Tristan sighed ashe sank into the bathtub. He’d scrubbed down prior to descending into the hot soak, grateful for running water and soap, and this delightful brandy his brother kept in stock. He rolled his neck from side to side. Spending a week out in camp made him oddly appreciative of the simplest things: chairs, hot water, padded mattresses. Give him a week amongst these creature comforts, and he would long for the clear skies and campfire once again.
But this felt like its own ecstasy. The camp had gone well. He’d had time to discuss it with his father while they rode in their own train car. The girls had performed well, progressed well, and showed commitment. Tristan did not discuss kissing Eleanor in the woods, as he would not have mentioned it to anyone.
Eleanor had not sought him out again either, which was for the best. She was pretending it hadn’t happened either, for which he was grateful. Was he though? He’d have liked to think his kisses powerful enough to fluster her. Make her weak in the knees. He was not unattractive, and he’d had it on good authority that he was a decent enough kisser, and a superb lover.
For the best, then, that it was only a moment in the woods, and not something more public or more permanent.
There was a discussion of a croquet game on the lawns this afternoon, preceding the ball. Some guests had already arrived, and Herringbone—argh, that was going to be challenging to notcall him that—Arthurwanted to have entertainment available for everyone.
Arthur’s valet, Matthias, had taken the opportunity to lay out a lawn suit for him, which he might as well wear. After a decent soak, finishing the brandy, Tristan dressed himself and headed downstairs.
The day was sunny and unseasonably warm—a surprising gift from the weather. Many guests took afternoon tea on the wide stone veranda, spectating and commenting on a croquet game already in full swing. He joined the table, sitting next to Prudence.
“Where are the other ladies of the expedition?” he asked.
Prudence nodded toward the lawn. Tristan followed her gaze, searching amongst the white dresses until he spotted his sister, Bad News, and finally, Eleanor. She seemed to glow. There was a new air of energy and excitement about her.
Despite his mind protesting, his body reacted. Partly because he had tasted those lips. He’d felt the softness of her body melting into his. He hadn’t taken things further, but his imagination had more than enough information to make the leap of what it would be like to tumble into bed with her.
A man cleared his throat, and Tristan looked up to find Mr. Piper standing next to his chair. Oh God, he was thinking of debauching the man’s daughter as he stood right there. Tristan bolted to his feet. “Mr. Piper.”
“Mr. Bridewell,” the mustachioed man responded. “Delightful view. Delightful place. We’re delighted to be here.”
“And I too, am... delighted.” Tristan looked over Mr. Piper’s shoulder to smile at Mrs. Piper who stood behind him. “Please, have a seat. My brother, Lord Berringbone, is your true host, but I don’t mind filling in.”
They sat, and while Tristan expected Mrs. Piper to take the seat next to him, providing the customary gentleman-lady alternating seating, it was Mr. Piper who sat next to him.
“Before I hear from Eleanor,” Mr. Piper began. “I’d like to hear about how this week went from you. I trust your judgement.”
That’s a poor idea, Tristan thought. His judgement was patently terrible. “Everyone did well. Eleanor was the least prepared for the trials we faced, but she worked hard and achieved the same expectations as everyone else.”
Mr. Piper turned back to Mrs. Piper. “See, Mary? I knew Eleanor would have no trouble fitting right in.”
“But how is her health now?” Mrs. Piper asked.
Tristan gestured to the lawn, where Eleanor pitched her head back in a hearty laugh. It was unladylike, that laugh, but he’d never seen her be so unapologetically joyous before. He longed to go out to the game and see if he could make her laugh like that. “You can see for yourself.”
“Seems to agree with her,” Mr. Piper said, satisfaction evident in his voice.
“She’s lost so much weight in one week,” Mrs. Piper protested.
“We all did,” Tristan said. “We worked very hard out there.”
There was a disapproving sniff by Mrs. Piper, but that was soon drowned out by an appreciative one as a footman placed a tiered sandwich tower in front of them.
Tristan chatted amiably with the Pipers, wondering idly what kind of man they’d prefer for a son-in-law. Would they look for a title for Eleanor? He assumed so—that was what many of the new-money industrialists attempted. It was no secret that Mr. Piper had thought he would receive something from Queen Victoria for his civilian service during the American Civil War.But no such commendation appeared. Social elevation was still available to him should he wed his daughter to a nobleman.
Not a second son, like himself, of course, but to an heir. Like Arthur. The idea of Eleanor marrying Herringbone was... nauseating at best. His bulging eyes would never appreciate the softness of her warm brown hair.
“Excuse me,” Tristan said, on his feet before he realized what he was doing. He couldn’t just sit there. To cover his irrational reaction to his own thoughts, he drifted over to the rest of the table, greeting his brother’s guests.
But there was one guest he didn’t know—a lovely brunette with large blue eyes and a hint of red highlights in her hair. She was in white like all the other ladies, but there was something slightly different about her that Tristan couldn’t quite put his finger on. Ah well, someone would tell him eventually.
Next to her was Lady Emily Welburton. She was plain to look at, with widely spaced eyes like Arthur, but she was well known to be intelligent and pleasant. Both of his sisters seemed to appreciate her company.
“Lady Emily,” he greeted, giving her companion a pointed look.
“Mr. Bridewell, may I please introduce my cousin, Miss Sophia Perkins.”
