Page 5 of The Viscount's Promise
He shook his head, banishing the charitable thoughts. He would not allow sentiment to get in the way of his duty to his friend. Lady Emily may have been hurt, may have had some difficulties in life. But who hadn’t? They had both lost people they’d cared about, but at least she was still surrounded by family that loved her.
He would do as he’d promised and watch over her as Willbridge had requested, gaining her a bit of confidence if he could manage it. But under no circumstances would he grow friendly with the chit.
He frowned. No, not a chit any longer but a woman grown.
“Well, I must say,” Tristan drawled as he sauntered close, “you certainly wasted no time in scaring the girl off.”
Malcolm accepted the glass of lemonade his friend held out to him with a nod of thanks. “What, am I to handle her with kid gloves?”
“I don’t know, perhaps you should have.” Tristan frowned. “Things cannot have been easy on her. That scar of hers is hard to look at, isn’t it?”
Malcolm, in the process of taking a long draft of his beverage, nearly choked. “The scar?”
“I always knew it wouldn’t heal well. I wasn’t prepared for how angry it looks, however. The poor thing.”
A peculiar hot feeling worked its way up Malcolm’s spine as he stared at his friend. It took him a moment to realize it was anger. “It’s a scar, not a reason to pity her. She’s lovely regardless.”
“And that’s the worst part of it,” Tristan mumbled. “She would be so much lovelier without that scar. As it is, she won’t be able to snag a husband. What’s left to her, then? Living on Willbridge’s charity?”
The hot feeling running along Malcolm’s spine burst into a snaking flame. “What the hell put that idea in your head?”
His friend finally seemed to see the error in his crass comments. “Damn, that truly was insensitive of me. It wouldn’t do for us to speak aloud such things. Willbridge will have my head if he hears me disparage the girl in such a way.”
“Only because it isn’t remotely true,” Malcolm countered hotly. Just then Lady Willbridge, Caleb’s mother, called to them. He dutifully followed Tristan to accept a plate piled high with sandwiches and pastries from the newly arrived tray of food. All the while, however, he thought on his friend’s words.
Malcolm knew Tristan was a man of society, but he was not cruel. Which was why his friend’s comments as to Lady Emily’s scar had bothered him to such a degree. Yes, it was a dominant part of her features, as it ran from her left temple to the corner of her mouth in that jagged line. It did not, however, make her disgusting to look upon. In fact, he would say if pressed that she was incredibly pretty: with those soulful eyes of hers, that fair skin colored with a faint blush, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Not that anyone would concentrate on those assets, for even if one discounted her scar, the way she dressed and held herself overshadowed it all. It seemed she had perfected the art of blending into the woodwork. She wore a drab, unadorned brown dress, hunching her shoulders to provide further camouflage and make herself appear smaller. Even the way she had dressed her hair, pulling it back in a tight bun so that not even a tendril was allowed to escape, was done with the intention of staying out of sight. That last bit was an exercise in futility, for the color alone brought attention to it. The same copper as her brother’s, her hair fairly shone with all manner of reds and oranges and golds. A brilliant flame atop a plain wax candle. He wondered fleetingly if there was perhaps a bit of a fire inside her as well: hidden, maybe dormant, but like a volcano ready to burst forth with the right atmosphere and circumstances.
Blessedly Tristan once again saved him from his atypical mental poetry. Truly, what in blazes was wrong with him today?
His friend pulled him to an empty corner of the room, one thankfully free of the younger guests, siblings of Miss Imogen Duncan who had regrettably taken over the space. “Egad, do you think they’ll relegate the children to the nursery after this?” his friend muttered. “I hate to think of them running amok through this entire affair. It will play havoc with my plans for seducing whatever willing widow or matron may be present.”
Malcolm, in the midst of taking a healthy bite of a still warm scone, smiled around the crumbling bits before swallowing and saying, with complete and rueful honesty, “Somehow I doubt you’ll allow that to stop you.”
Tristan gave a short laugh before sobering. “You must think me a veritable arse, the way I talked about Lady Emily.”
Malcolm allowed his lips to turn up in a sardonic smirk. “Well, that goes without saying, for I always think you’re an arse.”
“And I give you leave to, with my blessing,” his friend replied with a chuckle. At the sound of light, feminine laughter, however, their attention quickly shifted to the group of young women that had stationed themselves around Imogen. They were a pretty picture, Imogen flushed and glowing with her future happiness, her sister Miss Mariah Duncan and Caleb’s sister Lady Daphne bookending her like beautiful, flawless Sèvres bisque figurines.
“Though you can’t help but admit,” Tristan continued, “that the unfairness of Lady Emily’s situation is even more underlined by her sister. That one,” he said, inclining his head in Lady Daphne’s direction, “will take London by storm next Season, mark my words.”
Malcolm raised a brow, his gaze sharpening on the girl in question. He had not paid her much mind on his arrival. He had been much too intent on beginning the arduous task of shadowing Lady Emily to focus on anyone else. But Tristan’s words made him look at the younger girl in a new light. The late afternoon sun, filtering in through the sheer drapes behind her, hit her then. She lit up like an angel, her strawberry blonde hair a halo of soft curls about her face, her skin luminous in the bright light. He had a feeling his friend was correct. Lady Daphne had all the makings of a diamond of the first water. Willbridge would have his hands full keeping the men at bay.
Just then she looked up from whatever wedding frippery the ladies were poring over and spied them. Her faint smile widened, her hand coming up in a waggle of fingers. Beside him Tristan heaved a sigh. Malcolm glanced at his friend, surprised to see a dreamy grin on his face.
“Damn me, ’tis Venus come to life.”
Malcolm blinked several times. “That’s Willbridge’s sister,” he hissed.
Tristan shrugged, his eyes following Lady Daphne as she left Imogen’s side and made her way to her mother’s. Just before she reached the marchioness, however, the girl turned to look back over her shoulder, her lips quirking when she saw Tristan staring.
“No harm in an innocent flirtation, man,” Tristan said. “I’ve no intention of letting anything come of it.”
His friend’s glib words, however, did nothing to alleviate the unease that had settled in Malcolm’s gut. He considered Lady Daphne before he turned back to his friend. Tristan was still gazing after her, his expression rapt. Malcolm determined in that moment to keep a careful watch on the situation. For if this continued, he would lose another friend this year, be it to the parson’s mousetrap or to a bullet from Willbridge’s dueling pistol.
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