Lords of Notoriety: The Ruthless Lord Rule / The Toplofty Lord Thorpe

“He’s going to try for the leads!” Mary screamed to Rachel, who had hidden her head in her hands. “Oh, Tristan, be careful!”

Mary saw Tristan’s head lying flush against the horse’s neck as he reached across the space separating the two horses and made a grab for the other’s halter. Then the curricle was past her, still traveling at a furious pace, but now being directed by Ruthless Rule, who had somehow gained control of the leads.

The horses changed direction, heading toward the pond that sat about two hundred yards away on the left. Mary ran along behind, her skirts lifted immodestly as she willingly sacrificed propriety for speed. It wasn’t over yet, she knew, although she silently agreed with Rule that running the horses into the pond was the best chance he had of stopping them before any more damage was done.

Please let him be all right, the reckless fool! She begged any deities that may have been listening, then shook her head at the ridiculousness of her thoughts. Ruthless Rule—Reckless Fool—they even rhymed! Oh, whatever possessed the man, to have him taking such unthinking chances with his life? And what sort of brainless ninny am I to have even entertained the thought of going to his rescue before his masculine tendency to act the hero got him trampled into the dust? Anyone would think I’d cared one way or the other about the man!

Not that these unpleasant thoughts slowed Mary’s pace—she continued to race full tilt toward the pond, where she had seen a large splash just scant seconds earlier. By the time she reached the banks of the water the runaway horses were standing with their heads down in the shafts, their flanks still shuddering as they seemed to be trying to understand just what had happened to them.

Where was Rule? The curricle, which had once been a glorious equipage painted in scarlet with gold trim, lay on its side, half submerged in the pond, and Mary’s fearful heart skipped a beat as she pictured Tristan pinned beneath the surface by one of the curricle’s wheels.

She was just about to plunge her own body into the water when the surface of the pond was broken by Tristan’s dark head and broad shoulders, as he rose to his feet to stand more than waist deep in the water, his attention fixed on releasing the exhausted horses from the shafts.

“Did you see that?” Dexter Rutherford fairly shouted in Mary’s ear as he came up beside her, his awestruck gaze stuck fast to the sight of his hero. “What a first-rate sight that was! Puts those devil-dares at Astley’s Circus to the blush, that’s what it does. Isn’t Tris a prime one, Miss Lawrence? Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”

By now Mary and Dexter were only a small part of a much larger audience. From all sides came the multitude of guests and scores of servants, all chattering, applauding, and generally acting as if Tristan Rule had single-handedly saved their lives—which he may very well have done. Several young bucks were sufficiently enthused as to plunge Hessians-first into the water, bent on helping the man of the hour lead the team of horses back to shore.

Mary watched Rule closely as his long strides cut waves through the water, bringing him closer to her with every step. His black hair was pasted to his head, showing off his handsome, chiseled features almost as advantageously as his clinging wet coat and pantaloons did his fine physique. Indeed, among the cheers and shouts of congratulations Mary heard more than one feminine gasp and giggle of appreciation.

For reasons Mary did not choose to investigate, this unconscious flaunting of his physical person served to touch off a spark of anger deep inside her that temporarily banished her earlier concern for his safety.

As Tristan mounted the bank to stand not three feet away from her, she tilted her determined chin toward the afternoon sun and remarked sarcastically, “Ah, if it isn’t the knight errant. Good thing you left your suit of armor at home, sir, else you’d be rusted into a statue before you could enjoy all the hosannas of your many admirers.”

What the deuce was the matter with the girl now? Tristan asked himself in righteous confusion. Anyone would think I stopped the curricle just to upset her. And to think I rode half the night just to open myself to more of her insults!

Bowing deeply from the waist, a move that caused one dark, wet lock of hair to fall into a roguishly becoming curl on his forehead, Tristan replied coolly, “On the contrary, Miss Lawrence. If I had worn my armor, I would not be here at all, but would still be trapped beneath the surface of the pond, the curricle riding on my back.”

His dark eyes then raked her up and down as if he had weighed her up and found her sadly lacking. He took two steps before saying, “If you’ll excuse me now, please? I think I shall be returning to my castle to have a tapestry commissioned commemorating my latest heraldic deed.”

Then Mary was left quite alone, her mouth hanging open, as she watched Tristan being led away, Dexter’s arm draped protectively about his shoulders while two dozen or more hangers-on trailed along behind.

“Never mind her, Tris,” she heard Dexter say. “Women don’t understand these things like we men do. All they can think of is us getting our heads broken or something. She didn’t really mean anything by it, I’m sure of it.”

Mary couldn’t quite hear Tristan’s answer, but she certainly understood the tone. She had opened her silly mouth and put herself firmly back into Tristan Rule’s black books. Now he would never see her as anything more than Sir Henry’s ill-mannered ward—and as a possible threat to England’s security.

He’d never see her as a woman. And that made Mary sad…it made her very sad indeed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HE’S DOING THIS just to infuriate me, you know. Oh, don’t shake your head, Jennie, for you know I’m right.”

Jennie Wilde was hard-pressed to conceal her smile as she watched Mary flutter about the Bourne drawing room like a kite in a stiff breeze. “Inviting you to share a theater box with the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg infuriates you, Mary? And what, pray, would make you happy? Having him appear at the theater with some other young woman on his arm?”

“Yes—No! Oh, Jennie, you know what I mean. It’s like that Lorenzo Dow fellow said: ‘You will be damned if you do—And you will be damned if you don’t.’”

“I believe the man was speaking about religion, Mary, not a festive night at Covent Garden,” Jennie supplied, tongue-in-cheek. “But I cannot see how you can turn a simple invitation into something even remotely devious.”

Mary flitted about a moment or two more, then came to roost on the settee across from where her friend was reclining at her ease. “The grand duchess is rewarding Tristan’s courage in stopping that curricle last week—all the town knows it. Her theater box will be the cynosure of all eyes for the entire evening. And Tristan knows I would sooner shave my head and wear rags than miss such a spectacle.”

“I understand what you are saying so far, Mary.” Jennie nodded, picking up her knitting. “But where does the revenge come in?”

Mary rolled her eyes heavenward, unable to believe that Jennie—who was usually so awake on all suits—could be so dense. “For goodness sake, Jennie, Tristan knows if I appear as his companion for such a public display that everyone and his wife will have us as good as married!”

Jennie laid down her knitting to peer intently into Mary’s worried green eyes. “And to think, my dear, the main presentation of the evening is to be an allegorical festival entitled ‘The Grand Alliance.’ My goodness, anyone would think the authors had you and Tristan in mind, rather than England and our allies.” Shaking her head in mock dismay, she went on: “Perhaps you have been trotting too hard, Mary. Really, the ideas you get into your head amaze even me!”

Mary was not so self-involved that she could not see the humor in Jennie’s words. Wrinkling up her pert little nose, she retorted, “Oh, pooh—I guess I am going a bit overboard, aren’t I?” Then she became serious once again. “But, Jennie, I already told you how horridly I behaved to Tristan last week after he’d made his daring rescue. Surely he can’t be rewarding me for such a terrible attack on his character? Have I told you that he has come to visit Aunt Rachel and Sir Henry nearly every day without so much as inquiring about me? Now, does that sound like the man is perishing for the sight of me—or that he would be desirous of my company? No,” she answered for herself, “it does not. He knows full well how he has curtailed my social life, and he is purposely using this invitation to throw yet another damper on my fun.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the headache,” Jennie mused, lifting one hand to her temple.

“That’s what Aunt Rachel says every time I bring up the subject,” Mary responded, shaking her head. “You all think I’m reading entirely too much into this invitation, don’t you? Very well, I’ll accept it. But remember this, Jennie, I do so only under duress.”

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