Page 22 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

For Tristan, the world had tilted on its axis.

Ye Gods, it had felt good and right to kiss Mirrie.

How did I spend so many years in her company, without seeing her at all?

They walked together back to the keep and it took a great effort of will to keep his hands away from her.

It would be the easiest thing in the land to take her arm, to offer gentlemanly assistance over the uneven ground.

But Mirrie had always been a competent and capable girl, not the type to trip and plead some feminine weakness.

He had always liked that about her.

Earlier that morn, he had drawn her to his side without a thought.

Now he was hyperaware of her every movement.

How her long stride matched his. How she walked tall and proud, with no hint of hesitation or artifice.

How her hazel eyes shone in the shafts of noontime sunshine which fell through the tall trees.

She had always been there, in his life. Like one of his sisters. He had noticed her beauty, of course, in the same objective way he observed the charm and good looks of Frida, Isabella and Esme. But never before had he felt that loveliness imprint itself on his soul.

And she had once been one of his closest confidantes. With that in mind, he wanted to halt their progress; to declare this new confusion in his heart. But what words could he use to describe it?

Tristan appreciated the irony. He had never been lost for words around women before.

As they emerged out of the woods into full view of the castle, he summoned his courage and came to a stop. After a few steps, Mirrie also paused. She turned to face him, her heart-shaped face creased with an emotion that looked like fear.

“What is it?” he asked, immediately concerned.

She put a hand to her heart, also seemingly gathering her courage. “I think I am a little afraid of what you might be about to say.”

He had always admired her straightforward honesty.

She spoke the truth.

“Truly, I don’t know exactly what I am about to say. I only wanted another moment with you. Alone.”

Mirrie gave her head a little shake. “We can’t do this, Tris.”

“Do what?” He stepped closer. If it were any other woman, he would have taken her hands in his. But right now, Mirrie was making him unaccountably nervous.

“Whatever this is.” She flung out her hands in a gesture of confusion. “The task ahead of us will be difficult enough without adding further complexity. We both know who we are. Let us not forget it.”

It took a moment for her words to make sense to him.

“You mean, you are a nice young lady. And I am—”

“You are Tristan de Neville.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Nay, I mean that you have always thought of me as a sister. You told me so just days ago.”

“I did.” He dimly remembered doing so. A sentiment from a different time.

“You must marry an heiress,” she said, as if she were reciting lines. “A woman of good, noble family.”

“Must I?”

Mirrie huffed out a breath. “That is, after all, why I am here.” She folded her arms, mirroring his posture. “I begin to think the sun has affected your thinking.”

“Ah, Mirrie.” He couldn’t help but chuckle, ruefully. “If only I could find an heiress who puts me in my place as well as you do.”

“Mayhap you will find her at your mother’s midsummer ball.”

He made a noncommittal sound before he reached out and ran a finger softly over the curve of her cheek, noting the way her eyelashes fluttered closed at his touch. He felt a swell of victory.

Mirabel was not as impervious to his charms as she would have him believe.

I must proceed slowly then.

“You’re right, as always.” He sighed regretfully. “But do not kiss me again, Mirrie. For there is only so much self-control that a man can wield.” Her eyes widened with surprise and Tristan chuckled. “I speak in jest.” He tucked her arm beneath his elbow. “You are quite safe with me.”

Mirrie’s cheeks had stained with pink but her voice was quite level. “I have never doubted it.”

They walked together back through the gardens and up the steps to the keep, only drawing apart when they reached the entrance hall.

“Will we go straight to my father’s chamber?” he asked solicitously.

Her eyes went doubtfully to his boots. “Do you not wish to change?”

In truth, his stockings were damp and uncomfortable. But he also knew they had been longer at the lake than he had intended. His father would be waiting.

He glinted down at her. “I’m willing to suffer the consequences of my more impulsive decisions.”

Mirrie poked him in the stomach, swiftly and unexpectedly. It did not hurt, but he doubled over with the shock of it.

“Stop flirting,” she hissed.

Unable to hide his merriment, Tristan again took her arm and they proceeded up the winding staircase.

The dimness of the upstairs corridors was sobering after the brightness outside. The earl’s manservant opened the chamber door with a deep bow for them both. As she turned to face his father, Mirrie dipped into a low curtsy whilst Tristan gazed about him.

Things seemed much as they had earlier that morn.

The chamber now appeared bright and airy, smelling strongly of lavender which had been sprinkled into the rushes on the floor.

His father sat up in bed, his golden hair combed and tidy, his bejewelled fingers folded together on the clean coverlet.

Tristan’s mother perched in a tapestried chair pulled closer to the bed.

She was dressed in cream silk, and her bright eyes were turned towards him.

“Tristan,” she said with pleasure. “And Mirabel.”

“Come in, come in,” his father beckoned. “We have much to discuss.”

Tristan resisted the urge to stride forward. Instead he reached back for Mirrie’s hand and they approached the canopied bed together. Her fingers felt cold within his and he squeezed them gently in encouragement.

Warm words followed, together with entreaties that the newly betrothed couple should sit and make themselves comfortable.

Tristan fetched chairs, careful to attend to Mirrie’s comfort before his own.

All the while, he could see the usual spark of vitality in his father’s face, and that mattered more than his easy acceptance of their news.

He had expected their announcement to be met with approval, but the evident joy with which Angus and Morwenna beheld Mirrie as their prospective daughter-in-law, surprised even him.

“I always suspected,” said his mother.

“Did you?” Tristan asked in genuine wonderment, while Mirrie shifted uncomfortably and fixed her gaze on the fireplace.

“We will announce your betrothal at the midsummer ball,” his father said, grandly.

Even Tristan blanched at this. Before he could gather his thoughts, Mirrie spoke up.

“Nay, please do not.” Her voice was strong, though her face had turned pale. She looked down, seemingly unable to meet the many eyes gazing at her in surprise. “I only mean that coming so soon after your illness, it would not be right.”

Tristan came to her rescue. “There would be much to arrange, certainly.” He gestured with his hands, unsure exactly what that might entail. “And we are in no hurry to wed.” Recalling his earlier conversation with Jakob, Tristan imbued his words with meaning.

“I am glad to hear it.” His father’s voice showed that he understood Tristan’s implication.

Morwenna cleared her throat, dispelling the tension. “We planned to find you a bride at this ball, Tris. It does not seem fitting to go ahead now.”

“What if I find Mirrie at the ball?” he suggested, pleased with the idea.

Mirrie spoke up. “But our betrothal has already been spoken of.” Her voice was small. “News will surely spread.”

“Gossip,” said Tristan, dismissively.

“Gossip can hurt a family.” His mother’s curious gaze settled on him, but he did not allow himself to be discomfited.

“News also spread about your illness, Father.” His voice carried around the frescoed chamber.

“The midsummer ball should be an opportunity to celebrate your recovery and show to the world that the Earl of Wolvesley is well once more. At the same time, Mirrie and I will dance together. Be seen together.” He took up her hand and impulsively pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“We will be noticed.” He paused. “And in the days to come, we will announce our intention to wed. Forsooth, we can throw another ball later for the official announcement.”

This time it was his mother whose cheeks turned pale. “I do not wish to throw a second ball.”

“Then the next celebration will be our wedding,” Tristan corrected himself hastily. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mirrie flinch. “All of my sisters should return for it, should they not?”

“I am not sure Isabella will be able to leave her husband’s side. He is ailing.” His mother tightened her lips. “And of course, Frida’s time draws near.”

“I would want Frida by my side when our betrothal is announced,” Mirrie exclaimed, seizing on this.

“All the more reason to bide our time.” Tristan nodded sagely.

“But Esme can come home.” His mother clasped her hands and turned to her husband. “There is no reason for her to stay away now.”

“Indeed there is not.” His father smiled benignly. “A family celebration then.”

“A celebration of you,” Tristan interjected.

His father laughed. “A celebration of my son’s quick thinking, which led to my recovery. And of the life he will forge with a young woman we love as one of our own.”

Everyone smiled, though he could see the strain in Mirrie’s eyes. Tristan got to his feet.

“We should let you rest, Father.”

Angus shook his head. “I grow tired of being treated like an invalid.”

“You gave us all a terrible fright.” Morwenna leaned over the bed and straightened his covers, tenderly.

“Your mother has me kept as a prisoner up here. What does the physician say?” His father’s keen eyes swung to Tristan.

“It does not matter what the physician says,” he answered, smoothly. “The man’s methods all but killed you. I see it as my duty to dismiss him.”