How could she, when the merest hint of his boyish smile had the power to send her pulse pounding?
But what he asked of her was wrong. She could not lie to Morwenna and Angus; two people who had loved and raised her like one of their own.
Nor could she risk the secrets of her own heart, which she had hidden away so carefully that no one—not even Frida, her closest friend—suspected their true strength.
“Mirrie,” Tristan whispered. He lowered his head closer to hers and she resisted the urge to close her eyes whilst inhaling his familiar scent of woodsmoke and pine. “Please.”
He tightened his grip on her hands, running his thumbs gently across her fingers and sending a delicious tingle up her spine. Her heart beat so loudly beneath her plain woollen gown he surely must hear it.
Her plain woollen gown. That was what she must concentrate on: the difference between her muted attire and the exquisite embroidery on Tristan’s emerald green tunic. SurelyLord Tristan de Neville, even for a ruse, could not court a woman who sewed her own stockings.
Nor could he publicly proclaim affection for a near-penniless spinster who had already seen as many as five and twenty summers. ’Twas a ridiculous notion, and one that no one would believe.
“There are so many others you could choose,” she managed to say. “More suitable than I.”
“Ah, but none that I would rather spend time with,” he countered easily. “Think of it. We will have to dance together, ride out together, sit together of an evening.” He shrugged his muscular shoulders, making Mirrie’s breath hitch in her throat. “Forsooth, it will be tiresome. And ’tis a lot to ask of you, to be so much in my company.”
Mirrie floundered to find a suitable response. Tristan was offering up her wildest dreams on a platter. But the banquet was just an illusion, and she would be left all the hungrier once it was snatched away from her.
With the greatest effort, she dragged her gaze to one side and focused on the familiar view of rolling green fields glimpsed through the open window. It had been several summers since she had fled—aye, that wasn’t too strong a word—to Ember Hall so she could escape the tumult of emotion she experienced whenever Tristan came near. That swirling sensation which even now gripped her insides was so contrary to her otherwise practical nature. It struck at the foundations of the orderly, peaceful life she had toiled to build.
“In truth, the two of you make an attractive couple.”
Esme’s observation made Mirrie start with surprise. For a moment she had forgotten that there was anyone else in the room with them.
But there was. Not only Esme, but Callum and Jonah too. And Frida would be back at any moment. Mirrie was making a fool of herself before all of the golden-hued de Nevilles.
Tristan turned to his sister with an impish smile. “And why should we not?” He tucked Mirrie’s hand into the crook of his arm. “The lovely Mirabel Duval will wed Tristan de Neville. Who would question it?” He patted her hand with brotherly affection.
Aye. Brotherly affection, while her whole being flamed for him.
Fortunately, Mirrie was well used to hiding her true feelings for the first son and heir of her illustrious guardian.
“I could not countenance deceiving your parents.” Her voice wobbled at the very idea. Morwenna, the Countess of Wolvesley, had been kindness itself to Mirrie since she first came to Wolvesley Castle as a frightened orphan. Mirrie could no more look into her intelligent green eyes and utter a falsehood than she could draw a sword against an advancing army.
Tristan glanced down at her. Was that a flash of disappointment across his handsome face? Her stomach twisted at the possibility.
“What if I am the one to handle the deception?” Tristan ruffled a hand through his hair and ignored Jonah’s ill-concealed bark of laughter. “You will not have to say anything that is not true.”
Mirrie chewed on her lower lip. “But you said that your lady would break your heart.” She turned to Jonah, who gazed up at them from his favourite over-stuffed chair by the empty fireplace. “Was that not the plan?”
Jonah shrugged, his face alight with merriment. “The plan can evolve as you see fit.”
Drat him.
Since childhood, Mirrie had been Jonah’s champion. The only one to have patience with a fragile little boy who walkedwith a limp and hid his anxieties behind a scowl and a sharp attitude. But right now, she could have cheerfully throttled him. Why was he so intent on bundling Mirrie back to Wolvesley? On Tristan’s arm, no less? Suspicion flared within her.
Is he up to something?
Perchance so, but she had little time to ponder it because Tristan was speaking again, enthusiasm rippling through his deep voice.
“I will speak to my parents of my newly-discovered love for you and our intent to wed.” Tristan gripped her arm tightly. “And once Father is well and the danger has passed, I will take the blame for the end of our relationship.” He smiled, as if all this were no more than a game to him. “You can return to your life here at Ember Hall. I will spend some days in disgrace, no doubt. But time will pass and soon enough everyone will forget all about it.”
Her stomach plunged. Mayhap everyone would forget. Everyone buther.
“Seriously, Mirrie, you have to agree to this.” Esme danced forward, barefoot and blithely unaware of the pretty picture she made. Her loose-fitting summer kirtle floated above her slender ankles and her golden-blonde hair shone like a halo in the dappled sunlight. She took Mirrie’s free hand, the one not held captive by Tristan, and squeezed it entreatingly. “It would be such bliss to return to Wolvesley and, just for once, to not be my parents’ most disappointing child.”
Jonah tutted from his chair, waving his goblet to attract her attention. “I think you will find me the proper holder of that title.”
