Page 26 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)
Mirrie had never forgotten how magnificent Wolvesley Castle looked on the occasion of a feast or ball, but on this day, the opulence and grandeur held a special significance for her.
Firstly, because she had never before opened a Wolvesley ball by dancing with Tristan.
Secondly, because once events had taken their course, she might never see such splendour again. Not for some time, anyway, she corrected herself.
With that in mind, she paused for several seconds atop the sweeping staircase, breathing in the heady fragrance of wildflowers which had been wound about the pillars and scattered in vases about the entrance hall.
Down the marbled corridor to the great hall, she could hear the excited chatter of assembled guests, together with the first melodious trills from a group of musicians that had been especially selected for this occasion.
Liveried servants wore crisp, freshly laundered tunics paired with highly polished boots, their faces taut and professional as they offered up goblets of mead carried on silver trays.
Mirrie did not allow her eyes to linger long on the giggling group of young ladies who had just ascended the steps to the keep.
She knew that each and every one of them would be more attractive than she.
Each and every one would be more fashionably attired.
Each and every one would wield a more proper claim to Tristan’s attention than she ever could.
Her insecurities could rise up and ruin the evening, if she allowed them to.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mirrie startled to find Esme by her side, linking an arm through hers. “I always think at these moments that ’tis as if the castle is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen,” she added, dreamily.
“That’s mighty fanciful, Esme,” Mirrie commented, though she had been thinking along similar lines herself.
“Well, ’tis not only Jonah who has an appreciation of the finer things in life.” Esme waved her free hand airily. “And we cannot all be practically-minded, like our dear Frida.”
“No indeed.” Mirrie did not try to hide her smile. Beside her, Esme was as bright and beautiful as a butterfly. No one could ever accuse the younger de Neville sister of being practically minded. Big-hearted and fun-loving; aye. But not the one you would choose to have by your side in a crisis.
But this was a ball, not a crisis, Mirrie told herself, even as her heart lurched for want of Frida’s steadying company.
“You look lovely too, Mirrie.” Esme’s big blue eyes looked at her searchingly. “Wherever did you find that luscious gown? I feel quite plain in comparison.”
Esme was resplendent in a gown of alternate deep blue overlaid with panels of gold silk. She would not have looked plain beside a peacock.
Mirrie looked down at the dusky pink dress, originally tailored for her many years ago, but updated and refreshed by Molly, who had worked night and day to make it suitable for tonight.
She had expertly replaced the fur trim with delicate lacework and lengthened the skirts to achieve the flared cone-shape which was the height of fashion, even if it was also the height of impracticality.
The bodice, tightened by Molly’s determination and backed up by whalebones, made it difficult to take anything more than shallow breaths.
This would have to be a night of low emotion and even lower exertion.
“’Tis an old one from my closet,” she answered honestly. “You know as well as I do, that I shall have little need for fine gowns after tonight,” she added in a whisper.
Esme pursed her lips as they began to descend. “I have never been so clever as Frida or Isabella, but one thing I’ve learned over the years, Mirrie, is this.” She paused dramatically, one dainty foot hovering in mid-air. “One simply never knows what is going to happen next.”
Mirrie had been hoping for something more profound, but she covered her disappointment with a smile. “You are entirely correct.” She nodded with all the emphasis that her restrictive gown and heavy headdress would allow.
They reached the bottom of the staircase and turned towards the great hall.
Here, the swell of sound from music and conversation seemed so much louder.
There was a rush of bodies, bright colours and almost tangible excitement.
Mirrie breathed as deeply as she could, grateful for Esme’s arm still linked with hers.
“Lady Esme de Neville and Miss Mirabel Duval,” the Seneschal boomed.
Esme smiled and nodded, taking admiration from the crowd as her due, whilst Mirrie tried to hide her unease.
She had not been expecting to make such a grand entrance, nor to receive such a reaction to it.
The nearest guests sank to the floor in deep curtsies and low bows, leaving only a handful of high-ranking earls and countesses still standing.
And Tristan.
Her breath caught at the sight of him.
He was attired in an emerald-green tunic which glittered with gold thread.
His hair swung about his shoulders like burnished bronze, his breeches were spotless white and his leather boots fit snugly about his muscular calves.
When he walked towards her, she froze like a deer facing a hunter’s arrow.
“Mirrie,” he bowed as low as a servant approaching the earl. “And Esme.” His sister received a pat on the shoulder. “How lovely you both look.”
“Indeed we do,” Esme responded breezily. “’Twas ne’er in doubt.” Her eyes skittered over her brother’s and scanned the crowd behind him. “Excuse me, both of you, there are people I must say hello to.”
“Is she looking for someone in particular?” Tristan murmured in her ear. He had come to stand by her side, somehow taking her arm in the process.
Mirrie still felt frozen into position. With great effort, she lifted her gaze to seek out Esme. “I can no longer see her.”
“She disappeared in a trice.” His lips twitched. “I begin to suspect my little sister has a secret lover here at Wolvesley. ’Twould explain why she was so cross when I told her she must leave for Ember Hall.”
Mirrie was so aware of Tristan’s proximity—of his masculine fragrance of sandalwood soap mixed with leather, of the way his powerful shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tunic—that she had little space left in her thoughts for Esme.
She nodded vaguely, before realising that more was expected of her.
“Esme is surely old enough to know her own mind.” She stepped sideways, moving from the path of two splendidly-dressed young ladies who were deep in conversation.
Tristan’s smile became rather fixed. “True enough, no doubt. But I fear my sister does not share the good sense and self-discipline necessary to make knowing one’s own mind such a virtue.”
Mirrie’s mouth hung open. Surprise made her uncaring of curious eyes. “Are you cross with me, Tristan?”
He turned his shoulders, shielding her from the crowd and giving them at least the illusion of privacy. “’Tis a role reversal, is it not?” He looked down sombrely before his lips twitched. “I speak in jest, Mirrie, surely you know that?”
Her heart sank a little. For a brief moment she had glimpsed the possibility of change.
“But I have missed you, these last days,” he whispered against the top of her head. “I have gotten the impression that you might be cross with me.”
She could not help her gaze travelling upwards until it clashed with his. “Not cross,” she managed, trying not to stare at the fullness of his lips.
Lips that pressed against mine with such passion.
“Not happy, either.” He shrugged his shoulders with an appearance of pragmatism, before clasping both her hands inside his.
“’Tis true, we wandered somewhat from the path of friendship.
” He held her a prisoner of his blue eyes until she felt a blush rise up to stain her cheeks.
“And we found ourselves somewhere unfamiliar.”
Is that a hint of nervousness? Not in his voice, nor in his eyes, but in a slight tremor that passed from his fingers to her.
He cleared his throat. “Perchance we need to work together, Mirrie, to find out where we are.” His voice deepened. “And where we might go next?”
It was as if the noise and bustle of the great hall faded away to nothing. There was just Tristan, holding her hands, saying unexpected things.
She could only nod. Her mouth had turned too dry for her to speak.
“So you will not run from me, after the ball? You will stay close so we can talk?”
Now she saw urgency and sincerity in his eyes. Real, not imagined. She would ne’er have imagined this.
“So we can be truthful,” he whispered, leaning so close she could see a faint line of stubble on his bronzed cheeks.
“I would like that,” she managed to say. “After the ball. Not here.”
God’s bones, she could not have this conversation in front of so many witnesses. Not when she was also expected to dance and dine and smile.
Tristan waved to a servant and took two goblets of mead from a tray.
“To us.” He passed one to her and held the other high.
“I do not think we should make such a toast,” Mirrie said quickly. She did not think she should partake of too much mead either. She knew well enough how potent the brews were at Wolvesley.
“To our success in opening the ball.” Tristan drained his goblet with a flourish. “My mother has been gesticulating at me e’er since you and Esme entered the room.”
Mirrie was instantly flustered. “Then we should take our positions.” Her hand trembled as she pushed her goblet, still full, back onto the tray of the bewildered servant.
Tristan winked. “Without delay.”