Tristan didn’t wait long before he started after Mirrie, his long legs taking the familiar steps two at a time. He didn’t care that people were watching him from the entrance hall.
He would not be made a cuckold in his own castle.
He caught up with her just before she turned the corner into the corridor that led to her bedchamber. Up here, the noise of the ball hardly permeated. It was as if they had entered a small, private world, where candles emitted a flickering light and peace prevailed.
“Mirrie,” he called.
She paused for a moment, before ploughing on without even glancing behind her. Tristan increased his pace, sensing instinctively that if she reached her bedchamber, she would bolt her door against him, and there would be no chance to speak with her before morning. Mirrie also broke into a run, but she was hampered by long skirts and he was more determined to meet his goal.
“Why are you running from me?” He put a hand on her door handle to prevent her from turning it. His breathing was fast and heavy, which only increased his exasperation.
Mirrie was also breathing hard. Her eyes were pink, he noted, as if she had been crying.
“I am running because I hoped to avoid this conversation.” She folded her arms and took a step away from him.
“And why have you been crying?” he asked steadily.
She looked away and tightened her lips, causing his frustrations to give way entirely to concern. Nothing mattered more than Mirrie’s happiness.
“Because I am a fool.”
A beat of silence fell between them. Tristan shook his head. “Nay, you are no such thing.”
Mirrie glanced up at him and the pain in her hazel eyes made him wince.
“I am sorry if I was the one to make you feel that way,” he added, in a rush. “Why did you leave the ball? I thought we were going to talk.”
Mirrie’s laugh was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “I apologise, Tristan. I should have been more specific.”
“What do you mean?” He fought against lowering his brows, choosing instead to flatten his back against the smooth wood of Mirrie’s door and stretch his legs in front of him. “Tell me,” he prompted.
She chewed on her lip, gazing at the floor to the left of his booted feet. “When you asked if we could talk, I thought you meant straight away.”
He didn’t follow. “We were about to dance.”
Mirrie’s face screwed up with impatience. “After the dance.”
“You are cross because I took a moment to say hello to an old friend?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I am cross because you left my side to keep company with your mistress.”
Her words struck him like an arrow through the heart. He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.
Mirrie knows more of the world than I realised.
Mayhap she knows more ofmethan I would like.
“Heaven help me.” She sank to her knees, hugging herself as if she had been wounded. Her voice wobbled. “I was right.”
Tristan was filled with contrition. He sank to the floor beside her. “Susannah was once my mistress, that is correct,” he said, humbly. “But not for some time now.”
Mirrie sniffed, keeping her face turned resolutely away from him. “I believe she would like to be reinstated.”
He couldn’t keep from chuckling at her dry tone, but he quickly sobered. “That may be true. But these things require the consent of both parties.” Greatly daring, he reached out and ran a finger down the curve of her cheek, causing her to turn to face him.
“And you do not give your consent?”
“I do not. Not to her. Not ever again.” He shuffled closer to her, finding her hands amidst her rumpled skirts and intertwining their fingers. As always, a frisson of connection fizzed through him as his skin made contact with hers.
