“Anne happens to be involved in the stables, and I—I regret speaking.”
Tristan burst into laughter. “You used to refer to every woman in your life with strategic distance. ‘Her Grace,’ ‘Lady Whoever,’ vague gestures toward emotional avoidance. Now, it is simply Anne.”
Dorian fell quiet.
That alone seemed to amuse Tristan further. Then, after a moment, his expression softened just slightly beneath the teasing.
“You care for her,” he said.
The words landed with more weight than the rest of the conversation.
Dorian leaned back in his chair, quieter than before. “It is not that simple.”
Tristan’s smile faded into something more knowing. “No,” he murmured. “I imagine it stopped being simple quite some time ago.”
Dorian exhaled quietly and took a sip of his drink, as though patience alone might carry him through the conversation. “You are becoming tiresome.”
“You defend her constantly.”
“That is because she is often correct.”
“You look offended when anyone questions her. It is fascinating. You, of all people, are behaving like a husband.”
“Iama husband.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Our marriage remains practical.”
Tristan gave him a long look.
Dorian knew exactly what that look meant, and he did not know how to proceed. He did not want to talk about his wife, even if she was all he could truly think about. He had to admit that it was partly because he did not like having other people commenting on their marriage.
“You say that,” Tristan said, “yet somehow every practical conversation turns into you discussing Anne.”
“I discuss the estate.”
“You discuss how she improved the estate.”
“She has. You are reading far too much into ordinary circumstances.”
Tristan let out a laugh. “Ordinary circumstances?” He leaned forward slightly. “You once spent three months incapable of remembering the name of a woman you were supposedly enchanted by.”
Dorian looked away, the noise of the club swelling around them. Racing patrons gathered near the fire, landowners exchanged stories they had certainly told before, and somewhere behind them, a card game had grown loud enough to suggest someone was losing badly.
Tristan followed his gaze briefly before looking back at him.
“Oh, this is dreadful,” he said quietly.
Dorian glanced at him. “What is?”
“You miss her.”
“I do not,” Dorian replied immediately.
“You are thinking about home.”
“I am thinking about the meetings we have.”
