A Daring Pursuit (Ruthless Rivals #2)

Chapter 1.

Lady Carys Davies dressed to meet her blackmailer in the same way she dressed for every other social occasion; scandalously.

Her clothes were both her armor and her weapons, and although outright murder—however justified—was out of the question, there was still a slim hope that her outfit would induce a fatal apoplexy in her tormentor, Christopher Howe.

If the sight of her near-naked figure also managed to spur a reaction from the terminally laconic Tristan Montgomery . . . well, that would be a delightful, if unlikely, bonus.

Tongues were already wagging as she and her brother Rhys paused at the top of the steps leading into the ballroom. Rhys sent her a cheeky sideways grin.

“You’re causing a sensation.”

His tone was amused, indulgent, and Carys felt a familiar flash of gratitude for her easy-going sibling.

“That’s the plan,” she whispered back, smiling through her teeth. “What’s the point in going to a party and being ignored?”

Exhale. Calm. Smile.

This was the Carys Davies who appeared in public; carefree and delightful, a trend-setter who cared for nobody’s opinion but her own. No-one could guess that on the inside she was besieged by panic and uncertainty. Not even her brothers.

Especially not them.

The three of them thought she relished setting the fashionable world on its heels, but that wasn’t entirely true. Tonight’s outfit—indeed, every outfit she’d worn for the past two seasons—had been carefully calculated to provide a distraction. If she could keep people talking about her dress, or undress, in this case, then nobody would start asking awkward questions like, “Why haven’t you chosen a husband yet?”

Carys spied her best friend, Frances Roque, and tugged at Rhys’s arm. “There’s Frances. Come on.”

The room was a rainbow swirl of costumes. Nuns and friars squashed up against shepherdesses and chimneysweeps. Several people, like herself, had come dressed as characters from classical antiquity. Three vestal virgins giggled in a corner with a knight in full armor, and a man she recognized as Lord Burlington was Bacchus, with a wreath of vine leaves circling his head.

Her own outfit was still the most remarkable. The sheer white fabric left one shoulder bare and draped, Grecian-style, diagonally across her chest before flowing in liquid pleats to the floor. The wide silver belt encircling her waist matched the quiver of arrows on her back, and the crescent moon nestled in her hair, surrounded by a galaxy of bobbing silvery stars.

It was the transparency of the material that had everyone whispering behind their fans; was that naked skin they glimpsed whenever she moved? Was that a nipple?

In truth, her outfit was a masterpiece of tease and innuendo. Madame de Tourville, her dressmaker, had fashioned a skin-toned under-dress; Carys was more fully clothed than almost every other woman in the room, but the dress gave the appearance of being scandalously translucent. She could already see several men squinting in a vain attempt to see through the fabric.

Her smile widened as she and Rhys made their way through the crowd.

“Looking ravishing, Aphrodite!” Lord Caseby brayed, bowing low over her hand.

Carys extricated herself with a trilling laugh before her could kiss her bare knuckles.

“What a delightful Athena,” Colonel Brant smiled, his monocle fogging up as he lifted it to his bloodshot eye.

Carys gave him her best eyelash flutter and deftly escaped.

Frances was dressed as a flower seller, with a wooden tray filled with posies suspended from a ribbon around her neck. Her forehead wrinkled as she greeted Carys. “Are you supposed to be Minerva?”

“Diana. Goddess of the hunt and the moon.”

“Ah. That explains the stars.” Frances eyed her elaborate coiffeur with a smile. “How have you got them to bounce around like that?”

“Each one’s on a wire, pinned into my hair.” Carys shook her head, and the halo of metallic spots shimmered like a shoal of silvery fishes.

“Clever. But please tell me you have something on under that dress.”

“Perfume?” Carys teased.

Rhys chuckled at her side. “I’m off to the card room. Try and stay out of trouble. And if you can’t be good, be careful.”

“I think that’s the unofficial Davies motto,” Carys laughed, waving him off.

“You know what I mean,” Frances dropped her voice. “Unmentionables.”

Carys lowered her own voice to the same theatrical whisper. “If you mean, am I wearing a corset, and a chemise, and drawers, then yes, of course I am.”

Frances exhaled audibly. “Oh, thank goodness. You’re treading very close to the line, you know.”

“Pfft. There are plenty of other risqué outfits here.”

“Not on single women. It’s all very well for married ladies and widows to wear something so provocative, but you don’t have the protection of a husband’s name.”

“Nor do I want one,” Carys said stoutly. “Hence my choice of Diana. She, too, swore never to wed.”

Frances shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’ve developed this aversion to marriage. At school we used to giggle about the men we’d choose. What changed?”

“I actually met some men,” Carys said dryly.

Frances rolled her eyes. “They’re not all bad. You can’t still be peeved because Christopher Howe proposed to Victoria Jennings? That was almost two years ago.”

Carys hid her instinctive grimace. “I promise you, I’m not. Victoria’s welcome to him.”

That was the truth. She’d thought Howe handsome once, but now the idea of meeting him left her nauseous. Unfortunately, his summons tonight was one she couldn’t refuse.

“What about Lord Ellington?” Frances murmured. “He’s nice.”

“He is nice. I just don’t feel ready to marry yet.”

Maybe not ever, thanks to Howe.

“Your perfect match is out there somewhere,” Frances said confidently. “You’ll find him, just like I found James.”

Frances was head-over-heels in love with a cavalry officer named James Sinclair. They’d been courting for almost three months, and everyone expected a proposal very soon.

“Who knows,” Frances smiled dreamily. “Maybe your future husband’s here, at this very party?”

“And maybe pigs will fly.”

Frances shrugged. “Hmm. Now that Gryff’s married Madeline Montgomery, do you think that’ll be the end of the Davies-Montgomery feud?”

Carys snorted. “I doubt it. Five hundred years of adversity isn’t going to be smoothed over by one little wedding. It’s like the Wars of the Roses, only worse.”

“I thought a wedding ended the Wars of the Roses? Henry Tudor’s mother was Lancastrian, so when he married a York princess it united the two families and stopped all the bloodshed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of bloodshed,” Carys muttered. “It keeps things interesting.”

“Maybe Gryff marrying Maddie will heal the rift?”

Carys sent her a pitying glance. “That’s what I love about you, Frances. You’re such an optimist. I predict things will only get worse.”

“Why?”

“Because now there are even more opportunities for Davies and Montgomerys to be in close proximity. Gryff and Maddie’s house party at the end of the month is a case in point. It’s bad enough when we’re miles apart with a river between us. But Gryff’s invited all the Montgomerys to Trellech Court every day for a whole week, to take part in the activities.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? An olive branch?”

“It’s a naked flame to a keg of gunpowder.”

Frances took a delicate sniff at one of the posies from her tray. “I expect Tristan will be there.”

Carys frowned at her carefully innocent tone. Frances might be blissfully unaware of her problems with Christopher Howe, but she knew all about Carys’ long-standing obsession with her sardonic country neighbor. “I suppose he will. What of it?”

“I always thought you and he would make a good couple. If you weren’t sworn enemies, of course.”

Carys couldn’t contain her splutter of shock. “Me? And Tristan? Are you mad? Where did you come up with that idea?”

“I’ve seen you with him,” Frances said simply. “You smile at other men, but with Tristan you glow. It’s like you come alive in his presence. You’re the fire to his ice.”

“That’s awfully poetic,” Carys managed, trying to hide her shock at being so suddenly exposed. She’d forgotten how perceptive her old friend could be. “But nothing will ever happen between Tristan and me. He just likes having someone to disapprove of, that’s all. After Bonaparte, I’m his next favorite opponent.”

Frances shrugged. “Well, maybe there will be some other nice single men at the house party?”

Carys opened her mouth to protest, but Frances spoke again before she could interrupt.

“Oh, I know you flirt with every man between the ages of seven and seventy, but you don’t take any of them seriously. There are some good men out there, Carys. Promise you’ll try to find one you could be happy with. As I am with James.”

Frances was looking at her with such starry-eyed enthusiasm that Carys didn’t have the heart to disillusion her by revealing the ugliness of her situation with Howe. She sent her dear friend a bright smile instead.

“All right. For you, my love, I’ll try. Although I strongly suspect you’ve bagged the only decent man in England.”

Frances glanced across the room and her face creased into a smile. “Oh, look, there he is! With Tristan Montgomery.”

Carys’ heart began to pound, but she forced herself not to swirl around and look. She turned slowly, bracing herself for her first glance. Looking at Tristan was like leaping into a frigid Welsh stream: one had to prepare.

Her pulse gave an irregular little flutter as she located his imposing figure standing alongside Frances’ beau. The two men were complete opposites. James was perpetually jolly, with a ready smile and floppy brown hair that was always getting in his eyes. Endlessly affable, he reminded Carys of a spaniel; always pleased to see you, full of constant, bounding energy. His ruddy complexion spoke of exhausting outdoor pursuits like riding and cricket.

Tristan, in contrast, was stillness, calm control. His cynical blue eyes missed nothing, but gave little hint as to what he might be thinking.

As ever, he looked faintly bored, as if all this unnecessary exuberance was keeping him from doing something more important, like redesigning the world into a more orderly place. His tall frame was relaxed and elegant, but the power in the muscles beneath his dark evening jacket was unmistakable.

He was a paradox of a man; harsh, rigid features, lips made for sin. Glacial eyes that somehow made her burn.

Quite why she was so desperate for Tristan’s approval was a mystery. As Rhys said, she should content herself with her scores of other admirers, but there was something so deliciously unattainable about Tristan. His cool reserve was a challenge she couldn’t ignore.

It was probably because everyone else thought she was charming and witty, and he was the sole anomaly. The idea of getting him to smile, or to look at her with anything other than slightly sardonic amusement, occupied far too much of her time.

She had to admit she enjoyed their long-standing adversity. Goading him had always been her favorite thing to do. If, as Frances had always maintained, the world required balance, then surely Tristan’s cool, logical existence was needed to counteract her own hot-headed frivolity. Who knew what might happen if the two of them ever agreed on something? The sky would probably fall down.

Tristan’s hands, with their long fingers and broad palms, had always held a particular fascination. Carys could well imagine them holding a pencil to sketch out one of his architectural wonders.

Or sliding over her skin. . .

No!

He’d barely spoken to her during last month’s wedding, when his sister Maddie had married her eldest brother Gryff. He’d never touched her with anything but the most impersonal contact. A steadying hand on her arm when she’d ‘accidentally’ bumped into him at a soiree a few weeks ago. The briefest brush of his shoulder against hers as they’d walked down the aisle—before they’d peeled off to sit on opposite sides of the pews.

Carys had worn a sage green gown for the wedding, the most demure thing she’d worn for ages, but demure clearly hadn’t appealed to Tristan. She was beginning to think no version of herself would tempt him.

Still, perhaps brazen Carys would have more luck in piercing his displeasure tonight?

Chapter 2.

Tristan Montgomery tried very hard to keep his attention on his best friend, James Sinclair, and not on the scandalous appearance of Lady Carys Davies on the opposite side of the ballroom.

The merest glimpse of her, standing like some semi-clad goddess at the top of the stairs, had been enough to stop his heart and send a hot flare of outrage—it was definitely outrage—sweeping through his body.

He’d spent a large part of his twenty-seven years perfecting the art of ignoring her, of appearing cool and indifferent to her inflammatory presence when his entire being prickled with awareness whenever they were in the same room.

He gave in to the temptation to look again.

Who was she supposed to be, for God’s sake? Lady Godiva?

Her dress was as sheer as a whisper, as if Botticelli’s Venus had stepped out of her giant shell and donned a chemise made of spiderwebs. She might as well have been naked, for all the coverage the material provided. Her breasts, shimmering with silver-flecked powder, rose above the daringly low neckline like an offering to the gods.

What were her brothers thinking, to allow her to expose herself in public like this? There wasn’t a man in the entire ballroom who wasn’t wondering what it would be like to inspect those incredible curves at closer range.

Tristan fought the urge to push his way through her throng of admirers, throw a cloak around her near-naked shoulders, and bundle her out into his carriage.

Quite what he’d do with her then, he didn’t know.

Spank her for her foolishness, probably. Someone needed to take the girl in hand.

Heat rose on his skin and he curled his fingers into a fist.

No. No spanking. Bad idea. Touching her would be a terrible mistake. He wouldn’t lay a hand on her. He would simply give her a strongly-worded dressing down.

That was such a stupid phrase. Dressing-down. What did it even mean? She was only wearing a few scraps of muslin. If she dressed-down any further she’d be naked—

“Tristan, are you even listening to me?”

James’s amused tones finally penetrated his racing brain. “Sorry. I was just marveling at that red-haired hellion’s nerve.” He made a disapproving clucking sound with his tongue. “Her brothers give her far too much leeway.”

“Yes, it amazes me that she and Frances are such friends. They’re complete opposites.”

Tristan frowned. Carys’ deep red hair was decorated with what looked like a swarm of metallic bees. Her freckled nose was too small to balance out the generous width of her smile, and her green eyes flashed as she tossed her head back and laughed at something Frances said.

His chest tightened unpleasantly.

“I’d like some time alone with Frances,” James murmured. “Can you keep Carys company while we’re gone? I’ll meet you back in the card room in fifteen minutes.”

Tristan suppressed a groan. Dear God, the last thing he wanted was increased exposure to the woman. It was hard enough pretending he wasn’t aware of the precise moment she walked into a room. Hard enough to keep his hands by his sides, or holding a glass, when all he wanted to do was touch that glorious molten hair to see if it would singe him as much as the clash of their gazes did.

He knew it would, and playing with fire was such a mistake.

He sent James a resigned smile. “Of course.”