Angus waved his hands in mock-exasperation. “Enough fussing, boy. I have your mother for that.”
“You call it fussing. I call it love.” His mother laid a hand over his father’s. “And I won’t be made to feel guilty over it.”
“Quite right too, my dear.” Angus lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.
Such displays of affection between the earl and countess were hardly new, but tonight, Tristan had no stomach for them. He bowed again, then tripped down the steps from the dais and beat a hasty retreat from the great hall.
’Twas a great relief to hear the piping music fade once he reached the calm of the entrance hall. More soothing still to step out of the front door into a warm, welcoming evening. Birds twittered from the tree tops and horses whinnied from the paddocks, but these were merely background noises, giving him the space and quiet he needed to think. He took a deep breath and stood for a moment by the fountain, admiring the colourful reflections of the setting sun.
There was beauty enough here to fill his heart with joy, were it not already brimming over with frustration. He had ne’er known rejection to carry such a bitter sting, like a sharpened wedge tunnelling so deep inside him that he could hardly think of anything else.
Out of long habit, Tristan started walking towards the lake, but vivid memories of his last visit there with Mirrie made him swivel around and journey instead to the paddocks. He followed a faint rabbit path towards a group of grazing ponies, who swung their heads towards him and huffed out grass-scented breath over his extended palms. He rubbed their ears and talked to them gently, taking comfort in their kind, intelligent gazes.
It did not seem so long since he and his siblings had ridden on ponies like these, racing one another through the woods and acting out pretend battles with wooden swords and half-sized shields. Frida, he recalled, had been particularly dexterous with her wooden sword.
As he’d recalled up in the school room, on rare occasions, he had successfully persuaded Mirrie to join them, entreating her to sit up behind him on his fleet-footed pony with the reassurance that he would keep her safe.
Which he always had.
She would wrap her arms about his waist and hold on tightly as they galloped through the trees, squealing with excitement. She had enjoyed it, despite her trepidation, just as he’d known she would.
But left to herself, Mirrie would choose to watch their escapades from a distance, keeping herself tucked away, safe from the prospect of harm.
Much as she was doing right now.
Mirrie was going to great lengths to avoid being alone with him. Was it because she was avoiding temptation?
Tristan teased out the tangles in a particularly coarse mane as the pony grazed contentedly. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure this was right. He couldn’t deny a grudging acknowledgement of the sense in this. It showed great self-discipline, but then, she had always been one for forethought and rationality.
Tristan gave the ponies a last pat before moving away. It didn’t matter what he did or where he went, his thoughts endlessly circled back to Mirrie.
Hell’s teeth, how was it he had only just noticed how pretty she was? Not in a sisterly way, but in a way that seemed designed with him in mind. They had always been friends, good friends. He had long thought of her as one of a worryingly small group of people who he could rely on to be unfailingly honest with him. In his sphere, flatterers and panderers were frequent, even amongst those he counted among his closest companions. Truth-telling was a rare gift.
And Mirrie had given it in abundance.
Tristan’s evening walk had done him no favours at all. He was more out of sorts on his return than he had been watching Mirrie walk away from him in the great hall. Only one resolution shone through the tangled mess of his thoughts.
I must woo her.
And what better occasion than the midsummer ball, on the morrow?
Deep in contemplation, Tristan was oblivious to the bustle and excited chatter coming from the stable yard. ’Twas not until Esme barrelled into him, brightly-coloured ribbons flying out behind her, that he realised his siblings had arrived.
“Are you not going to greet us, Tris?”
“Esme.” He embraced his sister, who seemed to grow more lovely with every day that passed. “Did you have a pleasant journey?” He noticed the carriage that had come to rest in theyard. Trunks were being unloaded from the back and Jonah’s blond head bobbed about in the crowd of grooms and stableboys who had rushed out to help.
“Indeed we did not. One of our horses went lame at Belford and we were obliged to take shelter at Rossfarne Castle for what felt like an age. We should have been here in time for dinner.”
“I am sure some food will be found for you,” Tristan observed. “Why did you come by carriage? ’Tis much quicker to ride over the moors.” He bent closer to her ear and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell me that Jonah pleaded some frailty? He can ride as well as you or I.”
“Nay, brother, ’twas not for Jonah’s sake we took the carriage.” Esme raised her finely shaped eyebrows. “We had company,” she added in a whisper.
“Who?” Tristan was intrigued.
Esme took his arm and turned them both around in time to meet Jonah and a tall, brown-haired man who was walking uneasily by his side.
“Allow me to introduce my brother,” she chirped prettily. “Lord Tristan de Neville, this is David Bryce. He’s a physician recently come to the village near Ember Hall.”
