Page 17 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Mirrie didn’t know whether her chief emotion was anger or disbelief. Either way, it took every ounce of self-restraint for her to remain seated up on the dais.

It had been bad enough to enter the great hall and see Tristan and Juliana clearly flirting with one another, in full public view. That Tristan had risen from his chair and been so attentive towards her had appeased her irritation for a while, before the bunkum with the palm-reading began.

Mirrie had never seen such a poor excuse for physical intimacy.

And now this! Had the exchange been pre-planned, like a spectacle arranged for the Twelfthtide revels? At first she thought that Tristan must have brought Juliana in on the ruse, thus rendering an awkward situation almost unendurable.

Then she saw the wideness of his eyes and realised that Tristan had also been taken unawares by Juliana’s announcement.

What is she about?

Mirrie dared not lift her gaze to see the countess’s expression. She gripped her fork and gazed down at her unwanted trencher of food until the items blurred and became one. The smell of venison clogged her throat and made her nauseous, but she did not trust herself to move away.

Morwenna was the first to speak. “Is this true?”

“Aye, Mother,” Tristan answered. “It is. I was going to tell you. We were going to tell you, but when we arrived…” His voice trailed off.

“Mirrie?” Morwenna’s voice was gentle. “I would hear it from your lips too.”

Fearing her voice may shake, Mirrie lifted her chin. “’Tis true,” she confirmed, but when Tristan made to speak, she raised her voice again. “But this is hardly the time for such an announcement.”

Morwenna put both hands to her face and Mirrie jumped to her feet, fearing the woman who had raised her as one of her own was sobbing.

“I am sorry,” she exclaimed, daring to put an arm around the countess. “Pray, do not cry.”

“These are tears of joy, my dear.” Morwenna lowered her hands to show her shining eyes. “This is joyous news.”

“Joyous news,” Tristan echoed, nodding his agreement.

Mirrie shot him a look. “The joy of this night is all rooted in the earl’s recovery. Let us concentrate on that.”

“Nay.” Morwenna gripped her wrist. “You and Tristan are to be married. This is cause for celebration.”

Mirrie’s heart thudded against her restrictive bodice as her face flooded with heat. Morwenna’s voice had carried throughout the hall and now the nearby men-at-arms had turned to face the dais.

“Congratulations, milord, milady,” called one, lifting his mug of ale in a salute.

Soon the refrain was taken up and repeated.

Tristan had no choice but to rise up from his chair, close the distance between them and embrace her as a resounding cheer went up.

His men stamped their feet and shouted their approval, whilst Morwenna beamed from ear to ear and Juliana looked firmly at the floor.

Mirrie saw all this as if it was happening to someone else.

She knew Tristan was beside her, his muscular arm laying across her shoulders, her head hovering close to his own pounding heart. But she didn’t care.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be close to Tristan. This whole charade felt wrong, and she regretted having ever agreed to it. But she couldn’t disavow it now, in front of everyone. The most she could do would be to draw this performance to a close.

She stepped forward, precariously close to the edge of the dais but finally free of Tristan’s grasp.

“Thank you, all of you.” Her voice rang out over the hubbub. She curtsied low as the men cheered once more, then pointedly returned to her seat. Slowly the chatter resumed its usual level. Now it was Juliana’s turn to rise from the table.

“Pray, sit,” she urged the countess.

Mirrie observed she at least had the decency to keep her voice and head low.

Morwenna hesitated, then gave a regal nod. “Very well.” She sank gracefully into the carved chair as Tristan poured her a fresh goblet of wine.

Juliana stood as if she did not know which way to turn. Mirrie almost felt sorry for her, before noticing the druid’s eyes resting on Tristan.

She still wants him. She knew a rush of frustration. Even now.

“Pull up a chair,” Tristan suggested, waving his hands behind him.

Under usual circumstances, some hovering servant would have already fetched a chair for Juliana, but these were not usual circumstances. Wolvesley was not running at full strength.

Juliana shook her head. “I believe this is a family celebration.” She dropped into a curtsy. “I will retire for the evening.”

Good riddance, though Mirrie. But she smiled politely at the druid’s departing back.

“There is much to plan, much to discuss,” smiled Morwenna. “I can’t tell you both how pleased I am.” She laid a hand on each of them, her heartfelt joy so evident that Mirrie thought she could not bear the deception a moment longer.

“You are much too kind.” She shot another glance at Tristan, but he hardly seemed to notice her discomfort.

“But I insist that we let the matter rest for tonight. We have endured much these last days. These plans and discussions can wait a while longer.” She leaned forward to fill the countess’s trencher with meat and vegetables, wondering how long it had been since she had last eaten a proper meal. “Here.” She pushed it towards her.

“I am not overly hungry, my dear.” Morwenna put a hand to her heart as she surveyed the offering.

Tristan spoke up. “You must eat something, Mother.”

At least she could count on him for this—he always looked after his family.

“Something small,” Mirrie agreed.

“You are in unison, as you have been for much of your lives.” Morwenna twisted her head so she might smile at them both. “I should have seen this marriage coming.”

Mirrie could think of no suitable response to this. Her smile became fixed as she gazed at the far end of the hall where tables stood empty and pushed against the wall.

“I have long admired Mirrie.” Tristan’s voice was husky.

Her heart beat grew faster, but not with pleasure. This all felt like too much. Morwenna’s words made everything seem too real.

“And I have long loved and admired all of you de Nevilles,” she retorted.

“You welcomed me into your home when I was but a child, Morwenna, and now you welcome me again. I am more grateful than I could ever express.” Shaking with emotion, Mirrie once again pushed herself up from the chair, but this time it was she who dropped into a low curtsy at the countess’s feet.

“My dear.” Morwenna put a hand on her cheek and urged her up. “We are family. You do not have to curtsy before me.”

“I fear the events of the day have overtaken me.” Mirrie knew her voice was trembling but hoped it might help her cause. “I have a headache and must retire to my chamber. Forgive me.”

“There is naught to forgive,” said Morwenna.

Tristan rose up from the table. “I will escort you.”

“Nay.” The word came out more harshly than she had intended and she summoned a hasty, insincere smile. “Pray, do not trouble yourself, Tristan. You should stay here with your mother.”

Never had she spoken to him so firmly. Never had she denied herself his company. But just now, she did not think she could bear it.

Mirrie feared her knees might give way beneath her as she descended the steps from the dais and picked her way through the trestle tables. The men-at-arms stood to let her pass, nodding their heads and clearing her path of discarded sword belts and slumbering hounds.

These same men usually treated her with respect, but this show of deference was reserved only for the earl, countess and heir to Wolvesley.

But of course, they now thought her Tristan’s intended bride.

By the time she reached the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, Mirrie’s cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

How foolish she would appear when everyone learned she no longer held such status.

Why did I not think of this before?

She knew the answer to that well enough. She had been caught up in Tristan’s web of charisma and unerring self-belief. And she had wanted this chance to stand by his side, even within the circle of his embrace. Even though she knew it all for a ruse.

What an idiot I have been.

Mirrie pulled the pins out of her hair with force, taking perverse pleasure in the twinges of pain as strands of her own hair came away with them.

What she wanted now, more than anything else, was to return to Ember Hall.

Where life was simple and honest. Where people said what they meant and meant what they said.

And where she could stride from the house and walk over the rolling hills without causing a stir.

Here at Wolvesley Castle she dared not even appear out of her chamber in the incorrect attire.

Tears brimmed at the corner of her eyes and she dashed them away.

Mirrie had never been one for self-pity.

She was far more apt to push concerns about herself aside and focus on some task before her.

She had learned many summers since that hard work and exercise could banish most demons.

But neither of these outlets were available at this moment.

The boiling tension inside her belly had nowhere else to go.

She thought she might scream as she paced over the thick rugs on her chamber floor, clenching and unclenching her fingers.

When a knock sounded on the dark-wood door, she imagined it must be Molly.

Mirrie had no patience for the idea of a maid fussing around her. But there was little chance she could wriggle out of this tightly-laced kirtle without assistance. Not without tearing the expensive fabric. Swallowing her complaints, she pulled back the panel.

The last person she wanted to see was Tristan.

He stood with one arm hooked over the doorframe. His shoulders were so broad that he blocked almost all the light from the torch-lit corridor, making it hard for her to read his expression, but she could see that his heavy brows were lowered.

“What is it?” she asked, without preamble.

“May we talk?” His usual charming smile was absent, and he looked painfully earnest.

Mirrie knew a moment of weakness before giving her head a firm shake. “We can talk in the morn. ’Tis not proper for you to come to my bedchamber.”

Tristan folded his arms, his movements allowing a beam of light to illuminate his cleanly-shaven face.

“What have I done to anger you?”

Mirrie knew such a swell of frustration that she wanted to slam the door in his face. But this man had been her friend since childhood. She could not bring herself to treat him so harshly. She contented herself with another shake of her head.

“Please, Mirrie,” he pressed. “I can’t bear it when you’re cross with me.”

“Urgh.” She brought her hands up before her, clenching them together to prevent herself from swatting at him. “This is inappropriate, Tristan. What if you are seen at my door at this hour? Do you not realise how this will appear?”

She looked nervously past him, up and down the plastered corridor, but there was no one in sight.

Tristan, however, seemed to consider her words. “Forgive me.” He bowed low, forcing her to step backwards into her chamber. And that was when he darted forward, closing the door behind him.

She was so surprised she could do no more than glare at him, wide-eyed.

“What are you about, Tristan? This is madness.”

Her chamber was lit by several flickering candles, positioned on chests and in wall sconces. Tristan stood in a pool of golden light. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and leaned back against the smooth wall.

He is still half drunk, she realised.

“You have been angry with me all day,” he said, “and I do not see why. All I have done is find a cure for my father and rejoice in his recovery.”

“You could not wait to bring that woman here.” The words burst from Mirrie before she could call them back, but releasing them into the night air helped sooth some of the fire in her belly and she held Tristan’s gaze, ready and willing for a fight.

“What woman?” Tristan took a step closer to her. “Juliana? The woman who helped to heal my father?”

“The woman you wanted in your bed.” Mirrie was shocked at her forwardness, but she did not allow any repentance to show on her face. Instead, she raised her eyebrows in a further challenge and met Tristan’s glare with one of her own.

He shook his head, seemingly in wonderment. Silence stretched between them until Mirrie could bear it no longer.

“You do not even deny it.” The fire inside her was dying. Now she was merely tired and resigned.

“My decision is made. She will not come to me. And I will not go to her.”

“Why not?” Mirrie flung back her head to look at him again, her loose hair flying out behind her. “I could see it was what you both wanted.”

“Because I do not like to see you so upset.” Tristan gazed at her as if she was an impossible puzzle he was keen to solve.

“Just go,” she said. “Please.”

“Not until you believe me.” He stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will have nothing more to do with Juliana, if that is what you want.”

“What I want is not important.” To Mirrie’s horror, her voice was trembling.

“This betrothal between us is but a ruse, as we both well know.” She took a deep breath and straightened her back.

“But your mother believed it. As did all your men. It will not be long before everyone knows of it. Which is why you must leave. You cannot be seen coming out of my chamber.” Her voice rose in emphasis.

Mirrie had no fortune of her own, but she at least had her reputation.

She would not allow anyone to take that from her.

“I will go.” He nodded, ducking down to her level. “But I hope you know that although our betrothal is fake, my deep affection for you is very real. And it always has been.”

He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head and left. Mirrie stayed still until the sound of his footsteps had faded. Then she carefully closed the door and leaned back against it.

She had been wrong to come back to Wolvesley Castle, believing she was equal to withstanding the emotions she would experience as she pretended to be Tristan’s betrothed.

Their plan had seemed so simple back at Ember Hall. But it was becoming more complex by the day.