She shook her head vigorously, rather too vigorously considering the deplorable state of her attire. “It was too dark, and he approached me from behind. I know he wore shoes with golden buckles. He smelt of bergamot and some strange exotic spice.”
Tristan gestured to the exposed undergarment beneath the bodice of her gown and then focused his gaze on her face. “That could be any one of a hundred gentlemen in the ballroom this evening.”
She put her hand to her chest. “Oh, what am I to do? Should anyone see my like this I shall be ruined beyond redemption.”
Tristan suspected that was his mother’s intention.
“Just give me a moment to think.” He turned away, put his fingers to his forehead and rubbed in the hope something would spring to mind amidst the confusion. “I shall go and find Lady Fernall,” he said turning back to face a distraught Miss Smythe. “You may borrow her cape. She will escort you to her carriage and see you safely home.”
For a moment he thought the lady might fall to her knees, such was the depth of gratitude expressed on her pretty face. “I cannot thank you enough, my lord. You must know, had I not been meeting your mother I would not have dared to venture out here alone.” Miss Smythe’s bottom lip trembled. She hit the skirt of her gown in a sudden fit of temper. “Oh, I have often mocked those for their naivety, and now I am the most foolish of them all.”
“Calm yourself, Miss Smythe.” Tristan waved his hands in the hope it would help. “Now, you must hide in the shrubbery and wait for Lady Fernall to arrive. She will call out to you, so—”
The sound of a gentleman’s foul curse punctured the already tense air. Tristan scanned the topiary hedge, the frantic shuffling of his feet mirroring the wild flitting of his eyes.
Miss Smythe stepped closer, put her hand on his arm. “Oh, we are too late, my lord.”
With that, Matthew Chandler appeared from the archway in the opposite side of the hedgerow. He stopped before them, put his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.
“This is not what it looks like,” Tristan said, though when it came to Chandler, he had no need to defend his actions.
“I know,” Chandler said straightening. “That’s why I am here.” His gaze scanned Miss Smythe’s petite form, falling to the exposed curve of her soft bosom. He blinked and shook his head. “You have approximately two minutes before the group of matrons ambling around the perimeter of the garden find you here.”
“Bloody hell!” Tristan pushed his hand through his hair. His mother knew how to execute a plan to perfection. “Tell me this is some sort of joke.” He turned to the lady at his side. “Forgive me, Miss Smythe. I did not mean to curse.”
Miss Smythe clutched her throat. “What are we to do?”
“I would have suggested making an exit through the arch,” Chandler said, “but numerous guests are wandering about at the top of the garden.”
Panic flared.
Tristan’s blood pumped through his body at far too rapid a rate. To be caught alone in a secluded part of the garden was enough to force a betrothal. One look at Miss Smythe and he would be forever known as the scandalous rogue who ravished an innocent maiden on the grass next to the Holbrooks’ fountain.
Damn it all!
Despite the depth of his feelings for Isabella, he could not leave Miss Smythe to the wolves.
He threw his hands up in despair. “There is nothing to be done. I fear my mother knows how to execute a deception with military precision. We are but pathetic pawns in her game.”
“I must say I was surprised to see your mother in attendance,” Chandler said. “When I saw Lady Fernall scouring the ballroom looking for you, I knew something was amiss.”
The faint sound of feminine chatter drifted through the night air.
Hell and damnation!
Tristan turned to Chandler. His head felt heavy, his mind nothing but a mushy mass. “Leave us. It would not serve Miss Smythe well if she were caught alone with two gentlemen.”
Despite the fraught situation, Chandler still seemed remarkably calm. “But what will you do?”
Tristan shrugged. “I don’t have the remotest idea. Pray that the matrons decide to turn back. Hope for a miracle. But knowing my mother, I assume we will have no choice but to wed.”
“Oh, this is dreadful,” Miss Smythe cried. She covered her face with her hands.
Chandler came to stand in front of Miss Smythe. He took hold of her hands and brought them down to her side. “Do you want to marry Lord Morford?” he said in his usual rich drawl as he stared into her eyes.
Miss Smythe sucked in a breath, visibly swallowed as she held his gaze. “No,” she said shaking her head too many times to count. “I do not want to marry Lord Morford. But what else can I do?”
Chandler’s gaze dropped to the lady’s bosom. A smile touched the corners of his mouth as he brought her hands to his lips. “Would you like to marry me?” he said as he brushed his mouth against her gloves.