Chapter Six

T ristan liked running at sunrise. This early in the spring, he still wore a woolen jumper, like a dock worker, as the frost crunched beneath his feet. He loved the faint purpling of the sky fading to whitish yellow, and then finally, the feeling of sun on his limbs as he hit his stride.

His breath was steady and even, the rhythm of jogging well-known to him and comfortable. But the wheezing behind him did not sound easy. Glancing over his shoulder, he slowed his pace and trotted backwards, staying on the balls of his feet as he surveyed the motley expedition behind him.

Ophelia, no surprise, was on his heels, cheeks red, but doing well. She ran with him in the mornings and had no trouble. She claimed that she withered on the days she didn't run, which seemed asinine to Tristan, but he hadn't any idea what Ophelia was on about most times. Behind her was Bad News, who had been training with Ophelia for some months. She still had the uneasy gait of a beginner, still too much in the moment, unable to get into the long mesmerism of this kind of heart-pumping activity.

His father walked far behind them, following Eleanor and Mrs. Cabot. Neither woman seemed prepared for this exercise, and it made him wonder what Ophelia had told them to expect. Had neither of them ever done such physical labor before? How did they expect to get up a mountain if they couldn't manage to get through a pasture?

Tristan caught his father's eye and signaled for them to trade places. He wanted to get a handle on how far behind the women truly were on their physical conditionings. Did they need to quit now before they went to Ben Nevis and ruined the ascent there?

His father ran up, easily sprinting past Bad News and Ophelia, ready to lead their crew for the rest of the trail. Tristan slowed his backwards jog to a halt, letting the three runners pass him. Finally, Mrs. Cabot and Eleanor caught up.

"How are you both faring?" Tristan asked politely.

Eleanor gasped. Ah, he noticed she was still wearing a corset. No wonder she was having a hard time. He hadn't thought to pay close attention to her at the start of the run when it was dark. As he was trying very hard not to pay attention to her at all.

"I think I might be able to go a bit faster," Prudence said, her voice surprisingly even. "But I didn't want to leave Eleanor unsupervised."

Eleanor nodded, her eyes wide, her breathing so shallow and fast Tristan was surprised she hadn't passed out completely.

"Miss Piper," Tristan said, hoping that he didn't sound like the most outrageous pervert. "If you are to keep up, you must remove your corset."

She shook head adamantly. "Must. Remain. Proper." Eleanor changed from red-faced to white.

Oh no, she was going to pass out. "Mrs. Cabot, Mrs. Cabot!" Tristan shouted, holding out his arms. Eleanor swayed. "Water, go get the water!"

Mrs. Cabot looked pained but sprinted off towards camp. Tristan didn't dare take his eyes off Eleanor, and good thing. She looked at him, glassy-eyed, unseeing, and crumpled.

He caught her before she hit her head and gently took her down to the ground. He looked around, panicked, knowing what he had to do, and hating it. "Fuck, I'm sorry Eleanor," he said.

Tristan would never have claimed to be an expert with women. But he could take a corset off one with surprising speed. It was handy today. He yanked open the buttons on her dress, pulling it open. He felt the worst kind of scoundrel. Disrobing an unconscious woman.

"Believe me, this is not how I imagined it," he muttered, his fingers working the laces. The cords gave a loud whirr and thwack as he pulled them from the eyelets. "But you must breathe."

Her eyes snapped open, clear and lucid. She took a look at his face, turned over and vomited next to his leg.

"Breathe," he said, rubbing her back, wincing as the acrid smell hit him.

She was gasping for breath still, and starting to shake. He set about getting that corset off of her entirely. It was doing her no favors. She rolled back again, allowing him to work.

"Having a hard time not swooning?" he asked.

Eleanor moaned incoherently.

The last eyelet was freed, and Tristan pulled the blasted thing apart. "I get that a lot. I've been told I'm rather handsome. Up you go." He pulled her to her feet, supporting the whole way. She wobbled like a newborn colt. "I need you to walk, Eleanor. We have to get your blood pumping. Let's go. Take a step."

He felt her fingers tighten around his shirt in response, and she took steps as he did. Slowly, they walked back towards camp, a little shuffle at a time. Eventually she was able to do so without hanging on to him like a newborn babe.

"I still feel sick," she said, her voice hoarse.

"You need water," Tristan said. "Mrs. Cabot should be along soon."

"I'm so sorry for ruining the morning run," Eleanor said.

"Not to worry. We all get a turn. But I do wish you'd trust me when I say that you cannot wear a corset and climb the Matterhorn. Or Ben Nevis. Or any of them."

As he spoke, Eleanor clutched at her gaping clothing, her face coloring not from her illness, but from her shame. "This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me."

"Then you've lived a charmed life, Miss Piper."

She stopped short and looked at him, gripping her clothes tightly together. "You called me Eleanor."

"You are mistaken," Tristan said. "I can still feel your surname on my tongue."

"Not now, when you were—" She gestured to her clothes.

"Ah yes, well, do forgive me. I thought you were unconscious." Tristan winced. That didn't sound like the civility he'd hoped to convey. "I only mean that we were in a crisis situation."

Eleanor abruptly went back to walking. Tristan scrambled to keep up. "We've decided to all call each other by our first names, you know. Us women. We felt that it encouraged camaraderie for us. To help us all succeed."

"Seems prudent," Tristan agreed. In the distance, he could see Mrs. Cabot running towards them holding a waterskin. She had speed, not that it would matter on a mountain, but helpful at the moment.

"What if you and I did the same?" she asked, and turning toward him, he spied the high color on her cheeks.

He was relieved to see that she had a more normal pallor but did not think this was the time to invite informality. She'd just fainted, and he'd ripped her corset off, for God's sake! "I am very flattered, but I think you should be given a chance to rescind your offer at a later date. You cannot consider yourself of sound mind at this minute."

She pulled herself up stiffly, and he realized he'd made a grievous error, insulting her pride. He was trying to be a gentleman, damn it all! "I only mean—"

"Thank you," she cut him off. "Your concern for my state of mind is considerate. I believe I see Mrs. Cabot approaching."

Tristan fell back, allowing her time to nurse her wounded pride. This was not a good first day. He was tasked with getting them up a mountain. He couldn't manage to get Miss Piper past the largest oak tree on the property.

*

This was not the sort of day Eleanor would write down in a diary, if she'd kept one. She'd made a fool of herself on more than one occasion, and half expected to be shipped back home to London. If she couldn't manage a single morning run, she certainly wouldn't be allowed to go to Scotland. And suddenly, she very much wanted to prove she could at least make it up Ben Nevis.

Servants had made a fire in a ring of stones and cooked an extremely delicious meal of sausages and root vegetables in a single large pan over it. Eleanor had never seen such an endeavor, but now that she had, she was more impressed than ever with the treats that emerged from anyone's kitchen, let alone what came from this open fire!

Eleanor's lungs hurt with a scratching cold that kept her coughing. She'd been such a ninny to wear a corset. Even Lady Rascomb had advised against it. But Eleanor wasn't as slender as the other girls, and well, not having support for herself seemed unwise as well as improper. Lady Rascomb had gifted her some extra undergarments—they were more like old-fashioned jumps, rather than corsets. Meant for support, not confinement. There was another run tomorrow, in which she'd have to prove herself.

"It's that tenacity that you'll need up on the mountain," Lady Rascomb advised after Tristan had told her how adamant Eleanor had been about her corset. "Some believe that it is all physical to climb a mountain." Lady Rascomb jabbed a finger at Eleanor's heart.

"Isn't it?" Eleanor asked.

"Your body will always want to give up," Lady Rascomb said. "Climbing a mountain, birthing a baby, washing a bathtub. It doesn't matter. Bodies are weak." Then she poked herself in the heart. "It is the will to keep at it. To persevere, despite the pain, despite the boredom."

Eleanor thanked her and changed into the new clothes. Prudence walked with her, cutting through the woods so that they might join up with the others by the end. Tristan had taken off running on the original path, his easy speed making Eleanor envious. She wanted her body to do that. Why couldn't her stride lengthen that way? The rhythmic breath that sustained him never made him overheat and vomit.

She'd been coddled her whole life. Who was she to believe she could add anything to a climbing expedition?

Now, seated around a fire, night having fallen, Eleanor was inexplicably tired. At home, she would have stayed up for hours longer, but now, she could barely follow conversation.

"Are there any concerns for the expedition before we turn in for the night?" Ophelia asked. They'd already talked through tomorrow's schedule—more physical conditioning, an overview of equipment, some mock climbing if they had time.

To Eleanor's surprise, Tristan cleared his throat. "I have one, but I'd prefer if my lady mother advises on this as well."

"Once you make your concern known, of course. I'd never hide my opinion from you." Lady Rascomb, lit by the campfire, looked younger suddenly. She could see how Lord Rascomb would be instantly enamored with her. She was so capable, so resilient. Two things Eleanor was not. Unless it had to with a piece of rope, and she was finding out how very little the world cared about a bit of twine.

"I am, of course, a supporter of propriety and its dictums."

"Are you?" Justine challenged. "I seem to remember—"

"—I said I am a supporter." Tristan glared across the fire at Justine. If Eleanor had ever wondered if there was something between the two of them, that glare put it to rest. "However, I am concerned about propriety getting in the way of our ultimate success."

"Which aspects of propriety concern you?" Lady Rascomb asked. "And don't say it, Justine, I know you have a snide remark in there."

"I'm very clever," Justine protested. "I usually have at least three things to say at Tristan's expense."

"Why must you pick at me ?" Tristan snapped.

"Because it's so very easy," Justine said with absolute sincerity and no remorse.

"Children," Lord Rascomb rumbled. "I believe we were talking about the expedition."

"Thank you, Papa," Ophelia said.

"I imagine you're speaking of corsets?" Lady Rascomb asked.

"That is one, yes."

"Miss Piper and I have solved that particular problem," Lady Rascomb said. "What is the other concern you have?"

"Miss Piper informed me that the ladies have taken to using each other's given names. I thought this was very clever."

"It was Ophelia's idea," Justine said.

"It breeds familiarity and comfort, something we all must have in order to do well on our venture, for we do not have some of the other benefits that teams like Mr. Whymper's do."

"And what would those be?" Ophelia asked. Eleanor watched the furrow between Ophelia's eyebrows deepen, accented by the shadows of the campfire.

"Speed. Strength. Experience."

Eleanor felt that criticism to her very core. She had none of those things, and she felt as if Tristan was all but saying she should be sent home. She wanted to melt into the wooden stump she perched on. Could she please just go to bed?

"And you believe exchanging proper names will help this?" Lord Rascomb rumbled.

Tristan shrugged and bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I think it wouldn't hurt."

"Lady Rascomb?" her husband prompted. "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"The risk here would be for Mrs. Cabot and Miss Piper in particular." She glanced between them. "But given these circumstances, if we returned to formality when we were in town, I don't see why there would be an issue. I think we could set some of our propriety aside."

Tristan clapped his hands together and beamed a smile at Eleanor. One that she felt was unwarranted. It hadn't been her idea. In fact, it had made her uncomfortable to be so overly familiar with Mrs. Cabot on the first day they'd ever really had a chance to speak.

"Some. Not all." Lady Rascomb raised her eyebrows at her son.

"If that's all the concerns to be raised for the evening?" Ophelia looked around their group. Eleanor was impressed that both Lord Rascomb and Tristan were able to let Ophelia run discussions and take charge of their camp. It was as if Ophelia was truly in charge of their fates, which made Eleanor feel all the more uncertain.

Shouldn't she feel better about everything if Lord Rascomb was in charge? He was older, had the experience, and was well, he was a man. And men were in charge of virtually everything.

"Come, my little chickadees," Lady Rascomb said, standing and shooing them over to their side of the camp. "Our cozy blanket bags await."

Feeling utterly humiliated, Eleanor followed the rest of the women to their sleeping enclave, where blankets were laid out on the ground. Last night she'd been too exhausted from the train ride to pay much attention to her surroundings, and clouds had covered the skies by evening.

Tonight, however, climbing into her blankets sewn together to create a bag for her body, the sky was peppered with bright lights so numerous that as her eyes adjusted away from the fire, she wondered if this could possibly be correct. Surely she had seen the stars before, but somehow now, tonight, they burned cold and brilliant.

Her body was exhausted and buzzing all at once, and what with this star revelation, how on earth was she supposed to get any sleep at all? Her mind excavated the memory of Tristan ripping the cording from her corset, muttering, This is not how I imagined it.

The other women whispered goodnight to each other, and Eleanor almost forgot to respond. As she examined that very hazy moment again and again, she heard the rhythmic breathing of others drifting into sleep.

So Tristan had thought about removing her corset? She should be offended, shouldn't she? Or at least disgusted? Wasn't that how respectable women would think? But it wasn't as if he were some man in the park muttering it as she walked by. When Tristan said it, aiding her in a time of need, it felt completely... thrilling?

Because it was Tristan. Because he was nice to her, smiled at her, helped her. Which she'd repaid by vomiting on his leg. Not the best way to respond to a courtship. Was that what it was? Or would he have done that for any one of them?

She didn't know, but she did like the idea of Tristan courting her. Would he think her below him? The Pipers were not noble by any stretch of the imagination. Could he look past that, even if he wanted her father's money?

The ground dug into her lower back, so she flipped onto her side. It was silly to think so much about Tristan when she should be thinking about how she was going to conquer this challenge ahead of her. It was strange to think that only a month ago she hadn't wanted to go at all, and thought the whole adventure absurd. Now, after reading the books from other women climbing mountains, spending time with Ophelia and Lady Rascomb, even her time teaching knots at the salons, she desperately wanted to prove she could get up that mountain.

Being a novice didn't bother her, because she knew how to work hard, but she wished for less scrutiny. Humiliation was never fun, and somehow this seemed worse. Almost as if they didn't succeed, they would somehow set the cause of women backwards. While men like Mr. Fulk derided the ambition, Eleanor didn't want to give him the satisfaction of returning to England without accomplishing something.

The idea of Mr. Fulk's droning patronizing made her tired. The nerve. But she certainly didn't want to fall asleep thinking of him. Instead, she pictured herself triumphantly putting her boot-clad foot on the very highest rock on some snowy-topped peak. That was enough to let her drop into sleep.

*

The week was challenging, Tristan would say that. Everyone had their own issues. Eleanor was still the slowest runner, but after discarding the full corset, she was able to run without fainting. They tied ropes and heaved each other over the stones of the ruins and up the sturdy oak trees in the grove. Eleanor showed them a few more knots that might come in handy.

They still observed regular mealtimes and tea time, of course. They weren't brutes. But Tristan found himself maneuvering to sit next to Eleanor at every stretch. The first few times it was to check on her health. Then it was to get extra help with his knots. She talked freely while he worked on dressing out his knots to perfection, telling him of Captain Smythe and her father's dockside office. She even confided the times she'd been forgotten by her parents, which was absolutely horrifying.

He'd never been forgotten by his parents, and he was one of four. Far more understandable for that to happen to him. In turn, he regaled her with his mountaineering stories and descriptions of snow. He congratulated himself on not thinking of undoing her corset again, or what she looked like with her thick, wavy brown hair down around her shoulders.

He had once accidentally come around the corner too swiftly in the morning and seen her still pinning up those silky, shining locks before their morning exercise. It stopped him short. Breathless. She'd caught him looking, and he recovered, poorly, but managed to say something inane about the upcoming day.

It was bad enough that he'd taken a second run in the evening while the rest of them relaxed and told stories around the fire before dinner. And it made him think as he ran through the wooded areas, jumping the now-familiar tree roots and dodging divots in the dirt, why couldn't he court Eleanor, if he wanted?

After they'd climbed the Matterhorn, of course. One did not mess with expedition dynamics, that was a given. Of course, the timeline for their adventure stretched over two years, so that might be a challenge. As the second son to a nobleman, however, his honor was all he had claim to at this point. And he couldn't very well court a lady that he was leading. That was unethical.

By the end of his turn about the woods, and the setting of the spring sun, he was satisfied with his decisions, and ravenous for dinner. He was the last to be dished up, and he greedily accepted the plate as he sat down next to his father.

"All well?" his father asked.

In between bites, Tristan answered, doing his best to slow down, knowing he'd get a stomachache later if he didn't. "Of course. Needed to think." Tristan watched as his father's eyes slid to Eleanor.

"I see," his father said, but let the matter drop.

Despite appearances, there was no real privacy here. Any conversation he might have with his father would be easily overheard by the women in their camp if the wind blew just right. He couldn't risk a discussion here, but perhaps later.

On the last day of their excursion, Herringbone arrived. He was amiable and dressed far nicer than the lot of them, who had not bathed in a week. They all smelled of sweat, ropes, and labor, but it was good. There seemed to be an easiness amongst them that Tristan was glad for. The arrival of his brother threw all of those developments into fresh contrast. Especially that bit about cleanliness.

Still, as he was in the presence of ladies, theoretically, and not the harridans Tristan knew them all to be, Herringbone doffed his hat.

"It looks as if much progress has been made," his brother said to the group.

His mother limped toward him, not bothering with her cane here. "Arthur, what are you doing all the way out here?"

Herringbone kissed their mother's cheek and continued. "I've come to invite you all to a party, in your honor."

"I love a party!" Bad News squealed.

Tristan rolled his eyes and was about to make a snide remark, but Eleanor elbowed him in the ribs. It was gentle, but still. He grinned. He knew that hitting was a good sign.

"I've already spoken to your parents, Miss Brewer, Miss Piper, and to your companion, Mrs. Cabot. You will have not only fresh baths awaiting you at our nearby Cloverbee Manor, but also your finest gowns. I've invited the best of the best from London and Bath societies, and we shall have a lovely few days of eating and dancing."

Herringbone pulled himself up straight and beamed at all of them. The women smiled—Bad News actually clapped—but Tristan knew something else was afoot. Herringbone didn't care for parties. But still. Two days of feasting after this week would be nothing short of decadent.

And sinking into a hot bath? That sounded like heaven too. If he had a tumbler of whisky, or even a nice dark wine, that would be the ticket.

"We finish here tonight, sleep, and then we'll pack up and leave tomorrow morning," Ophelia said.

"Just so, sister," Herringbone said, easily deferring to Ophelia, which Tristan knew was so very difficult for his brother to do. He was the heir, the most important of the four of them. Even though their father coached them all that this was Ophelia's project, it was sometimes hard to remember that neither Arthur's nor Tristan's interference was welcome or necessary.

Sometimes he wished Ophelia had been born a boy. An Oberon to her Ophelia. A king to her... drowned girl. She had such a spirit, it was rare in any gender, and to have the power a man had to go about the world as he wanted was a freedom she needed. He could only imagine how difficult it could be to have to smile as men derided her passions and ambitions. But she did so, at almost every ball.

Perhaps that was why Herringbone arranged this. It would be an occasion where none of these women would have to hide their pursuit or be made to feel ashamed of it some way. He stepped forward and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

Herringbone flinched, no doubt at how absolutely and thoroughly filthy Tristan was after running through the woods for a week.

"I wish you all good health, good luck, all that," Herringbone said, stepping out of Tristan's reach. Tristan grinned again. Herringbone's valet would give him a proper dressing down for the handprint of dirt on his coat.

His big brother set himself back on his horse, no doubt to return to the train station. Cloverbee Manor wasn't that far from here by train, so it would not be much of an inconvenience for anyone in their party to get there.

They all turned back to their work—hauling bags via a makeshift pulley over a tree branch. But none of them did well after that interruption. Even the very pleasant and hardworking Mrs. Cabot—Prudence—was distracted. Tristan started to pay attention to their chatter, only to find they were obsessing over what he too was thinking about: the bath and the food.

"Aren't you wanting to know what your maids packed for dresses? Or what gentlemen will be in attendance for dancing?" Tristan prompted.

Bad News scoffed at him and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes Tristan, I think you can't be as utterly daft as I believe you are, and I feel bad about it. Then, you say something like that, and I think, ah, I have the right of it after all. Tristan has the mental capacity of a wayward slug."

Tristan pulled himself upright. "Come now, that's not fair."

Ophelia laughed. "Brother. Please. You've spent all week with us, seeing us in all our unholy glory. Haven't you figured anything out yet?"

Tristan looked to Prudence and Eleanor for help. Neither of them came to his aid, and in fact, both looked to be suppressing smirks. "That's precisely why I thought you'd be excited about dresses and company. Because you've been in the dirt."

Eleanor actually snickered.

"Not you too?" he asked, even if he was developing an idea of why his words were so utterly absurd. They were as exhausted and hungry as he was. Thinking about putting on formal clothing was not appealing.

"You talked me out of my corset earlier this week," Eleanor said, a playful grin toying across her pretty flushed lips. "And now you are trying to talk me back into it?"

The talk of her corset made his mind stop functioning. In fact, it stopped being a humorous situation entirely to him, only because he could think of nothing other than how she wasn't wearing a corset now.

"This is freedom, Tristan," Prudence said, catching his attention. He turned toward her, focusing very hard. "Why would I want to give it up?"

"Because you are hungry and exhausted?" Tristan guessed.

"Dear Lord!" Bad News exploded. "He gets it! It turns out, we are people. Just like him. We get tired and hungry and would like a long relaxing bath to warm up in, and some delicious food to put the meat back on our bones."

Fortunately, Tristan's mother came over at this point, checking on why the hauling of the bags had stalled out. "Are they teasing you?" she asked, as if he couldn't handle his own against a pack of feral girls. Which, it seemed, he couldn't.

"Yes, but only because I'm so unbearably handsome," he said, giving his best charming grin to Eleanor, who at least blushed. That was a point in his favor. Bad News scoffed again.

"It's because you're unbearably stupid," Bad News corrected.

"Oh, Justine, language," his mother admonished.

"Fine. Because Tristan is so unbearably backward in his thinking."

That actually landed a mark on him. He was quite forward in his thinking, thank you very much. He had no trouble letting Ophelia lead the campaign, let her make the speeches and the decisions. He was the infantryman. There to help carry bags, muscle through if needed. It wasn't particularly fashionable to tell other men that he was following his baby sister's instructions for his next big adventure. He'd gotten more than his fair share of teasing about it. "My thinking is very progressive, I would like you to notice."

Bad News rolled her eyes again. "Please."

He found himself wanting to make his mother speak up for him, until he realized just how ridiculous that was. "If you have no need of me, then, whether it be my outrageously fashionable looks, my incredibly progressive mental capacity, or even my unarguably masculine brute strength, I will go find some other occupation." Tristan turned on his heel to go seek out his father.

"Au revoir!" Bad News called.

There was a garbled hushing of her from Eleanor. Words he couldn't make out, but it was gratifying to know someone might be on his side. At least a little bit. And really, he was quite glad it was Eleanor, if it were to be anyone.

His father was making lists of provisions and estimated costs by the fire. Tristan sat down on the nearest tree stump. His father hadn't changed much over the years. There was perhaps a bit more gray, yes, which appeared after his mother's accident, almost overnight. But he was trim and stoic, eager to help, and kept his own counsel. A man of few words, whom Tristan admired inordinately. He was a great man, and even more so, a great father. He looked at each of his children as individuals, with different talents and different roles. It was a gift to be seen not just as the spare, as he so often was called, but as his own person, with his own wants and needs.

"Equipment all in order?" he asked Tristan absently, not bothering to look up from his ledger. Trust his father to bring a writing desk into the woods.

"Seems to be," Tristan said. "Did you know about Herringbone's party?"

"Mmm?" His father looked up finally. "I do wish you wouldn't call him that."

"Hard not to anymore, honestly." Tristan looked out at the land. He preferred being out here than in London. He couldn't quite figure out what he liked most, or really, even why. Because there was so much of town that he did like—the wine, the women, the clubs, the gambling. But those were the activities he engaged in while he avoided thinking about the future. What he would do with his life. Military service? The church was out of the question. A trade?

"I had an inkling your brother would get us all over to Cloverbee. He's desperate to be included."

Tristan frowned. "He is?"

His father looked up at him, blinking rapidly, as if he had dirt in his eye. "Of course. He feels that as my heir, he should not participate in these kinds of daring feats. But it does not mean he doesn't want to."

Tristan stared off to where Herringbone had made his exit on his horse, as if he might still see the echo of his brother standing there, hat in hand.

"Your brother feels his duty quite acutely. He hasn't the freedom you do."

"Freedom?" Tristan almost growled. His freedom was insecurity and aimlessness. If only his plight was that he would inherit money and lands and a purpose.

"Yes, freedom. The heir must always be concerned about what is best for his estate, his lineage, his greater family. As a second son, you have far more freedom in whom you marry, how you spend your time, what you will do with your life. Especially now that we have modern medicine. It's unlikely that you'll have to worry that you'll inherit. Arthur will marry a fine lady, and they will have children. You needn't worry. Arthur will do his bit."

Spoken like an heir, Tristan thought. He should get up and find somewhere else to be before his temper rose to the surface. He was generally good natured, but when his temper rose, he almost went blind with it. Years of practice and a few hard pummelings from the boys at school had taught him to keep it in check at all times. Few things could rattle it free, but his father talking about the difficulties of being the heir—of being needed —made control precarious.

He stood. "I think I'll go for another run."

"Another?" His father squinted at the sky, gauging the progress of the afternoon. "The girls still practicing with the pulley?"

"Yes, good progress, they're all familiar now. Ophelia is likely going to have them hauling each other up the trees next."

"Not a bad idea, actually. Never know if one will fall down a bergschrund."

Tristan grunted. That would depend on the season they visited the mountain. A bergschrund shifted and changed as a glacier slowly moved, widening and narrowing that gap between the ice and the rock it carved. In the winter, the snow might accumulate there, and an unsuspecting mountaineer might fall farther than he wanted. In summer, the melting of ice might cause the gaping bergschrund to grow, making forward progress impossible.

Rope work and strength would keep them all safe.

He thought of Eleanor. She was right behind him on their line, theoretically because she was the weakest of their party in strength. He could pull her along to safety if she needed. He hadn't been the one to make the assessment—that had been his father and Ophelia choosing the order. But he didn't mind. He might be the weakest in the knot-tying skills. Eleanor had introduced some that were surprisingly difficult to remember. The splicing? Very handy, if he could keep it in his head.

Going past the wooded area, Bad News decided to harass him again. "You're too good to be hauling bags, is that it?" Justine yelled, her hands on her hips.

"Must you—" He cut himself off. There was no reason to argue with her. He could pull twice the weight she could, they both knew it.

"Yes, I must. What's good for the goose is good for the gander and all that," she said.

"It's a better use of my time to run," he said. "I can already haul as much you all can put together."

"Wonderful. You'll carry the tent poles, then." Ophelia let the sandbag drop from the pulley.

"Fine," he said, setting his jaw.

Eleanor picked her way over to where he stood on the path. "I need to run as well. I haven't quite gotten as fast as the rest of you."

Normally spending an extra minute with Eleanor would be welcome, but he wanted to run . Doing his best to control his disappointment, he gestured to the well-trod dirt path. "You know the way."

She looked up at him, her expression questioning, but he didn't want to explain his dark mood. Between the idea of being the spare and Justine's constant picking, he wasn't sure how to explain his mood without sounding like a child. And he knew that, which was why he was going to go run, rather than whine.

"You don't have to run with me," she said. "I know I'm slow."

"I'll keep within earshot," he grumbled. "Go on."

She nodded and started her slow jog. It was agonizing to go at that snail's pace. He let her go ahead ten paces, and then began his own. He ran past her, his long strides no match for her much shorter gait. Still, he ran ahead, then circled back for her, keeping to his promise to keep her within earshot.

At the pond, where they often stopped, he ran an extra lap around it, waiting for her. He was feeling better, actually. A run was precisely what was needed. She arrived out of breath, as if she had perhaps sprinted the last bit. She looked relieved to see him waiting for her.

Tristan let her catch her breath, doing his best not to make her feel self-conscious. He looked out over the pond, letting the smell of the rich earth surrounding the pond fill his nose. This was a place he could find peace.

Behind him, her breathing regulated. She was already faster at coming down from her run than she had been five days ago. He was impressed with how quickly she'd taken to this.

She was gulping in air, hands on her hips. "I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this."

He smiled. "You will. And you'll be grateful for it when we go up to higher elevations. It may seem silly to run when you aren't being chased, but it helps."

Eleanor gave him a generous smile at his attempt at humor. "I feel silly."

"Did you know that in the springtime, hundreds of years ago, women would run footraces against each other for prizes?" Tristan had much of his history knowledge thanks to his mother, who took a keen interest in what women were up to in the centuries past.

This time Eleanor's smile was genuine. "I did not. I've been told my entire life that women are far too delicate for activities such as these."

"Even the nobleman's daughters would participate. It was an honor to win." Tristan smiled. He wasn't sure if that was entirely true, but Ophelia had latched onto the idea. Sometimes Tristan wondered if Ophelia wasn't driven by these old stories—wanting to prove herself worthy of their lineage.

"I wonder if they bothered wearing a corset when they ran," Eleanor said, coming to stand next to him overlooking the pond.

Tristan smiled. "They probably knew better."

Eleanor crouched down and dipped her hands in the cold water, splashing some on the back of her neck. "Thank you for helping me. I'm not sure I said that."

"I'm always available for gallantry."

She stood, a wry look on her face. "Especially if that gallantry includes undressing a woman?"

"I aspire to nobility and grace," he said. Her eyes were deep, chocolate brown, and he could gaze into them forever. As if he could tip forward and dive into her, never to surface again. "I'm glad you recovered so quickly."

"I'm grateful for you—your entire family—for including me on this. I hadn't any thoughts about mountains two months ago, but now, I feel as if I'll die if I don't try to climb one."

A breeze picked up, pushing loose strands of her dark hair into her face. She was so beautiful, and he could feel her passion and commitment mirroring his own. It was all the softness she wore on her exterior that he felt on the inside. He reached up and gently brushed her hair back, tucking the wayward strands around her ear.

"Tristan," she said, looking up at him as if she were beckoning him into her depths.

Instead of letting his hand drop, he cupped her jaw, pulling her slowly to him, giving her the chance to escape, if she so chose. But she didn't. Her hand touched his chest, over his heart. If she wanted to pull it out and keep it, he would let her, if only she would allow him to kiss her.

"Eleanor," he said, waiting for her to say something—anything—to make him stop. But she didn't.

She stood on her tiptoes, and he pulled her close, his lips brushing hers, gentle, ever so gentle. Lowering herself to the ground, she pulled away, but he didn't want to be finished. If this line was to be crossed, that could not be the end of their kiss. He followed her, wrapping his other hand around the back of her neck, pressing his lips to hers once more.

This time she softened against him, and he kissed her more ardently. She must know how often he thought of her, and how else could he show her than by kissing her dizzy? He deepened the kiss, and she did the same. She reached her arms around his neck, making him wrap his arms around her waist, pressing his body fully against hers. He felt as if time stopped here, giving him the chance to experience a heaven available only to him.

Despite the exhaustion of the week, his body went tense, wanting more than he would ever take from a respectable young lady in the middle of rolling pastures and isolated copses of trees. Still, she was so soft in his arms. The skin on her arms was like satin, her lips were sweet, and he was happy that both of their scents were only those of hard work and mud.

She pulled away from him, and he felt dizzy himself. An early afternoon drizzle had descended, but Tristan hadn't noticed the raindrops. He was lost in her lips and her skin and her hair.

"It's raining," she said.

He couldn't speak. While he'd imagined this kiss, he'd thought it would be akin to his prior encounters—breathless, passionate, yes, but lusty. This had been different—unlike the other kisses he'd ever committed to—and he didn't know what that meant. She wouldn't look him in the eye, and that didn't sit well. "Eleanor."

There was her attention. Her lips swollen from his. "Yes?"

His mouth opened and closed as he tried to think of what he should say. "Should I apologize? Because I don't want to."

Her cheeks flushed even higher, but she shook her head. "It was very nice."

That was a blow to his ego. Dogs were nice. An egg sandwich was nice . If there had ever been a rebuff, he knew it. "I see."

Perhaps she heard his bitterness. "I rather liked it," she added, looking up at him through her lashes.

That felt a bit better. "Would you permit me to kiss you again?"

A smile played on those imminently kissable lips. "As long as we don't take too long getting back to camp."

He sidled closer to her, moving slowly so as not to spook her. "You are known to be very slow." He closed his arms around her, and she laid her cheek against his chest, letting out a content-sounding sigh. She felt so good in his arms. So right. He let go of her on one side to tip her chin up, so that he might kiss her again.

One of her arms snaked up to pull him down to her. She took more command this time, kissing him as much as he kissed her. Sipping at him, pressing kisses. Then his impatience got the better of him and he let his tongue wend its way out of his mouth and into hers.

Another breeze kicked up and she shuddered against him, allowing him into her mouth. It was heaven. She was heaven. He rubbed her back, telling himself to keep his hands above her waist, even though he desperately wanted to cup her bottom and pull her against him.

Suddenly she launched herself backwards, and he heard it, too. Someone was coming. He heard Ophelia's laughter. They were all coming. Eleanor's eyes were wide with terror. She shooed at him, and so he did the only thing he could think to do: he took off running.

He was well out of sight before they broke into the clearing. They greeted Eleanor, and then he was out of earshot, heart pounding. What did he just do?

There was no fraternization on the expedition. That was a hard and fast rule, one that they had all agreed upon ages ago, back when Ophelia had proposed this expedition. That no matter what, they would maintain propriety.

And she was the daughter of a ship's captain. Even a second son of a viscount should be more circumspect, shouldn't he? Clearly, the best course of action was to pretend this never happened. To forget the softness of her lips, the way her body melted into his. This was going to be hell.