"I'm so pleased you agree," he said, looking relieved. "The hours and days we've spent avoiding each other…I shouldn't like to go back to that ever again." He released a pent-up breath. "There are many definitions of friendship. We're both adults. Certainly we can control—"
"What about the kiss?" she burst out.
He blinked. "That was weeks ago. More than a month. I thought we'd agreed to forget it." Watching her, his gray gaze narrowed warily. "What about it?"
"What have you been talking about, then?"
"What do you mean, what have I been talking about? The dance lesson, of course. I held you too close, and that precipitated our latest—"
"What about last night?"
"What about last night?"
"You kissed me again last night," she said, exasperated. "Am I expected to forget about that, too? Or shall I assume kissing is part of your definition of friendship?"
He visibly paled, his jaw going slack. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Evidently he had expected her to forget it.
"What do you mean, am I sure?" She remembered each moment of that kiss like it had ended a mere instant earlier. Just thinking about it, she could feel his arms around her, his lips slanting over hers. She could taste the hint of chocolate. "How could I forget such a thing?"
"I meant…" He hesitated, apparently fumbling for words. "I meant, are you sure you wish that to be part of the definition? Because frankly, I don't think it should be." The color had returned to his face, and unlike a moment ago, he sounded quite certain. "I don't think I could handle that. I don't think I could stop with kissing."
Part of her was shocked at the implication, but she couldn't help being flattered, too. And although she'd never considered kissing to be part of friendship, she had to admit the idea was tempting. After all, despite his stated opinion, kisses didn't have to go further. Hadn't she told her sisters they were "only kisses," not meaningful in and of themselves? And Rachael had said the same thing.
"I'm sorry," he continued, interrupting her musings. "I seem to be apologizing quite often these days, but I assure you, I mean it. I hope to remain friends, but I won't be kissing you again."
"I wish you would," she said under her breath as he walked out.
HOLY CHRIST, he'd kissed her in his sleep.
Descending the stairs two at a time as he headed for the workshop, Tristan couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that he'd done such a thing, or the fact that he'd missed out on really experiencing it.
The only thing he was certain of, he thought as a footman threw the front doors open wide, was that he needed to go home. He'd take the pump apart today and put it back together with the new piece tomorrow. Adjusting the damn thing again would eat up the better part of the day, but that would keep him busy while everyone else was occupied with the bloody ball. Saturday morning he'd install the pump and leave with a sigh of relief. He was counting the hours.
And hoping he'd find the strength not to kiss her again.
I wish you would.
Had she meant him to hear that? No matter—he had. And—friendship be damned—the thought that she might want him regardless of his reputation was enough to make him run the opposite direction.
Anything beyond friendship would prove a disaster for them both—he was sure of it.
"My lord? Are you in need of something?"
Tristan blinked, realizing he was standing stock-still in the middle of the quadrangle. Servants crisscrossed the lawn, carrying baskets of laundry and buckets of water, slanting him curious glances as they went about their business.
"No," he told the footman. "Thank you for your concern."
He headed for his temporary workshop, a dim, doorless room meant for storing lumber, but empty this time of year. After lighting a few candles around the pump, he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust.
No wonder she'd put on his cameo this morning—she thought something had changed. To her, that kiss had been meaningful.
He wished he could remember it.
And he wished, for the hundredth time—or maybe the thousandth—that their circumstances were different. That he wasn't a social outcast. Because he wanted her in the worst way, but he knew, without a doubt, just how much their association would affect not only her sisters, but herself.
She was sweet and loyal, but also so damned idealistic. And naïve. Idealistic and naïve the way only a sheltered female raised in a peer's household could be. All the sorrow she'd faced in her young life didn't change the fact that she'd grown up in the bosom of a large, loving family—a family that was unquestionably part of society's elite. She'd never known isolation, never faced disapproval, never walked into a room and felt the chill of icy gazes that stared right through her. Never had whispers behind her back sound louder than the voices in her own head.
And now that he'd kissed her again, he feared the voices in her head might be telling her an alliance between them could be possible.
Cursing under his breath, he set to removing the first bolt. Damn this ridiculous affliction. Not only had it suddenly reappeared, it seemed to be getting worse. He'd never before kissed anyone while sleepwalking—at least as far as he knew. Usually he just ambled around for a bit—at least as far as he knew—although he'd been known to dress himself and go outdoors on occasion. Once in a while he'd had reports of other activities, but he'd never done anything in his sleep that wasn't a trivial, everyday action.
At least…as far as he knew.
Sometimes he wondered.
TWENTY-ONE
MARCHPANE FRUITS
Take a Pounde of almonds, Blanched and Beaten in a stone mortar, till they begin to come to a fine paste, and then add a Pounde of sifted Sugar and make it into a perfect paste, putting to it now and then
