Always. Krystle Triplett
pieces of dirt that may have clung to the burgundy silk creation, she tried to adjust the low-cut bodice before she fell out of her dress.
Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. “Apologies, dear,” he murmured, “but we couldn’t very well walk in the front door. Lord and Lady Tilden now despise me and anyone who associates with me, as you well may know.”
He looked back toward the window to see if anyone was looking in their direction. As he took her arm to help her up the garden path leading to the open French doors of the crowded ballroom, she mumbled under her breath about ungrateful men and their infuriating attitudes.
Tristan noticed that she seemed to be complaining a lot in the last few days, or perhaps he had just run out of patience for it. Either way it seemed like his liaison with the lovely widow was coming to an end. Tristan sighed. Was it really worth the trouble to find another mistress? Perhaps he was being rash. After all, she was a beautiful lady who served her purpose and did so very well.
“I still think we should have gone to Jezebel’s,” complained Sabrina. “There’s never anything exciting that happens at the Tilden’s ball. Just a bunch of whining, simpering misses, and wannabe rakes. Let’s leave.”
Then again perhaps he had let the affair go on too long, thought Tristan. “We can’t very well leave now,” he said aloud. “Tilden is on his way over. We wouldn’t wish to be rude, now would we, pet?” As the robust man made his way to them through the crowded ballroom, Tristan glanced around, looking at the swirling dresses that wafted the scents of beeswax, perfume, and body odor throughout the room. The grimace on his face was more for the smell than the man now standing in front of him.
“How did you get in here, Bradley? I gave specific instructions to keep you out!” exclaimed Benjamin Finch, Lord Tilden. “It’s bad enough you show up uninvited but accompanied by this…this…woman!” He was trying to keep his furious gaze on Tristan, but his eyes kept slipping to the comely widow and her tight-fitting bodice.
“Oh come now, my lord, surely you don’t mean to send us away,” purred Lady Dashwood, as she very slowly ran her finger down the front of his person, stopping only when he grabbed her wrist about two inches above the top of his trousers.
He glanced back and forth between Tristan and the stunning red head who was batting her eyelashes at him. “Very well. You may stay this time, but one speck of trouble and I will have you both thrown out in front of the entire nobility of London.”
“Wouldn’t dream of causing trouble, my lord,” drawled Tristan, as he took Lady Dashwood’s arm. “We only came for the festivities you offer, not the ones we truly enjoy.”
Lord Tilden’s face turned an alarming shade of purple, but he kept his mouth closed and turned away, probably heading off to find a stiff drink. What a shame, thought Tristan. A nice fight with a pair of footmen might be just the thing he needed to cure him of this restlessness that he’d had for the past fortnight.
He glanced to his left. “Come, my dear, let’s take a stroll about the room,” he said into her ear. “Lady Tilden has spotted us, and I’m afraid she will continue where her beloved husband left off. And unfortunately, I don’t think you can persuade her half as well as you did him.”
Sabrina laughed a deep, seductive sound that made several heads, male and female, turn her way. “I wouldn’t be so sure, darling,” she said in his direction. “Lady Tilden is much more masculine than her husband. She definitely wears the pants in their family, in more ways than one, I believe.”
Tristan didn’t feel like explaining that he knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Lady Tilden did enjoy the company of men. This is why Lord Tilden didn’t want him within one hundred yards of her. Tilden knew she had approached Tristan with an offer at the soirée last week, an offer that he had to refuse. Married women were too much trouble. She was currently shooting daggers at him from across the ballroom; apparently, she didn’t take rejection well.
Tristan shrugged. He did the honorable thing and people were still upset with him. He made it a habit of not stepping on another man’s toes, but even if there was no significant other for Lady Tilden, she wasn’t the type of woman he went for: too skinny, with ordinary brown hair and eyes. Some might consider her pretty, but Tristan preferred more diversity and more flesh, hence Lady Dashwood with her red hair and curves.
Tristan was pondering this as he felt a heavy clap on his shoulder.
“Tristan Bradley, as I live and breathe, I never thought I would see you at this ball, not after the events of the Radcliff soirée.”
“Jonathan, I see that you also passed up the excitement of Jez’s for this dreary ball,” said Tristan, while shaking the hand of his good friend Jonathan Meyers.
“Tristan, if you find it so boring, then why did you force us to attend?” whined Lady Dashwood.
“I didn’t force you,” grated Tristan. “You said you wished to go wherever I was.” He knew he was being rather short with her, but he couldn’t help it. Her question bothered him because he, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why he wanted to be here either. He only knew he felt he must be here. Like his very existence depended upon it.
“Ah, Lady Dashwood. What a sight you are! Why, you are the envy of every woman here, and if you shall give me this dance, I shall be the envy of every man,” said Jonathan, as he bent over her hand. He must have been trying to spare her more of Tristan’s bad temper.
She looked at Tristan. “Are you at least going to dance with me?”
“No.”
“Very well, sir,” she said as she turned away from Tristan to face his friend. “I’ll dance with you. At least you seem to appreciate my company.” Tristan watched the two walk off toward the dance floor, shaking his head and laughing at the smug smile and wink from his friend. If Jonathan wanted her, he could have her. Sabrina and he were over; he just had to officially let her know that. A pretty bauble or two and he’d be done with her.
He was still chuckling as he walked over to a group of his other companions. “Hello, gents. Anything exciting I should know about?”
“Tristan?”
“Bradley, good to see you!”
“What brings you to this party?”
He acknowledged each of his friends with a nod or a handshake, then he answered Harold Cole’s question with one of his own.
“Have any of you seen William yet? He was supposed to unlock the back gate for us, but we had to climb over a wall instead. It was damned difficult with a whining chit clinging to my leg.”
They all laughed at the image. “I believe Will should have been here by now. He’s always ghastly early to these things. But this is only the first dance,” said Douglas Hale.
“Wonder why he has yet to arrive? The man is never late for anything, even fashionably so,” pondered Tristan as he glanced around the crowded ballroom. William had been his best friend for a number of years. They were both young immortals in a large city with a growing population of both mortals and immortals. Most of the immortals in London were much older than them.
“I hear he’s supposed to debut his sister tonight,” whispered David Benton.
Tristan’s head whipped back to David, eyes narrowed slightly. “His sister?” he asked suspiciously. “What sister? The man is my best friend. If he had a sister, I would know about it.”
“It’s true,” admitted Douglas, looking a tad uncomfortable as he pulled at his necktie. “William told me he was bringing her. They are due to arrive any minute.”
“Why didn’t he tell me he had a sister? We’ve known each other for”—a slight pause as he realized he about slipped up and said something to give away his true age—“several years,” he finished. “Where has she been all this time?” He and William had known each other for almost thirty years. They were around