It had all been so much worse than she had feared.
Ne’er should she have allowed Tristan to break down the barriers around her heart.
She could only blame herself. He had promised merely an honest conversation, not a declaration of commitment. ’Twas her own fancies that had conjured the romance between them. And her own overblown emotions that were now summoning near hysteria over such a trifling event. But when Tristan turned away from her, toward the beautiful, wealthy woman, it had underlined to her the hopelessness of wishing for more.
Tristan was not meant for her.
And he never would be.
“Stupid woman,” she muttered aloud, straightening her shoulders and dabbing at her eyes with her gloves. She could not return to the keep with red eyes and blotchy cheeks. Just how much of a laughingstock did she want to be?
The night air was blessedly warm, with a slight breeze that mussed her hair like a caress. She had no cause to return immediately; no wish, for sure, to re-enter the great hall. She could walk about the grounds. Or she could simply stay here, releasing her woes to the cold reflections of the fountain.
Mirrie leaned over to better judge her reflection. The night was too dark for details—lit only by stars and the blazing torches affixed to the outside of the keep—so the shimmering pool of water showed the blurred outline of an elegantly dressed young woman. An attractive young woman, even. One who might deserve a dance with a handsome man.
She removed a glove, dipped her hand into the cold water and swirled it around until her reflection dissolved and reformed. Then she splashed some of the water onto her hot cheeks, feeling better for it. Gradually, she came to be more herself; composed and controlled. She dried her hand on her skirts and replaced the glove, thinking more of practicality than appearance.
Much as she would like to stand out here forever, staring into the forgiving waters, she could not.
A more sensible plan would be to announce she had a headache and officially retire to her chamber.
Mirrie took a breath and turned back towards the keep, staggering backwards against the granite bowl of the fountain when she realised she was being watched.
“Forgive me,” said a male voice. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Mirrie put a hand to her heart. The man stood in the shadows and though she recognised the voice, she could not immediately place it.
“To whom do I speak?” she asked.
“’Tis only I, David Bryce.” He came down the final steps until his face was faintly illuminated by a wall torch. “I was wondering if it was you standing there.”
David. The physician from Ember Hall. Mirrie relaxed. He would mean her no harm.
“It is,” she said without thinking. She gave a little laugh. “I mean, ’tis Mirabel.”
“I know,” he said softly. “Are you well, Mirabel?”
“Indeed.” She squared her shoulders, grateful for the dim light which would hide her reddened eyes. “I was only partaking of the night air.”
“’Tis a beautiful night.” He came to a halt, a few paces from her side.
“Are you enjoying the ball?” she asked.
“Wolvesley Castle is as grand and welcoming as I could e’er have imagined. Grander even.” He turned a little so he was looking back at the keep. Lights blazed in the windows whilst music and laughter spilled from the wing containing the great hall. “In truth, Mirrie, I ne’er could have imagined you came from such a place as this.
Mirrie gave an unladylike snort. “I can guess exactly what you mean.”
“Can you?” He swung around to face her so abruptly that she reared back against the stone.
She reached for her composure. “Only that I am sure you have noted that I am happiest at Ember Hall, in surroundings much less grand.”
David came closer. “May I?” He reached for her hand.
Mirrie let him take it, though trepidation was beginning to squeeze at her heart. The granite stone was cold against her dress and the spray from the fountain had begun to wet her hair. It felt like time to go inside.
“Mirabel, I hope you know that I have long admired you,” David said in a rush.
Aye, she knew. Or at least, she had suspected it. But for long days now she had thought of naught but Tristan.
