What You Propose (Anything for Love 2)

Tristan wondered if that's 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 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'm 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 being struck 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 on

ly 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.

"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 Jayne's brother. Don't you 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. 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, hurry before someone else attempts to steal them from under his nose."

Miss Smythe jumped 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. Flopping down into the chair, he gazed over the sea of heads and stifled a yawn.

Good Lord.