Having chosen not to sit next to the aisle — if he fell asleep there was a good chance he would end up on the floor — he was surprised to find that the latecomer had decided to sit next to him as opposed to the empty row adjacent.

For fear of appearing rude he did not gape but glanced covertly out of the corner of his eye. The lady was dressed in grey silk, the edges of her sleeves trimmed with black lace. She held her hands demurely in her lap. The sight of her black gloves, coupled with her sombre-looking gown, complemented his choice of black attire.

The lady edged a little closer.

The air around them vibrated with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the music. The hairs at his nape stood to attention, his body growing more acutely aware of the woman seated at his side. He shuffled back in the chair in an attempt to study her profile. But without any warning, she spoke.

“Hello, Tristan.” Her words were but a soft purr. The soothing sound caused tingles to spark suddenly in various parts of his body, like fireworks shooting and bursting sporadically in the night sky.

He would know her voice anywhere.

He had heard it in his dreams too many times to forget its sweet timbre.

Turning slowly in a bid to prepare his weak heart, he glanced at her face. Her deep pink lips were just as full as he remembered. Her dark brown eyes still held the power to reach into his soul. The ebony curls were just as dark as the night he had covered her body with his own to claim the only woman he had ever wanted.

“Isabella.” Years of torturous agony hung within that one word, years of longing, years of living with her betrayal.

“I must speak to you,” she said, her breath coming as quick as his.

He suppressed a snigger of contempt. She’d had nothing to say to him when she left him and married another man. During the five years since their separation, she could have written to him many times. She could have found him in France if that was what she’d wanted.

Why here?