“Nay, e’er since you took up residence at Ember Hall, Mother can’t speak highly enough of you.” Esme pursed her lips, dismissively. “She is forever reciting your poetry to anyone who will listen.”
“Really?” Jonah leaned forward, spilling a little wine in the process. “Is that true?”
“We are getting away from the subject,” Tristan interjected, shouldering Esme aside and taking both of Mirrie’s hands in his own. He walked them both a few steps away from the huddle of chairs before gazing down at her entreatingly. “Will you be my betrothed?”
“God’s bones, what is happening here?”
Frida had arrived back in the great hall in time to hear Tristan’s proposal. She now stood in the arched doorway, both hands pressed to her heart above the visible bump of her belly.
“Did I hear what I think I heard?” Her blue eyes swung from her brother to her friend.
“You did,” declared Tristan, at the same time as Mirrie spoke up in denial.
“’Tis all a ruse, Frida. To deceive your parents.”
Mirrie breathed deeply, projecting an air of calm whilst inside she was a nauseating combination of nerves, excitement and frustration. For more than ten years she had dreamed of Tristan, tall and strong, holding her hands and gazing into her eyes with such reverence.
Though she had ne’er been so befuddled as to imagine an actual proposal. Mirrie believed in keeping her feet on the ground, even in her wildest fancies.
Which was why she must put an end to this fancy right now, before it caused her tender heart any permanent damage. If only she could find the right words to do so. Mirrie did not excel at thinking and acting in haste.
“My, that actually has the makings of a credible plan. Was it your idea, Tristan?” Frida walked slowly in the room, her face screwed up in consideration.
“’Twas mine,” Jonah put in.
“We have all given our approval.” Esme sank down to the floor, her brightly coloured skirts gathering elegantly around her as she fondled the silken ears of the hound. “All except Callum, I believe.”
Callum was ever the voice of reason. Like Mirrie, he stood out amongst the circle of golden-haired, blue-eyed de Nevilles. Mirrie loved them all fiercely, but sometimes she wondered if being born to the wealthiest parents in the land, and blessed with such luminous beauty, made them blind to the everyday realities most people had to endure. Callum was different. He’d lost his mother at a tender age and latterly faced conflict with his father. He knew what it was to go through life alone, without a protective barrier of fabled charm and family support.Will he come to my aid?
But Callum had no knowledge of her true feelings for Tristan.
Nor had he e’er experienced the sharp sting of unrequited love. He and Frida had been equally smitten with one another from the first time they met.
Mirrie bit down on her lip. She could not expect any help from that quarter.
Sure enough, Callum merely spread his calloused palms and smiled genially at the family group. “’Tis not for me to approve or disapprove.”
“There we are then,” Esme decreed. “It is settled.”
“No, it isn’t.” Jonah leaned back into the comfort of his chair and crossed his breeches-clad legs. “Mirrie has yet to accept Tristan’s proposal.”
She must remain composed. She must not allow the treacherous blush gathering beneath her smock to turn her redder than a red apple.
Mirrie flicked back her hair, affecting nonchalance. “There is naught for me to accept, for it was not an honest proposal.”
Esme and Jonah sighed dramatically, but Tristan only nodded.
“You are a woman who deals only in truth and honesty. I have always admired this about you.”
Merciful heaven, this was no way to steady her blushes.
“Allow me to ask again.” He leaned closer, making it well-nigh impossible for Mirrie to hold on to her composure. Her heart beat so hard she thought her tightly-laced kirtle might snap open. “Will you accompany me back to Wolvesley? Will you sit with me at dinner and allow everyone present to believe we are in love?”
Her throat went dry. Tristan’s face was so near she could make out the upwards sweep of his thick eyelashes. A pulse beat at his neck, just above the edge of his tunic. He was tanned from long days of riding in the sun. If she allowed her eyes to travel further, she would see the hard lines of his powerful shoulders, dipping down into the arms she had always wanted to hold her.
“Will you dance with me at the midsummer ball?” he added, his voice low and gravelly.
“You always loved dancing at the Wolvesley balls,” Esme spoke up, as if this settled the matter.
