Page 12 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

To think that just hours earlier, she had been concerned only with hiding her true feelings for Tristan.

The preoccupation that had haunted her every waking thought since the previous night had now paled into insignificance.

She wanted only to offer comfort to the people she loved. Tristan included.

He had been wrong about his father’s imminent recovery.

She only hoped he was not wrong about this as well.

*

She awoke in her old bedchamber at Wolvesley and enjoyed a few blessed seconds of peace before remembering the terrible reality they faced.

Angus, Earl of Wolvesley, was dying.

For many years he had been the closest thing she had to a father. He was wise and fair-minded, his fierce charisma and majestic stature a charming contrast to the gentle nature of a man who loved his family above all else.

Angus was a giant of a man with a big booming laugh and a handshake that could leave knights anxiously flexing their fingers for hours afterwards.

He would have made a mighty warrior, but preferred to wield his quill, rather than his sword, to ensure peace and prosperity for his estate and all who lived within it.

Mirrie allowed tears to brim in her eyes as she recalled him swinging her out onto the dance floor at her first ball.

They spilled down her cheeks as she remembered how he had praised her studious efforts in the school room.

Her achievements could never eclipse those of the bright and brilliant de Neville siblings, but Angus had always made her feel wanted and welcomed.

Aye, she was in awe of him still. Only a fool would not be at least slightly in awe of such a man. But he had never been anything other than kind to her. To everyone.

And now he had sickened, and he might soon pass from this world. Long before his time.

She could understand Tristan’s violent desperation to try something, anything, that might keep Angus tethered to life for a while longer. ’Twas only respect for Morwenna’s deeply-held feelings that had prevented her from saying as much last night.

That and her long-buried dislike of the woman called Juliana.

Mirrie had only known her for a few days, many years past, but those days had been long and hard.

Feelings of envy, spiky and hot, had lodged in her stomach the very first time she beheld the beautiful woman that Frida had welcomed to Wolvesley as her new best friend.

Envy which intensified when Mirrie beheld the admiration shining in Tristan’s eyes.

Juliana was gifted as well as beautiful, that much was undeniable. Beside her, Mirrie felt as plain and ordinary as a dormouse.

Mercifully, Juliana had stayed little more than a sennight at Wolvesley before being “called elsewhere” as she insisted on saying.

Mirrie had ne’er been so glad to see the back of anyone.

Now Tristan was in search of her. Hopefully the woman had wandered far from here and another healer could be summoned in her stead.

Mirrie sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her.

She wanted to find Tristan and express her support for his plan.

She wanted to find Morwenna and ask what she could do to help.

And she wanted to venture into Angus’s bedchamber and find the words to thank him for all he had done for her, before it was too late.

But she was no longer at Ember Hall, free to pull on a crumpled robe and wander the house at will. She was in Wolvesley Castle, where a myriad of rules of manners and decorum applied—not all of them at the forefront of her memory.

She swung her legs to the floor, enjoying the softness of the rug beneath her toes and wincing at the ongoing ache in her thighs and back after yesterday’s long ride.

She would have liked a hot bath before retiring last night, but after the drama of the evening—and with the household so disrupted—she had been content to strip down to her chemise, crawl under the covers and close her eyes.

All of which meant that the dust and grime of a hard day in the saddle still lay upon her skin. Even her hair felt dirty. But what could she do about it?

Her chamber was beautifully decorated with mouldings on the ceiling, a stylish writing desk and a large wardrobe to hold the many gowns she had once needed as the ward of the Earl of Wolvesley.

How many gowns would I need as Tristan’s betrothed?

Pushing the thought to one side, Mirrie padded over to the window and swung open the shutters.

Her chamber looked out over the rolling paddocks and the winding lane down which they had ridden just yesterday.

The large oval lake glinted invitingly in the morning sunshine.

If only she were a man, able to throw caution to the wind and do as he pleased, she could have taken a dip in the lake that would have left her clean and refreshed, ready for the challenges ahead.

But strict rules of etiquette applied to the ladies of the household, and Mirrie had never wielded the breezy confidence of Esme or Isabella when it came to flouting those rules.

Rules which would be even stricter if she was announced as Tristan’s intended bride.

Mirrie put her palms to her flushed cheeks. Would Tristan go ahead with their intended subterfuge, in the light of his father’s failing health?

Nay, she decided, their ruse would likely be abandoned under the circumstances.

She fixed her eyes on the distant treeline, unable to decide if her relief outweighed her disappointment.

A knock sounded on the door, breaking her reverie.

Conscious of her state of undress, Mirrie called out, “Who is it?”

“’Tis Molly.”

“Come in.” She self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest and moved to the centre of the room.

Molly opened the door and bobbed into a curtsy.

“Good morn, Miss Mirabel. I thought you might wish to bathe before going down.”

“You are quite correct.” Mirrie smiled, but she felt awkward about being waited upon after so many years of self-sufficiency at Ember Hall. “Thank you.”

Her feelings of awkwardness increased as several chambermaids followed Molly into the chamber, two of them dragging a gleaming copper bathtub and the others carrying pitchers of hot water.

Soon steam began to rise and as the maids took their leave, Mirrie abandoned her scruples in the anticipated pleasure of sinking her aching limbs into hot water.

Molly pulled forward a screen and Mirrie wasted no time in pulling off her chemise and stepping into the tub.

Bliss.

She rarely had time for a warm bath at Ember Hall.

A quick dousing with cold water had become her norm.

What luxury it was to stretch out in the heat, her hair floating up around her.

When Molly perched behind her on a low wooden stool and began to lather her hair with soap, Mirrie closed her eyes and submitted to the pampering without a word of complaint.

Much more of this and she would find herself ready and waiting to be named as Tristan’s betrothed.

Her eyes flew open just in time to catch a bubble of soap sliding down her forehead. Mirrie sucked in a gasp of stinging pain and Molly chuckled.

“Best to keep still, Miss Mirabel, until I’ve finished.”

Mirrie settled herself more comfortably in the tub with her eyes firmly closed as Molly rinsed her hair and gently rubbed it dry.

At the maid’s urging, she stood up, dripping wet, and was warmly wrapped in a linen cloth and led over to a stool so she may sit down whilst Molly combed out the tangles in her long hair.

“I can sense your impatience, miss. But I can tell you that Lord Tristan has not yet returned and Lord Angus is none the worse this morn. My lady is sitting with him still.” Molly spoke through a mouthful of hair pins.

Mirrie thought she had been doing a good job of disguising her eagerness to have these preparations over with. She pressed her lips into a smile in acknowledgement of Molly’s insight.

“What do you mean, Lord Tristan has not yet returned? Did he ride out this morn?”

“Nay, miss. ’Twas last night that he called for a fresh horse to be saddled for him.”

Mirrie twisted round, causing Molly to grip her hair tighter to secure the complicated braid she was in the process of tying. “Where did he go?”

“That I don’t know.”

“But he’s been gone all night?” Mirrie could not keep the edge of concern from her voice.

“Alfred, his manservant, has been sitting up for him since dusk.” Molly grimaced around the hairpins. “The poor man dozed off whilst sitting in a hard chair.”

But Mirrie had no thoughts to spare for Alfred. Where had Tristan gone in such a hurry? He had spoken of dispatching a messenger to the druids. Did he go himself after all?

“I must go downstairs.” Anxiety was rising in her chest.

“There is naught you can do to bring him home any sooner.” Molly gave a final pat to her hair. “But let us get you dressed and ready.”

Molly crossed to the wooden closet and brought out a simple gown in pastel colours. Mirrie stood as quietly as she could whilst the maid helped her into it. The gown smelled of lavender and was a relic from a former time. Mirrie was just admiring the familiar folds, when Molly audibly tutted.

“The fashions have changed since you last wore this, Miss Mirabel. We had better arrange for some new gowns to be stitched for you.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble.” Mirrie was on the cusp of saying that she could stitch her own gowns, but in truth her needlework was not fine enough for a Wolvesley wardrobe.

She was comfortable mending her clothing at Ember Hall, where a dropped stitch or an uneven hem would not be noticed. But standards were far higher here.

Molly stood on her tiptoes to straighten the neckline of the gown. “I shall ask one of the maidservants to attend you for the rest of your visit. Mayhap Lady Esme’s personal maid. Would that please you, Miss Mirabel?”

“It certainly would not.” Mirrie answered before she could properly gather her thoughts.

“I mean to say, thank you, Molly, but I have grown accustomed to life without a lady’s maid.

” She clutched her hands together, not wanting to cause offence, but unable to countenance the prospect of Esme’s experienced maid tutting over the state of her wardrobe.

Her stomach turned somersaults of anxiety at the very idea.

Molly looked unconvinced, but thankfully something outside caught her attention. “Hark at that.” She nodded towards the window. “I fancy that’s his lordship I can see returning.”

Mirrie rushed over and placed her hands on the sill, leaning out as far as she dared until she could make out a large bay-coloured horse approaching the gatehouse. She could discern nothing about the rider, save the glint of a sword in the dazzling sunshine.

“I think it must be Tristan,” she agreed, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. “I shall go down and meet him.”

“Very good, miss.” Molly dropped into a short curtsy.

“Thank you for all you have done,” Mirrie added.

Molly inclined her head. “It’s the least I can do to tend to a daughter of the household.”

Mirrie wanted to run, but conscious of her long skirts, she bade herself be satisfied with a scurrying walk down the sweeping staircase into the marbled entrance hall. Once again, there was but a lone guard standing by the front doorway. He bowed smartly as she passed.

A warm breeze caressed her freshly-bathed skin as soon as she stepped outside.

The day had dawned warm and perfect once again, with not a cloud to be seen in the deep blue sky.

The manicured lawns ahead of her were a far cry from the wild beauty of the lands around Ember Hall, but Mirrie found comfort in the familiarity of the splashing fountain and the proud stance of the stone lions.

Yesterday, the grandeur of Wolvesley Castle had struck her as if she was seeing it for the first time.

But happy memories from her youth were gradually banishing her social anxieties.

She remembered one hot day when, unwilling to walk all the way to the lake, Jonah had jumped into the fountain instead.

And the midsummer ball, not so very long ago, when Esme had tied two straw bonnets, replete with ribbons, onto the stone lions.

She picked her way down the path to the stable yard, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight and realising, too late, that she wore neither gloves nor a bonnet.

The steady clop of a horse’s hooves was closer now, and she wanted to speak to Tristan before he entered the keep and was rightly claimed by his mother.

Her pulse beat faster as she neared the stone archway, knowing from the shouts she had heard that it was indeed Lord Tristan drawing near.

She had long since given up berating herself for the swell of anticipation she always experienced before seeing Tristan.

Her attraction to him was simply part of who she was—a woman with a moderate singing voice, a dislike of needlework, and a heart that would forever beat for Tristan de Neville.

Now at least she could hope to speak to him without the usual audience of his siblings, friends and numerous visitors to the castle. It would just be the two of them. She could offer comfort, a friendly ear and support for his ambition of a second medical opinion.

Taking a deep breath, she walked through the archway with as much grace as she could manage. Gerrault stood waiting to receive the horse and he tugged his forelock as soon as he saw Mirrie. But before she could frame a greeting, Tristan’s horse trotted into view.

Mirrie shaded her eyes once again as she tipped her head backwards, wanting to see from Tristan’s face if his mission had been successful. But what she saw made her flesh grow hot and cold at the same time. Her heart took a deep dive downwards and she all but staggered to one side in shock.

Tristan’s mission had clearly been a success.

She could tell from the beaming smile on his handsome face.

And from the smug expression of the woman perched on the saddle in front of him; her slender body pressed up against his.

The woman had long, glossy black hair, dark eyes and the reddest lips Mirrie had ever seen.

Tristan’s arm curved protectively around her waist while her head rested against his clavicle.

It was Juliana.