take such an interest in my marriage,” Bennet went on. “I don’t need funds, and I like my life the way it is now. What could I possibly gain by marrying?”
Tristan thought about it. What did marriage offer a man? “Security,” he said at last. “If your fortune, or your father’s, should suffer reverses, you’d have a harder time finding a wealthy bride. If you begin now, you’re more likely to have your pick of the girls.”
“Reverses,” scoffed Bennet. “Even I’m not daft enough to wager away too much blunt. And I’d rather economize than take on a wife who would be nattering in my ear all day and night about something. No, this is all a mania of my mother’s, and I won’t be cozened into it.”
“Right,” said Tristan, hardly paying attention. “Good man.” His eye had caught the arrival, at long last, of the Fury. She was tall enough to stand out in the crowd, especially with that feather in her hair. “Go tell her that.”
Bennet jerked upright. “Mother’s here? Thank God. The sooner I dance with the girl she favors, the sooner I can leave.”
That didn’t quite sound like making a stand against Lady Bennet’s manipulations, but Tristan forbore to mention it. He watched Bennet charge through the crowd like a bull. His sister had already detached herself from the slim older woman who must be her mother. Tristan tracked the bobbing plume in her hair, wondering what made women want to look like half-plucked ostriches. She soon joined a group of other young ladies, barely visible to him even though he could see over most heads in the room. His mouth thinned, and he drank half the wine in his glass without tasting it. Another thing he’d forgotten: females usually roamed in packs. He wanted to confront her in private.
He watched her through several dances, one of which was a long country reel. Footmen passed him with trays of drink, and he absently exchanged his empty glass for a full one. The claret was slightly more palatable than the burgundy, though not by much. Belatedly it struck him that she wasn’t dancing. Her companions were escorted into the dance a few times, but she stayed where she was, apparently from lack of partner more than lack of interest; he could see the feather swaying in time with the music. Most likely she would sharpen her tongue on any man brave enough to ask her to dance, but Tristan vaguely remembered that dancing was important to most women.
Before he had much time to wonder if he should pity her, she finally—at long last—turned and headed out of the room with another young lady. Tristan snapped to attention and set down his now empty wineglass. As if he needed further proof this woman was trouble, he’d drunk two . . . or perhaps even three . . . glasses of lackluster wine without realizing it, all because she distracted him.
He wound his way through the other guests, ignoring the hushed whispers and surreptitious glances in his wake. The room was long but relatively narrow, and by the time he reached the door, Miss Bennet had disappeared. For a moment he paused, listening, then turned in the direction of female voices. Brilliant; he could lie in wait for her outside the ladies’ retiring room.
A private parlor at the end of a long corridor had been made available to the ladies, and was occupied by several of them, to judge from the sounds of conversation and laughter. Not wanting to just stand there waiting for her to emerge, Tristan tried a nearby door and found it unlocked. He stepped into a small music room, lit by two lamps on the side table behind the harp. He left the door ajar, so as not to miss her, and strolled over to the table. The lamps caught his eye; they were made of a design he’d never seen before. It was similar to an Argand lamp, but more delicate. Intrigued, Tristan bent down to study it more closely, and then went down on one knee to see the underside. How did the wick draw from that oil reservoir?
“At last,” trilled
Tristan thought about it. What did marriage offer a man? “Security,” he said at last. “If your fortune, or your father’s, should suffer reverses, you’d have a harder time finding a wealthy bride. If you begin now, you’re more likely to have your pick of the girls.”
“Reverses,” scoffed Bennet. “Even I’m not daft enough to wager away too much blunt. And I’d rather economize than take on a wife who would be nattering in my ear all day and night about something. No, this is all a mania of my mother’s, and I won’t be cozened into it.”
“Right,” said Tristan, hardly paying attention. “Good man.” His eye had caught the arrival, at long last, of the Fury. She was tall enough to stand out in the crowd, especially with that feather in her hair. “Go tell her that.”
Bennet jerked upright. “Mother’s here? Thank God. The sooner I dance with the girl she favors, the sooner I can leave.”
That didn’t quite sound like making a stand against Lady Bennet’s manipulations, but Tristan forbore to mention it. He watched Bennet charge through the crowd like a bull. His sister had already detached herself from the slim older woman who must be her mother. Tristan tracked the bobbing plume in her hair, wondering what made women want to look like half-plucked ostriches. She soon joined a group of other young ladies, barely visible to him even though he could see over most heads in the room. His mouth thinned, and he drank half the wine in his glass without tasting it. Another thing he’d forgotten: females usually roamed in packs. He wanted to confront her in private.
He watched her through several dances, one of which was a long country reel. Footmen passed him with trays of drink, and he absently exchanged his empty glass for a full one. The claret was slightly more palatable than the burgundy, though not by much. Belatedly it struck him that she wasn’t dancing. Her companions were escorted into the dance a few times, but she stayed where she was, apparently from lack of partner more than lack of interest; he could see the feather swaying in time with the music. Most likely she would sharpen her tongue on any man brave enough to ask her to dance, but Tristan vaguely remembered that dancing was important to most women.
Before he had much time to wonder if he should pity her, she finally—at long last—turned and headed out of the room with another young lady. Tristan snapped to attention and set down his now empty wineglass. As if he needed further proof this woman was trouble, he’d drunk two . . . or perhaps even three . . . glasses of lackluster wine without realizing it, all because she distracted him.
He wound his way through the other guests, ignoring the hushed whispers and surreptitious glances in his wake. The room was long but relatively narrow, and by the time he reached the door, Miss Bennet had disappeared. For a moment he paused, listening, then turned in the direction of female voices. Brilliant; he could lie in wait for her outside the ladies’ retiring room.
A private parlor at the end of a long corridor had been made available to the ladies, and was occupied by several of them, to judge from the sounds of conversation and laughter. Not wanting to just stand there waiting for her to emerge, Tristan tried a nearby door and found it unlocked. He stepped into a small music room, lit by two lamps on the side table behind the harp. He left the door ajar, so as not to miss her, and strolled over to the table. The lamps caught his eye; they were made of a design he’d never seen before. It was similar to an Argand lamp, but more delicate. Intrigued, Tristan bent down to study it more closely, and then went down on one knee to see the underside. How did the wick draw from that oil reservoir?
“At last,” trilled
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