When Tempting a Rogue (23 page)

“Oh ho!” A bark of sardonic laughter burst from his chest.
Can
men become hysterical?
“I wondered how long it would take before you martyred yourself on the altar of age and experience! You are only four years older than I, Vienne! That’s nothing.”

“It is something in the eyes of society.”

“Hang society. I don’t interfere with their love lives. Those years are not the gap they once were. You told me then that you were so much older than me emotionally because you had lived and seen something of the world and its ugliness. Well, let me tell you something Miss I’ve-only-seen-France-and-London—I’ve seen a helluva lot more of this world than you have, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about your past, except for the fact that something in it obviously kept you from being able to have adult relationships.”

Vienne gasped. “You wait just one minute—”

“No.” He moved closer, driven by the force of his emotions. “Everyone on this earth has regrets, Vienne. Lord knows I’ve made enough mistakes of my own—some might even say that you were one of them. But I’ve learned from them and I’ve moved on. You should too. You cannot hide from life or dictate to it like you do your employees. Neither life nor love is a business transaction. That’s prostitution.”

She slapped him. He barely saw it coming—just a flick of her hand and then his left cheek was on fire.

“How dare you,” she seethed.

His gaze locked with hers. “Did that make you feel better? Are you righteous and indignant now?”

“You are trying to make me angry because you are. You want me to hurt you so you can hurt me in return.”

Trystan snorted. “You have no idea what I want.”

“I cannot know you?” Her expression was pure mockery. “Yet you claim to know me so very well. You truly have no idea what kind of woman I am, Trystan. If it’s true that my life has been a kind of prostitution, then I am indeed a whore. A high-priced one at that.”

It struck him then that this self-loathing of hers wasn’t merely a façade or convenient excuse to hide behind. She truly believed herself to be an awful person. How could he possibly fight against that? He couldn’t, not when he had no idea just what had happened to her.

He honestly did not have a chance where she was concerned, and this thought cut him as deeply as it made him angry. So very, very angry.

“Grey told me the only way to court you was relentlessly, but I’m tired of trying to prove myself worthy of your attention, Vienne. Do you know why I worked so hard and pulled so many strings to become your partner? Because I wanted you to see me as a man.” He laughed—bitterly. “All these years all I’ve wanted is to prove myself to you, so you would see that I was worthy of your love after all. Christ, I can’t believe what a fool I was. What a fool I am. It doesn’t matter what I do. It never did and it never will. I’m not the one who is broken. You are.”

The color fled from her cheeks, but God help him, he did not regret his words. “You are such a wonderful woman, Vienne. You are smart and funny and generous to a fault, but you are like a child afraid to go to sleep in the dark because of what
might
lurk in the shadows. You’d rather the curtains catch fire. I’ve already wasted years of my life trying to be good enough for you, and I simply cannot do it anymore.”

“I never asked it of you.”

“No, you didn’t. I brought all of this on myself, and for that I should have my arse kicked. Lord, help me. But I can’t even bring myself to regret it. But you will, Vienne. Someday you will regret that you pushed me away.”

She didn’t say anything, and her silence was worse than any word or insult she might have uttered. Trystan pressed a kiss to her forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. He would not unman himself by crying.

“I love you,” he told her. “But I am done living my life for you alone. If you find the courage to love me back, let me know. In the meantime, I assure you this will have no effect on our business relationship. Good-bye, Vienne.”

He turned then, before he could see pity in her eyes. He had just humbled himself more than he ever had to anyone ever before, and it stung like a scratch from an angry cat—raw and red.

And it hurt like hell.

Chapter 13

V
ienne never realized how empty her life was before that first day she spent without Trystan in it. Emptiness was something she’d never noticed before he came whirling back into her life. Now, though, when most of the aristocracy had left town for the country and society was spotty at best, she felt alone.

She still had Sadie, of course, though her friend did have her own life to live. Indara came around once in a while for tea. She even had dinner with Lady Gosling one evening—the widow who scandalized the nation by refusing to wear black for her joyfully departed husband. She enjoyed the evening immensely, but that enjoyment lost some of its shine when she remembered that she couldn’t share it with Trystan.

She saw him on an almost daily basis, but it wasn’t the same. His eyes didn’t light up when he saw her, and his conversation was all business. She kept expecting the Duke of Ryeton to call and make good on his promise to ruin her, but he never did. And now he and his duchess must surely have taken up residence in their country home as well.

Work on Trystienne’s progressed nicely; and though there was little word from Inspector Jacobs or the dark counterpart, Ira Fletcher, there was no new mischief. The workers seemed to think the worst was over, but Vienne felt as though the giant sword of Damocles hung over their heads, and she was waiting for it to drop.

On this warm late August morning she was on the first floor, watching the plastering of the walls in the corsetry and lingerie section. The walls were going to be a soft salmon color, which would look incredibly elegant with the delicate scrollwork on the ceiling and molding.

Someone cleared his throat behind her. “Vienne? Might I bother you a moment?”

Her heart jumped into her throat at the sound of that voice, despite the stiffness of tone. She swallowed and turned, willing herself into some state of composure. “Of course, Trystan.”

He gestured to the door, so she moved toward him, preceding him out of the room and into the next shop, which was empty of workmen. “What is it you wished to discuss?” she asked once they were alone. Her heart pounded painfully as part of her hoped he would renew his declarations of love.

He tugged on the cuffs of his dark blue morning coat. “It has occurred to me that continuing to work together might be something neither of us wishes to endure once Trystienne’s is completed.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised if he slapped her. “Oh?”

He nodded. “So, I want to advise you that I am in the process of finding you new investors. I know a partner was never something you desired, so as soon as I can find a handful of suitable people I will sell off my share of the venture, and you will be solely in charge as you originally wanted.”

Originally
was the operative word in that declaration was it not? At one time she wanted this project to be hers and hers alone, but now she couldn’t imagine running it without Trystan’s assistance. It was obvious, however, that Trystan did not share her vision any longer.

He wanted nothing to do with her.

“If that is what you want, Trystan, I have no objection.”

Was it her wishful thinking or did he stiffen ever so slightly. “Excellent. I will begin immediately.” He bowed his head. “Good day, Vienne.”

“Good day, Trystan.” She watched his straight back as he left the room, her chest about to cave in under the intense pressure weighing upon it. She pressed a hand to her breast to keep whatever wanted out, inside; she slapped her other hand against the wall for support as she turned toward the windows and stared out unseeing into the day.

It hurt so very badly. Too much for her to keep inside. A sob wrenched its way out of her throat despite the invisible vise that gripped her. Hot tears filled her eyes and she could not stop them from spilling over. Her shoulders heaved—it was all she could do to keep the pain inside—and yet she was sobbing as though her world was ending, but made barely a sound.

O
nce out in the hall, Trystan heard Vienne weep. It was such a heartbreaking sound that his own body reacted—there was an almost crippling tightness in his chest and throat. He could go back and try to comfort her, but to what end? It would only make matters worse between them, more muddled and confusing.

He loved her. He had for years, and wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but he couldn’t force her to be something she wasn’t or to give him something she didn’t think herself capable of giving. It was time to be practical and move on with his life.

But first he had to see this project through to the end. He had invested so much of himself into it, he couldn’t just up and walk away. Plus, there was the note that had been delivered to him yesterday at the Barrington. It was written in a decent script, indicating that the writer had some degree of education. Short and to the point, it merely stated that if he did not put a stop to the emporium scheme, and chose to become a corruptor of women, that he would suffer a worse “accident” than Madame La Rieux.

He couldn’t give up just yet, and allow someone else—possibly Vienne—to be injured because of him. He had to take this note to Inspector Jacobs and he had to continue doing what he was doing, despite the fact that being so close to Vienne caused him no shortage of pain.

That was why he had to get out of there now. Her crying—
what did it take to make such a woman sob?
—cut him; and if he couldn’t comfort her there and then, he knew he must leave. It was hell to look at her and not be able to touch her, to joke with her. He had to escape; and since he had an appointment with Inspector Jacobs later that day, he may as well leave immediately.

He instructed Havers to take him to Ryeton House in Mayfair. Tomorrow, Grey and Rose would leave for the country, where they could spend some much-deserved time alone, and Grey could watch his wife grow fat with child without society yammering about it. He would no doubt make a trip to visit them later this fall, but he wanted to say good-bye before they left.

And if he were totally honest, he needed his brother to give him a pat on the head or something—just so he knew everything was going to be all right. For his whole life, he’d been taught that anything he wanted was his for the taking if he worked hard enough, and was charming and smart enough. He was the youngest boy, spoiled by his family, unaccustomed to being denied whatever he asked for.

Until Vienne.

He did not know how to react to this loss. She was not something he could simply work harder at obtaining. He could not “fix” whatever plagued her. Unless she let him in, he could not help her heal—and there would be no forcing her into compliance. He didn’t want to force her to do anything.

He must accept defeat and move on, though he had no idea how to do either.

The trip to Mayfair was shortened by the fact that there wasn’t nearly as much traffic on the streets during these late summer days. A few weeks ago the streets would have been congested; it was the way of expanding cities with narrow streets.

Grey and Rose were sitting down to a luncheon on the back terrace with Archer when he arrived.

“I had hoped you might join us.” Rose greeted him with a broad smile. “I had a place set just in case.”

What sort of heart would not lighten at such a greeting? Trystan put on a happy countenance.

Grey raised a glass of lemonade in salute, but his gaze narrowed when it settled on Trystan’s face. Thankfully, he did not remark upon it.

Neither did Archer, though Trystan thought he saw both his brothers exchange a knowing glance. At least he could take comfort in the fact that his mother had returned to the country with Bronte and Alexander. He would not have to face her disappointment at not finding him a bride this Season, or listen as she planned a strategy for next.

“What time do you depart tomorrow?” he inquired as Rose poured him a glass of cold lemonade.

“Before noon,” Grey replied. “I haven’t decided where we’ll spend the night yet. Rose wants it to be an adventure, so we’ve made no plans.” He smiled indulgently at his wife.

“What of you?” Trystan asked Archer.

His older brother shrugged. “Since I have taken over Friday’s rooms at the Barrington, I believe I’ll stay in London. Though, I have planned at least one visit to the country this fall—and Christmas, of course. You?”

“I’ll remain here, of course. It’s been too long since we’ve all spent a Christmas together. In the spring I’ll return to New York—plenty of work to do there. Perhaps I’ll land one of those brash American heiresses,” he said it with a grin, but his family didn’t seem to get the joke.

Rose frowned. “But I thought . . .”

Grey silenced her by placing his hand over hers. “My brother has never been one to sit still for long, love.”

“Speaking of that”—Trystan cleared his throat—“I’m going to sell my shares in Trystienne’s once it opens. Either of you interested in buying in before it becomes an incredible moneymaking machine?”

Another shared glance. The two of them were as subtle as dogs lifting their legs on a tree stump.

“Sounds too good to pass up,” Grey commented, helping himself to several slices of cold ham. “Let me know when you want to sell. My solicitor here in town can take care of the details.”

Archer seized the small silver bowl of sliced cucumber. “Your business advice has never steered me down a regretful path before. I’m in as well.”

Trystan smiled. “Excellent.” He only needed his brothers to buy into a small amount, and then he would no longer hold a full half interest in the scheme. He and Vienne would no longer be partners, but he could still profit from all their combined hard work.

Unfortunately, he would forever be reminded of what might have been by the name of the damn place. It would be hung above the door and on all the bills and packages that came out of the building.
Trystienne’s
would mock him for the rest of his days.

Yes, a return to New York might be just the thing. He felt more the thing already, just for having a plan. He always felt better when he had a goal in mind.

“Pass the rolls, will you, Arch? I’m suddenly starving.”

W
ord about town was that Trystan Kane planned to return to America by the spring. Word also was that he was spending a great deal of his evenings at Chez Cherie’s, the most exclusive whorehouse in the city. Then again, the gossips also said that Vienne was sleeping with Nathan Xavier, a magician who occasionally appeared on stage at Saint’s Row. That was complete nonsense, so perhaps the rumor about Trystan was unfounded as well. Although, it certainly was none of her concern.

She missed Sadie. Her friend would probably tell her to gather her courage and go after Trystan, but she longed for her company all the same. Lady Gosling might prove to be a good friend one day, but they didn’t have the sort of intimate relationship that made Vienne think the countess would act as advisor.

Most of all, she missed Trystan, who, somewhere along the way, had become her best friend as well as her partner and confidante. But she was not the kind of woman to allow herself to wallow. She put things behind and moved forward, and she would do the same with her feelings for Trystan.

Because of the rumors, however, Vienne had received overtures from three wealthy gentlemen interested in Trystan’s shares in the emporium—since he was, supposedly, returning to America. She thanked them for their interest and promised to keep them in mind if Trystan decided to sell.

If she knew him, and she was fairly certain she did, he’d let his brothers have the first opportunity to buy in. She was going to lose him completely, and had no one to blame but herself.

Now that the Season was over, she had more time on her hands to devote to the completion of Trystienne’s. She threw herself into the project relentlessly, to the point that she often missed meals because she was working. Indara started coming by the site at least once a day to bring her food.

“You are wasting away,” she scolded in her Bombay-spiced accent.

Vienne merely shrugged. “It won’t take me long to fill out again.”

They continued on like this for several days. In fact it was just after one of these lunches when Greyden Kane, Duke of Ryeton, stepped into the still-empty but prettily painted shop where Vienne was sitting on the floor, going over carpet swatches for runners.

She looked up when he tapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “Your Grace, whatever are you doing here?”

“I had to return to the city on business and thought I’d stop by.” came the reply as he rolled his hat in his hands. “May I come in? Or is this a bad time?”

Wary of his pleasant demeanor, she nodded. “Of course. It’s not a bad time at all. How are you at choosing carpet?”

“Brilliant,” he answered with a hint of a smile. He moved into the room with the grace of a big, lazy cat. Trystan had a similar way of moving, but without the predatory nature. He startled her even further by sinking down onto the bare floor beside her.

He looked through the samples, then at the walls, then back to the samples. “This one.” He held up a William Morris print of black, white, gold, green, and salmon—vines and flowers.