Page 27 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

He led her to the centre of the large dance floor.

Usually this space was cluttered with tables and chairs, but all had been pushed back for the evening to allow space for dancing.

The vast fireplace had been left unlit, but in place of blazing logs, blood-red roses had been arranged amidst the granite stone.

The musicians paused, waiting for Tristan’s nod, and the assembled guests fell to silence.

Mirrie felt her limbs tingle with a feverish mix of nerves and excitement.

This was all she had dreamed of and more.

She was about to dance with Tristan.

And Tristan wanted them to talk together, truthfully.

Even as her heart galloped, Mirrie bade herself to remain calm. She had been here before. So many times she had believed Tristan to be on the cusp of a declaration or e’en just a realisation that his feelings echoed her own. So many times she had been disappointed.

But only a fool would deny the beauty and wonder of this single moment in time. When Tristan’s hands held hers. When his blue eyes shone with excitement, looking only at her. When their bodies moved as one, in time to the lilting melody of the musicians.

The crowd exhaled in collective approval as they picked up speed, Tristan’s hip against hers as he lifted her in a spin.

Mirrie felt a smile stretch across her lips.

She had always loved dancing and Tristan was the perfect partner—perfectly in time; perfectly accurate in his steps.

His nimble feet were always where they should be; his strong arms always ready to provide support.

All too soon, the music came to an end. Tristan bowed and she dipped into an answering curtsy, as applause rippled through the crowd. His lips brushed against her cheek, so lightly she could have imagined it.

“We did it,” he said.

She smiled. She had no words left inside her.

“Come.” He offered her his arm. “We should go and find refreshment.”

Mirrie felt as if she were in a waking dream. Together, they walked through the crowd to a long table filled with drinks. He poured her a goblet of wine and she took it, uncaring of anything except Tristan’s smile and how it seemed meant for her alone.

Can this be the moment I’ve so long been waiting for?

Just then, a tall, dark-haired beauty melted away from a group of guests stood by the hearth and walked proprietorially towards them.

“Tristan,” she said. “Dearest. How grand you look in all your Wolvesley finery.”

For a terrible moment, Mirrie thought this might be Juliana, returned to Wolvesley in a gown fit for a princess. But whereas Juliana’s eyes held wisdom, this woman’s eyes seemed devoid of any real feeling. The pearls around her neck shone with more warmth than the insincere smile she bestowed.

Mirrie immediately felt diminished. Dismissed even.

“Mirabel, this is Lady Susannah Grey. I trained alongside her brother at Lindum.”

Of course you did, thought Mirrie.

Outwardly she smiled and dipped into a small curtsy.

“’Tis a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

The woman’s cool eyes raked over Mirrie’s re-fashioned dress. “Likewise.” Her attention then turned fully to Tristan. “You must come and talk with us, Tris. Jakob is insisting he won the joust at Forbisher last summer and I just know that isn’t true.”

A beat passed during which Mirrie truly believed that Tristan would refuse.

But with naught more than an apologetic smile, he took Lady Susannah’s proffered arm and was soon swept up in the chattering group.

Before he disappeared from view, Lady Susannah placed a possessive hand on his shoulder, as if staking her claim. Tristan did naught to move it.

Mirrie thought she might be sick. She was glad to have refused the mead, otherwise the rolling in her stomach might have caused her e’en more embarrassment. She felt rather than saw dozens of curious, calculating eyes swing in her direction and once again wished that Frida was by her side.

If not Frida, then Isabella—who would detract from Mirrie’s shame with her pure, unparalleled beauty.

Or Esme, who would bring a smile to her lips with some frivolous remark.

Or Jonah, who ne’er passed up on a chance to comment on Tristan’s ill behaviour.

Mirrie dared to raise her eyes and look around in some desperation, but not a single ally was near. A peal of laughter from the group by the fireplace seemed entirely directed at her.

This cannot be borne.

Holding her head high, she slipped through the thronging crowd and out of the great hall. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as she marched down the marbled corridor, remembering how happy and excited she had been to parade in the opposite direction so very recently.

Not e’en Mirrie, with her low expectations of life and love, had anticipated a fall so swift and severe.

She steadfastly ignored the inquisitive gaze of Alfred, Tristan’s manservant, who was waiting in the entrance hall.

But the presence of so many maids at the foot of the stairs made her alter her planned course; instead of racing for the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she turned out of the front door and all but ran down the stone steps towards the fountain.

With her sobs masked by the splashing water, she gripped the stone basin and allowed her emotions to surface. Her shoulders shook and the ribbing in her bodice nipped at her flesh, but Mirrie’s sadness was too raw to be easily subdued.

It had all been so much worse than she had feared.

Ne’er should she have allowed Tristan to break down the barriers around her heart.

She could only blame herself. He had promised merely an honest conversation, not a declaration of commitment.

’Twas her own fancies that had conjured the romance between them.

And her own overblown emotions that were now summoning near hysteria over such a trifling event.

But when Tristan turned away from her, toward the beautiful, wealthy woman, it had underlined to her the hopelessness of wishing for more.

Tristan was not meant for her.

And he never would be.

“Stupid woman,” she muttered aloud, straightening her shoulders and dabbing at her eyes with her gloves. She could not return to the keep with red eyes and blotchy cheeks. Just how much of a laughingstock did she want to be?

The night air was blessedly warm, with a slight breeze that mussed her hair like a caress.

She had no cause to return immediately; no wish, for sure, to re-enter the great hall.

She could walk about the grounds. Or she could simply stay here, releasing her woes to the cold reflections of the fountain.

Mirrie leaned over to better judge her reflection.

The night was too dark for details—lit only by stars and the blazing torches affixed to the outside of the keep—so the shimmering pool of water showed the blurred outline of an elegantly dressed young woman.

An attractive young woman, even. One who might deserve a dance with a handsome man.

She removed a glove, dipped her hand into the cold water and swirled it around until her reflection dissolved and reformed.

Then she splashed some of the water onto her hot cheeks, feeling better for it.

Gradually, she came to be more herself; composed and controlled.

She dried her hand on her skirts and replaced the glove, thinking more of practicality than appearance.

Much as she would like to stand out here forever, staring into the forgiving waters, she could not.

A more sensible plan would be to announce she had a headache and officially retire to her chamber.

Mirrie took a breath and turned back towards the keep, staggering backwards against the granite bowl of the fountain when she realised she was being watched.

“Forgive me,” said a male voice. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Mirrie put a hand to her heart. The man stood in the shadows and though she recognised the voice, she could not immediately place it.

“To whom do I speak?” she asked.

“’Tis only I, David Bryce.” He came down the final steps until his face was faintly illuminated by a wall torch. “I was wondering if it was you standing there.”

David. The physician from Ember Hall. Mirrie relaxed. He would mean her no harm.

“It is,” she said without thinking. She gave a little laugh. “I mean, ’tis Mirabel.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Are you well, Mirabel?”

“Indeed.” She squared her shoulders, grateful for the dim light which would hide her reddened eyes. “I was only partaking of the night air.”

“’Tis a beautiful night.” He came to a halt, a few paces from her side.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” she asked.

“Wolvesley Castle is as grand and welcoming as I could e’er have imagined.

Grander even.” He turned a little so he was looking back at the keep.

Lights blazed in the windows whilst music and laughter spilled from the wing containing the great hall.

“In truth, Mirrie, I ne’er could have imagined you came from such a place as this.

Mirrie gave an unladylike snort. “I can guess exactly what you mean.”

“Can you?” He swung around to face her so abruptly that she reared back against the stone.

She reached for her composure. “Only that I am sure you have noted that I am happiest at Ember Hall, in surroundings much less grand.”

David came closer. “May I?” He reached for her hand.

Mirrie let him take it, though trepidation was beginning to squeeze at her heart. The granite stone was cold against her dress and the spray from the fountain had begun to wet her hair. It felt like time to go inside.

“Mirabel, I hope you know that I have long admired you,” David said in a rush.

Aye, she knew. Or at least, she had suspected it. But for long days now she had thought of naught but Tristan.

Mirrie swallowed, buying herself time. “I thank you for it.”

“I am only a physician and must look to the practicalities of life. But now that I know your situation, I believe we might build a worthy life together.”

Mirrie’s heart seemed to become lodged in her throat. Here was the declaration she had longed for, but the wrong man was speaking the words. He squeezed her fingers, but she felt no spark between them.

She closed her eyes. This was all too much, coming so soon after the tumult of the ball. “I am tired, David,” she said tersely. “Forgive me, can we speak more of this in the morn?”

“We can speak whenever pleases you.” His brown eyes shone with earnestness. “I would devote the rest of my life to pleasing you, Mirabel, if you will allow me.”

His face loomed closer and Mirrie was suddenly aware that he intended to kiss her, right here by the fountain. The very idea made her nauseous all over again. She ducked to the side and pulled her hands free of his grip.

“Good night,” she said, pretending that no awkwardness existed between them.

“Until the morn,” he called after her.

Mirrie picked up her skirts and returned to the keep, her eyes turned away from the servants and a group of guests milling in the entrance hall. As if sent by divine assistance, Molly met her at the foot of the stairs.

“May I be of help, miss?” the maid enquired.

“I have a headache, Molly. I must retire for the evening. Kindly get a message to the countess.”

Molly bobbed into a curtsy. “Very well, miss.”

Relieved, Mirrie began to climb the stairs, entirely oblivious of Tristan’s eyes boring into her back.