Page 16 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Juliana laughed as well, quiet and low, before nudging him correctively with her elbow. “That would hardly be proper.”

“And are we to bother ourselves with such things as propriety?”

He was flirting, he knew it. Flirting came easily to him and he liked to see an answering smile on the face of a pretty girl.

But usually, his flirtation was harmless—nothing more than talk with no intention on either side of following through.

It occurred to him that with Juliana, he did not know where it might lead.

And the fact of his not knowing was both exciting and somehow daunting.

“Do you question my integrity, Tristan?”

The question was lightly asked, but wounding nonetheless. He turned with an apology on his lips, only to meet Juliana’s laughing smile.

“Should I?” he countered.

“Only as I question yours. Ah, but you are a man. And heir to a mighty earl at that. Of course, you can do entirely as you please.”

He instantly sobered at the reminder of the difference between them. “Whereas you meet with suspicion wherever you go,” he guessed.

They had skirted the fountain and were walking through the rose garden. Juliana paused and lowered her head to the soft petals, inhaling their rich perfume—as Mirrie also loved to do. “’Tis the fate of my people.”

Tristan found he could not take his eyes from the slender young woman. The dark pink of the rose petals contrasted so becomingly with the sleek darkness of her hair.

“You still have not told me how I should repay you for coming here and helping my father.”

She turned her shrewd gaze to his. “It was a kindness I offered, not a service requiring coin. I still think of your sister as a friend.”

“And what about me? Am I not a friend?”

“You are Tristan de Neville,” she stated, rising up from the roses. “A man who has not yet come to realise the full extent of the power he wields.”

There was a challenge in her words. A smile flickered across his lips as he decided to meet it. “And what power might I hold over you, Juliana?”

He expected an answering smile or mayhap a toss of that silken hair. But Juliana closed the gap between them and answered seriously. “Only that which I choose to grant you.”

She was near enough for him to smell the sweetness of her breath, and to see the rise and fall of her chest beneath the bodice of her gown. If he lowered his lips, he would find hers. “Which is?” he breathed.

Juliana was a tall woman, but Tristan had inherited his father’s height and muscular breadth. She had to stand on her tiptoes to whisper her reply into his ear. “None whatsoever.”

After a moment of startled surprise, he laughed again and tucked her arm into his. “That is only because I have yet to dazzle you with the full extent of my charms.”

Juliana ran her free hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face. Her lips, he saw, were struggling to restrain a smile. “I speak in jest, my lord. Forgive me. Your father wields power and influence over all my people and we are forever grateful for his protection.”

He shook his head. “Do not hide behind the facade of a dutiful subject, Juliana. I see beyond that. I want to see beyond that.” He paused and turned to face her, a copse of holly shielding them from the open lawns.

“I wish to repay you for your kindness, however freely it was given. And I wish for you to dine with me tonight.”

“Very well.” She ducked her head so her veil of hair swung forward. “I am honoured to accept.”

“In fact, I see no reason to tarry.” His stomach was aching with hunger and he realised he had not eaten all day. “Let us go now and see what refreshments might be found for us.”

They walked together into the keep. A lone musician strummed a lute in the far corner of the hall, but otherwise Tristan and Juliana were alone in the vast room.

He looked about in some dissatisfaction.

Usually the great hall at Wolvesley was alive with bustle and activity.

Men-at-arms would wander in and out all day, servants would keep the fires stoked and conversation would flow as freely as the wine.

Clearly the keep had not fully returned to life as usual since his father’s illness.

Tristan waved Juliana towards an elaborately carved high-backed dining chair, usually his mother’s. He, in turn, sank into the chair usually reserved for his father before beckoning to a pink-cheeked serving wench. “Bring us food and wine,” he ordered.

Juliana looked about her, her gaze lingering on the bright frescoes and marbled pillars. “You have a beautiful home,” she observed.

“’Tis usually a home with more life in it than this.” He inclined his head. “Mayhap you could liven things up with a song?”

She shook her head. “I do not sing.” She paused. “Do you?”

“Only when I am well into my cups.”

The young serving wench returned with a flask of wine and a tray of sweetmeats which she carefully placed on the table before them. She bobbed a curtsy, but Tristan held up a hand to stop her from leaving.

“Will you carry a message to my mother and Miss Mirabel?”

The girl nodded.

“Tell them we await their company in the great hall.”

“Aye, milord,” she whispered, before scurrying away.

“They will not come,” Juliana observed, lifting a goblet of wine to her lips.

He lifted his own goblet and cradled it in his large hands. “Why would they not?”

“Because they do not like me.” Juliana drank again, her eyes fixed on his.

“You are very upfront about this.”

She settled the goblet on the table and sat back in her chair. “I tell the truth as I see it. Your mother is grateful to me and regrets her initial show of displeasure at my arrival. But she will be happy to hear of my departure. Mirabel has never trusted me.”

The ways of women were mysterious to Tristan. He pursed his lips and gazed into his goblet “Surely she will trust you now that you have healed my father. He is, to all intents and purposes, her father too.”

Juliana’s eyes laughed at him as she reached forward for a sweetmeat. “Nay, she will not. I spoke to her earlier, whilst you were resting in your chamber. She was polite. In fact she has the makings of a great lady. But she could not hide the fact that she does not trust me.”

Tristan shook his head, puzzled. “She does not trust you with what, exactly?”

Her reply was swift. “With you.”

Once again, a laugh rumbled through his belly. “Juliana, you have this all wrong. Mirrie is like a sister to me.”

She met his gaze with her eyebrows raised in challenge. “I am very rarely wrong.”

“Believe me.” He lifted his goblet in a toast. “You have naught to fear from Mirrie.”

“Oh, I do not fear anyone,” she assured him, raising her goblet to meet with his.

He leaned closer towards her. “Nor do I.”

Aye, he was flirting again. And he had met his mark, he was sure of it. Her body language, the path of her eyes, the way she leaned towards him, all told him that Juliana would be ready and willing to share his bed this night.

And why should he not avail himself of such warmth and pleasure?

But despite the heady temptation, something was troubling Tristan, and after a moment’s thought, he realised what.

It was that the path of his thoughts kept circling back to Mirrie.

Unaccountably so.

Mayhap this was due to Juliana’s continued insistence that Mirrie did not like her. Did not trust her. How could that be, he wondered, when Mirrie always looked for the best in everyone?

But when he next raised his eyes from the platter of sweetmeats, he saw that Juliana, for all her foresight, had been wrong on at least one point.

Mirrie had come down to the great hall and was even now making steady progress towards them.

Her hair was pinned elaborately on the top of her head and she wore a beautifully cut gown of pale blue laced with tiny pearls.

His heart lifted with pleasure.

With a beaming smile, Tristan pushed back his chair and extended his hand to help Mirrie up the steps of the dais. Her hand in his felt cold, despite the warmth of the evening. And her own smile was tight. But she is here.

“Sit,” he urged, realising as he sank back into his chair that his slightly blurred vision was most likely due to rich wine on an almost empty stomach.

Small cakes and sticky pastries would not suffice.

He was dimly aware of Juliana leaning towards Mirrie, and of Mirrie’s answering nod.

But a wave of tension wove up around them both.

Holy hell, he needed food. Proper food.

And as if summoned by his thoughts, the double doors of the hall swung open and a line of liveried servants entered holding steaming platters of meat and vegetables.

Tristan’s stomach growled audibly and Juliana’s twitching lips showed that she had heard.

It took all his reserves of patience and good manners not to urge the maids to hurry.

The hall had filled up. Not to its usual level, but men-at-arms occupied the trestle table near the fireplace and the hum of their conversation together with the tempting aromas of roast venison helped him to feel that life was getting back to normal once again.

When he had torn off a hunk of freshly baked bread and scooped up some of the tender meat in its rich sauce, his temper was almost entirely restored.

He glanced to his right, where Mirrie sat toying with her trencher, and was seized by the desire to see her smile. Properly smile.

“Have you passed a pleasant day?” he enquired, spearing another hunk of meat.

Mirrie did not look his way, but she answered readily enough. “Seeing your father awaken was a blessing.”

He could not resist replying, “And all thanks to Juliana’s intervention.”

She nodded, though her lips were pressed into a thin line. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, Juliana.” She drew the name out over four syllables.

Juliana herself smiled widely. “My people will rejoice to know of his recovery.”

“And that he will reign for many years yet,” Tristan said, sanguine with his wine and good meal.

Mirrie fixed him with her hazel eyes. “We cannot claim to know the future, Tris.”

“Not always, at least,” Juliana interjected.

Tristan looked from one to the other, equally surprised by both statements.

“You still doubt my father’s recovery?” he demanded of Mirrie.

“Nay,” she frowned. “Not explicitly, but it is sensible to accept we cannot know what is ahead of us.”

Juliana tossed back her hair. She was a striking figure on the dais, with her waterfall of dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Several men-at-arms dining below them could not help but stare in her direction.

Tristan placed a hand on her elbow. “What say you to that?”

Her laughter rang out like a peal of bells. “I would not be so bold as to issue a contradiction.”

“But you can see the future?” His curiosity was piqued. “What does it hold for me?” He held out his palm for her inspection.

“You think me a wise woman at a country fair?” Juliana raised her eyebrows as Mirrie looked pointedly away from them both.

“I think you a woman of many talents.” He inclined his head. “Am I wrong?”

Tutting, Juliana took hold of his hand and pulled it closer. He could feel the warmth of her breath as she leaned over to trace the faint lines with her slender fingers.

“I see that you will live a long and happy life,” she said, blandly.

“I think you can do better than that.” He bit down on his lip, thinking hard before asking the question that had been foremost on his mind these last days. “What of marriage?”

“Oh yes.” Juliana nodded sagely. “There is marriage and children in your future. And soon, I would wager.”

His breath came short. “Soon?”

It was not necessarily what he wanted to hear.

Juliana’s expression changed and she brought his hand closer to her eyes, peering downwards with unexpected concentration until Tristan grew perturbed.

“What can you see?” he demanded.

“I see that a betrothal has already been arranged,” she said softly. She placed his hand down on the table and gave him a long, puzzled glance before looking past him towards Mirrie. “With someone you already know very well.”

“You don’t mean—” Tristan began, but Juliana stopped him with a shake of her head.

“You should have told me,” she reprimanded.

“What should my son have told you?”

So engrossed had Tristan been in Juliana’s actions that he had not noticed his mother’s stately entrance to the hall.

She stood behind them now, one jewelled hand resting on the back of the ornate chair that was rightly hers.

The Countess of Wolvesley was robed in rose-coloured silk, her silvery-gold hair braided about her head.

Her face was still drawn but her eyes had never been sharper as she looked down at Juliana.

“Speak,” she commanded.

Juliana’s eyes flickered sideways but she answered steadily. “Lord Tristan should have told me that he is betrothed to Miss Mirabel.”