Chapter Seven

H er lips throbbed as she concentrated on looking at the pond, desperately hoping that the light breeze would cool the heat in her face. What was she thinking kissing Tristan? Oh, she was thinking about how handsome he was, how kind he'd been, and how he looked at her as if she were the entire world.

No one had ever looked at her like that—like she mattered . Not only could he see her, that she was physically in front of him—which, honestly, was not always the case in her experience—but he seemed to understand her. She wasn't born to a family of physical women, or adventurous ones. But he could see her try, and he accepted that effort.

Justine was the first to burst into the clearing, her face red. Prudence was on her heels, also gasping for breath. They must have been racing. Ophelia glided in not long after, looking not as bedraggled.

"Taking it easy while the rest of us are working, then?" Justine said, bending at the waist to catch her breath.

"It's fine," Prudence said. "We all have to work on our weaker skills. She was brilliant with the pulley challenge, and frankly, the best one of us at the knots."

"Physical conditioning takes time and patience," Ophelia announced.

Hoping that none of them would be able to see in her face that she'd been enjoying Tristan's company just moments before, she turned to face her friends. "Thank you, Ophelia. I am trying my best."

"Run back with us?" Ophelia asked. "I don't need a break."

Justine groaned. "Why are you like that?"

Prudence huffed out a laugh. "Because Ophelia knows that it isn't a race."

Justine rolled her eyes. "It's the only way to make it interesting."

"I'm ready if you are," Eleanor said. How exhausting it must be to be Justine, making every moment into a competition.

Ophelia nodded, gesturing to the path in front of them, so Eleanor started down the trail. They weren't far when Ophelia spoke.

"I know I shouldn't ask, but my curiosity is killing me."

Eleanor was not yet at a point where she could carry on an intelligent—or unintelligent—conversation while in hasty motion. She made a noise that she hoped sounded like she was giving Ophelia permission. But Ophelia was her superior in many ways, which made giving her permission to ask a question feel strange.

"Does my brother? Or rather, do you? What I mean to say is, are you both, or rather, will he?"

Eleanor looked at Ophelia, finally finding some joy while taking her exercise. Normally Ophelia was so calm and collected. Here she was sputtering just as much as Eleanor would. "Do you have a question?"

"Only, is he courting you?" Ophelia said, color showing in her cheeks. "Do you fancy him?"

Eleanor thought about it, his flirtatious comments, his solicitousness, the time they shared laughter over collecting the ropes, and then of course, his kisses. Those soft, wonderful, dream-inspiring kisses. But there had never been talk of intentions. And Eleanor didn't make it to being an unmarried twenty-five-year-old without savvy regarding her status. "I... don't know?"

Ophelia made a face. "Sounds about right for him."

Heat flushed Eleanor's system, and it had nothing to do with the quick pace. Was Tristan a scoundrel out for his own pleasure at the expense of her reputation? But the expedition was supposed to be above reproach, and here she was not only defying the rules, but being lured into sordidness by a fellow mountain climber. She felt so stupid. So ridiculous. But she couldn't afford to look that way—she wanted to stay on the expedition. "What do you mean?"

"That Justine was right—the rules we must abide as women do not apply to him. And he brazenly disregards it, not caring about what it looks like for us."

Did Ophelia know that Tristan had kissed her? "Oh." What was she supposed to say to that? She couldn't deny him doing anything improper, for that would give Ophelia the idea that something had happened.

"I do apologize on his behalf if he is too forward with you. He normally sticks to dancers and chorus girls and the like. He doesn't know how to behave with respectable ladies."

Eleanor felt suddenly very out of breath. At least the jogging would cover her discomfort. Did he currently support a mistress? Was she merely an available distraction when he couldn't visit his woman in London? That made her physically ill to think about. She hadn't wanted to be... entertainment .

Ophelia sighed—an activity Eleanor couldn't have managed if she wanted to at this point, gasping for air as she was.

"I'll speak to him," Ophelia promised.

"No, don't!" Eleanor managed. "Far too embarrassing. He'll think I said something."

Ophelia looked at her with pity, but acquiesced. "Then I won't say a thing. But I will give him condescending looks."

Eleanor huffed out a laugh. "Reasonable."

The rest of the run sped by, and when they arrived back in camp, Eleanor felt surprisingly good. The emotional elevation she had been promised was finally present. She grinned. Just in time to leave this place.

*

Tristan sighed as he sank into the bathtub. He'd scrubbed down prior to descending into the hot soak, grateful for running water and soap, and this delightful brandy his brother kept in stock. He rolled his neck from side to side. Spending a week out in camp made him oddly appreciative of the simplest things: chairs, hot water, padded mattresses. Give him a week amongst these creature comforts, and he would long for the clear skies and campfire once again.

But this felt like its own ecstasy. The camp had gone well. He'd had time to discuss it with his father while they rode in their own train car. The girls had performed well, progressed well, and showed commitment. Tristan did not discuss kissing Eleanor in the woods, as he would not have mentioned it to anyone.

Eleanor had not sought him out again either, which was for the best. She was pretending it hadn't happened either, for which he was grateful. Was he though? He'd have liked to think his kisses powerful enough to fluster her. Make her weak in the knees. He was not unattractive, and he'd had it on good authority that he was a decent enough kisser, and a superb lover.

For the best, then, that it was only a moment in the woods, and not something more public or more permanent.

There was a discussion of a croquet game on the lawns this afternoon, preceding the ball. Some guests had already arrived, and Herringbone—argh, that was going to be challenging to not call him that— Arthur wanted to have entertainment available for everyone.

Arthur's valet, Matthias, had taken the opportunity to lay out a lawn suit for him, which he might as well wear. After a decent soak, finishing the brandy, Tristan dressed himself and headed downstairs.

The day was sunny and unseasonably warm—a surprising gift from the weather. Many guests took afternoon tea on the wide stone veranda, spectating and commenting on a croquet game already in full swing. He joined the table, sitting next to Prudence.

"Where are the other ladies of the expedition?" he asked.

Prudence nodded toward the lawn. Tristan followed her gaze, searching amongst the white dresses until he spotted his sister, Bad News, and finally, Eleanor. She seemed to glow. There was a new air of energy and excitement about her.

Despite his mind protesting, his body reacted. Partly because he had tasted those lips. He'd felt the softness of her body melting into his. He hadn't taken things further, but his imagination had more than enough information to make the leap of what it would be like to tumble into bed with her.

A man cleared his throat, and Tristan looked up to find Mr. Piper standing next to his chair. Oh God, he was thinking of debauching the man's daughter as he stood right there. Tristan bolted to his feet. "Mr. Piper."

"Mr. Bridewell," the mustachioed man responded. "Delightful view. Delightful place. We're delighted to be here."

"And I too, am... delighted." Tristan looked over Mr. Piper's shoulder to smile at Mrs. Piper who stood behind him. "Please, have a seat. My brother, Lord Berringbone, is your true host, but I don't mind filling in."

They sat, and while Tristan expected Mrs. Piper to take the seat next to him, providing the customary gentleman-lady alternating seating, it was Mr. Piper who sat next to him.

"Before I hear from Eleanor," Mr. Piper began. "I'd like to hear about how this week went from you. I trust your judgement."

That's a poor idea , Tristan thought. His judgement was patently terrible. "Everyone did well. Eleanor was the least prepared for the trials we faced, but she worked hard and achieved the same expectations as everyone else."

Mr. Piper turned back to Mrs. Piper. "See, Mary? I knew Eleanor would have no trouble fitting right in."

"But how is her health now?" Mrs. Piper asked.

Tristan gestured to the lawn, where Eleanor pitched her head back in a hearty laugh. It was unladylike, that laugh, but he'd never seen her be so unapologetically joyous before. He longed to go out to the game and see if he could make her laugh like that. "You can see for yourself."

"Seems to agree with her," Mr. Piper said, satisfaction evident in his voice.

"She's lost so much weight in one week," Mrs. Piper protested.

"We all did," Tristan said. "We worked very hard out there."

There was a disapproving sniff by Mrs. Piper, but that was soon drowned out by an appreciative one as a footman placed a tiered sandwich tower in front of them.

Tristan chatted amiably with the Pipers, wondering idly what kind of man they'd prefer for a son-in-law. Would they look for a title for Eleanor? He assumed so—that was what many of the new-money industrialists attempted. It was no secret that Mr. Piper had thought he would receive something from Queen Victoria for his civilian service during the American Civil War. But no such commendation appeared. Social elevation was still available to him should he wed his daughter to a nobleman.

Not a second son, like himself, of course, but to an heir. Like Arthur. The idea of Eleanor marrying Herringbone was... nauseating at best. His bulging eyes would never appreciate the softness of her warm brown hair.

"Excuse me," Tristan said, on his feet before he realized what he was doing. He couldn't just sit there. To cover his irrational reaction to his own thoughts, he drifted over to the rest of the table, greeting his brother's guests.

But there was one guest he didn't know—a lovely brunette with large blue eyes and a hint of red highlights in her hair. She was in white like all the other ladies, but there was something slightly different about her that Tristan couldn't quite put his finger on. Ah well, someone would tell him eventually.

Next to her was Lady Emily Welburton. She was plain to look at, with widely spaced eyes like Arthur, but she was well known to be intelligent and pleasant. Both of his sisters seemed to appreciate her company.

"Lady Emily," he greeted, giving her companion a pointed look.

"Mr. Bridewell, may I please introduce my cousin, Miss Sophia Perkins."

"Miss Perkins," Tristan said, inclining his head since he couldn't very well lean over the table to take her hand.

"Mr. Bridewell," Miss Perkins said, blinking rapidly at him. Oh, she was fluttering her eyelashes at him. That was unexpected. "I'm so glad your brother obliged to extend an invitation to me. I was visiting my cousin in town, and I have not quite acclimated to the fast-paced city life."

"I'm grateful to my brother as well, Miss Perkins. I do hope you enjoy your stay here at Cloverbee." The smile she gave him seemed far more than a polite one. The urge to flirt was automatic, but it somehow felt wrong all of a sudden, so he kept himself from winking or giving an overly large smile.

Ophelia, Bad News, and Eleanor arrived at the top of the stairs, flush from their croquet match. It caused Tristan to straighten, feeling caught out in talking to the beautiful Miss Perkins. Flattering as it was to be the target of a young lady such as her, it felt predatory in the same way that walking backstage at the opera did. But backstage, the give and take was clear: money for companionship. Both parties held some kind of power. Here, Miss Perkins was assessing him in a way he wasn't sure he liked. Almost as if she might ask to see his teeth next.

He saw Eleanor stop short. She was surprised to see him for some reason, but he couldn't fathom what. His brother owned the place, for God's sake. His presence at a house party was mandatory. He started towards her, only to find her sitting abruptly down with her parents, appearing to all the world as a dutiful daughter. And not avoiding him at all.

Inwardly, he cringed. He deserved that. After all, he had literally run away from her after kissing her. Not exactly gentlemanly. And if she knew anything of his reputation, she'd think him a proper scoundrel. Which... maybe he had been deserving of in the past, but not now. And not with a young lady like her. Even if he did think she was a bit beneath him, which he thought only because it was true. But he would absolutely still treat her with the utmost respect, of course. Even if they were not supposed to be fraternizing within the expedition.

This was why they separated men and women. Because sometimes, it was awfully hard to keep one's lips to oneself.

*

Eleanor fought the pounding of her heart. She'd gotten the experience of purposely trying to regulate the speed of it during the long morning runs of the prior week. She wasn't terribly good at it yet.

Standing on the threshold of the ballroom, decorated as it was with spring dogwood blossoms and hothouse flowers, Eleanor desperately tried to reconcile the different pieces of her life. The person who could run, dodge tree roots, and regulate her heartbeat, and the other who felt peculiar and small in the worst of ways, and extremely out of place at balls.

Her mother had bought her a new gown for the occasion—a striking frock of emerald green, with cream-colored underskirts draped for contrast. Gold thread glinted in the accented embroidery, which matched the golden necklace her mother had brought. The off-the-shoulder neckline kept Eleanor very aware of her posture, not wanting to hunch and strain the fabric.

All the other ladies made appreciative noises about it, even Prudence, whose cherry red dress was simple, yet stunning. Only a widowed woman could carry off a gown so daring. She looked sleek and dangerous in it, neither of which Eleanor would have ever associated with the American. She was far too friendly.

Ophelia was still in her overly feminine pale pink ruffles—possibly to counter any gossip of her masculine-seeming hobbies. And Justine was clad in a violently purple dress, bright and arresting. With her slim waist and ample bosom, she looked like a barmaid about to fall out of her corset. Even Justine noticed it, and huffed as she tried to stuff the offending anatomy back into the gown.

"It isn't my fault," Justine had said through gritted teeth. "If I could wear a sack cloth and not have cleavage, I would do it."

The four of them were quite the ensemble, entering the ballroom. All colors of the rainbow, all different styles, all women determined to conquer the Matterhorn.

"Are you excited?" Ophelia asked all of them.

"I like dancing," Justine admitted.

Was Eleanor excited? She wouldn't say that, exactly. She wanted to dance with Tristan more than anything, but she also didn't want to be disappointed when he acted blasé about their kiss. Or if he made things worse and gave a stiff apology, promising to never do it again. She wanted to dance with a man who was so enamored with her that he kept on dancing after the music finished. A man who might entreat her to introduce him to her parents, though, she supposed, Tristan had already met hers. She made a noise that could be interpreted either way. Mostly because she caught sight of Tristan.

He'd been devastatingly handsome this afternoon on the veranda, wearing a white linen suit so casual and so stunning amongst the sober colors of the other gentlemen. His flaxen hair had glinted in the sunlight, and she had stopped short, her brain short-circuiting in the face of his handsomeness. It hadn't been fair—she'd been off minding her own business, and here he was traipsing about, looking like Alexander the Great come to life.

Now in his formal evening wear, black jacket and black trousers like every other man, he managed to somehow seem extraordinary here as well. The tailoring of his suit was perfect, showing off a slim waist and broad shoulders. He was smooth and easy in his demeanor, born to this way of life. It made Eleanor feel all the more vulgar and silly.

"No time like the present," Prudence said, with all the determination of a military overture.

Eleanor steeled herself and stepped forward. Being a country house party, there was no majordomo to announce them, no formality of a receiving line. They were just... there. Many other guests had already come down, elegant and twirling in vibrant hues.

Two women approached, which obliged Ophelia to introduce them. They were Lady Emily Welburton and Miss Sophia Perkins. Lady Emily seemed to be a long-time friend of Ophelia, though while she and Justine were acquainted, Lady Emily didn't seem as warm with her. Miss Sophia Perkins was new to all of them, which at least made Eleanor feel as if they were on more equal footing.

They dashed off to meet the next group of guests, and Ophelia leaned over and said, "Lady Emily has been hoping to marry Arthur for ages. I'm not sure what exactly is standing in the way of it all, but she seems well-nigh desperate for it. I suspect Miss Perkins is here as a distraction for Tristan."

A sudden burst of bile came into Eleanor's throat. Someone for Tristan? Miss Perkins was far prettier than Eleanor, and being cousins with a lady definitely made her of better family than Eleanor's.

Justine snorted, given that it was just the four of them standing together. "She's no match for Eleanor. Pretty hair, but what does she do ? Eleanor can tie knots like a sailor."

Eleanor blushed at both the praise and the idea that her tendre for Tristan had been caught out.

"It's fine, Eleanor. You don't have a tell. He does," Justine said. "That man goes around wearing his thoughts on his shirtsleeves like the bloody village idiot."

Eleanor couldn't see it, but then, she hadn't known him for as long, so she supposed reading Tristan's facial expressions would become a talent in time? "Oh," was all she could manage back.

The music struck up, and none of them had dancing partners. There weren't nearly enough men to go around, but the ratio wasn't terribly off. Surprising, considering that it was Lord Berringbone inviting guests. Though, technically, it was his mother, Lady Rascomb hostessing this party.

"Dance cards," Ophelia said, procuring them from by the door. They helped each other tie the ribbons around their wrists. Soon enough, men were being persuaded by the music to begin looking for partners, and while it was too late for this dance, soon Eleanor's dance card filled up.

But while it was lovely to have Mr. Blakely pencil his name in for a dance, when Tristan came up to request a dance, she felt as if she might begin to shiver.

"Might I sign your card as well?" Tristan asked, not at all sounding abashed or ashamed or stiff.

"Of course," she answered, extending her arm so that he might take the card from where it dangled.

He looked at her wrist—covered in gloves of course—and seemed to contemplate it in a way that heated her entire body. He did not carefully take the card without touching her. He did the opposite, dragging a finger from her mid forearm down to the ribbon. He pulled up the card and penciled in his name, but before he let it go, he looked up from his bent pose.

"You only have one space left, Eleanor."

"Miss Piper here, Mr. Bridewell." Eleanor gave a polite smile that most likely looked like a wince.

"I think I liked it better in the woods," he said. "Where I could be Tristan, and you were—"

She was so painfully aware of him holding her hand. It made her fluttery and impatient and anxious. "There are many things in the woods that are commendable."

"Many," he agreed, and she knew he wasn't speaking of trees or stars or campfires.

The heat in his eyes brought the memory of their kiss to the forefront of her mind. How could he work such magic when she was so determined to forget it?

"But we haven't danced in the woods," he said.

"There was no music."

He shook his head gently. "Not like a minuet or a waltz. So we might as well take advantage of civilization."

Eleanor jolted. Two dances was perilously close to a declaration of interest. "Are you certain?"

"I am. Are you?" Golden brows lifted in question.

She felt as if he were asking another question. Not just about a second dance, but about something bigger. Something that might look like courtship. "I'm... certain." She hated that she sounded breathless. She wished she could be more like Justine in her confidence, or like Prudence with her poise.

"Excellent," he said, penciling in his name.

Ophelia came sashaying over, her ruffles twisting with the movement. "I'm surprised Arthur saddled us with dance cards. It's a private ball. What's the point?"

"You know Herringbone," Tristan said, then winced. "I mean Arthur."

Eleanor smiled. She knew Tristan had a penchant for nicknames, but she wondered why he was giving up what was likely the oldest one.

"Are you finally showing some respect? Who talked to you?" Ophelia put her hands on her hips.

"Papa," Tristan said, "has asked me to be more respectful."

"Does this extend to Justine as well? You've been calling her that awful nickname for years."

"What nickname?" Eleanor asked.

"Bad News. I'm surprised you didn't know. They print it in the newspapers, after all."

Tristan shrugged, cheeks coloring. He was embarrassed. How unexpected. "I didn't realize you called her that," Eleanor said.

"He started it," Ophelia said, staring at her brother, as if he could dare him to apologize right then and there. "It's given her a devil of a time."

"It was only meant as a joke."

"It wasn't a terribly funny one." Ophelia screwed her face up, possibly trying to counteract her fury. "You haven't known the trouble it caused."

"It's just a name," Tristan protested.

"Not when it destroys a reputation," Ophelia countered.

Eleanor didn't care for hearing all of this. She didn't like how it painted Tristan—uncaring, and frankly, villainous. "Did you really?"

Tristan looked at her, and the vulnerability she saw in his face was shocking. Gone was the confident veneer of a gentleman and a scoundrel. This was a little boy who'd been caught out. "I did. It was years ago, and it was bad of me to do so. She always seemed to pick at me, saying mean things, and I didn't like it. I wanted her to stop, and frankly, her presence was always ‘bad news' to me, then. I said as much to some friends, and well, it took on a life of its own."

Ophelia's eyes skated over to Eleanor's. "What you don't realize in the innocence of his telling is who his friends are. Men with power, men with connections."

"We were boys at the time." Tristan protested, throwing his hands up.

"You were old enough to go to war and didn't manage that, did you? No, you conspired to ruin a girl's reputation."

"Like you could ruin Justine. She's already done it herself," Tristan scoffed.

Eleanor didn't like that one bit. "She has never done anything truly ruinous. She speaks her mind, but really only in private company. She laughs when something is funny, is that so wrong?"

"Look at how she dresses, and who she dances with," Tristan said.

"You know as well as I do that a lady cannot refuse a dance," Ophelia snapped.

"Justine dresses at the height of fashion. She's dressing like every other woman in a ballroom," Eleanor said, feeling rather protective of Justine.

Lady Rascomb came over, her cane topped with a pretty ivory rose. "This looks like a rather heated discussion that might be best held at another time."

"Tristan is finally coming round to the idea that he may have single-handedly ruined Justine." Ophelia's hands crossed over her bosom.

"Oh dear. Not the revelation we hoped for a ballroom." Lady Rascomb did look properly shocked.

"Not in that way," Tristan said. "Just by giving her that nickname."

Understanding dawned on Lady Rascomb's face, and did Eleanor see some relief as well? "I see. Then a deep apology is in order, dearest. But now, the music is about to start, so we ought to find our partners. Off you go."

Eleanor tried to erase her troubled look as Tristan wandered off to find Lady Emily. Tristan's behavior was rather horrible. How could anyone be so callous? And to poor Justine who was so full of life? Could she really be falling for a man who would perpetrate the downfall of a young lady for no other reason than malice?

As Lord Berringbone approached her for the first dance, she gave him a polite smile. It was an honor to have the first dance with the host, and he was indeed signaling his acceptance of her by opening the party with her. She wondered how her parents had managed it.

Her parents were dancing together, this first dance, which was nice to see. Her mother's health had not always permitted her to go out, and her father was often too busy with work to find the time for social functions.

"Are you enjoying the Ladies' Alpine Society?" Lord Berringbone asked.

"I am very much, my lord," she answered, feeling oddly swept up in the moment. Here she was, in the country, dancing with a nobleman. How strange for a girl who spent most of her time down at the docks.

"You seem to have fit in nicely with the other young ladies," he observed.

"Your sister is very generous with her knowledge and her kindness. She's an excellent leader. I have no qualms about her expedition."

"So you'll be ready to climb Ben Nevis in a month's time?" He looked down at her, and the kindness she saw there made him more handsome than he'd seemed before.

Before they'd danced, he was so aloof that she hadn't known what to think of him. He was like a less handsome version of Tristan, who was so near to an English ideal that she didn't know of a man, living or dead, that could surpass him. But knowing Tristan's past behavior, and experiencing Lord Berringbone's kindness, she couldn't help but wonder if it was indeed the other way around. That the elder brother was the better of the two.

"I believe I will be. I need to keep up the physical conditioning that Ophelia has prescribed, but that shouldn't be too much trouble. Lord Rascomb is going over the packing lists for everyone. I think I'm most nervous about forgetting something."

"Understandable. It's quite an undertaking. You did not mind sleeping out under the stars?"

"The first night I wasn't sure about it—I thought we'd at least have a tent. But after that, I was too tired to care, or too enamored with the stars to be bothered." Lord Rascomb explained how heavy a tent was, and how they ought to acclimate to sleeping in the open. They wouldn't always, but in a safe place like the ruins of Berringbone Hold, they could manage.

Lord Berringbone smiled, increasing his attractiveness once again. "I do enjoy sleeping out under the stars. It feels so freeing, somehow."

Eleanor smiled in return. "I agree completely. The expectations of the world seem far away, and the stars seem so close."

"Exactly," he said.

Their connection was real, and they smiled at one another, an acknowledgment of a moment shared. Eleanor wondered if she'd allowed the wrong brother to kiss her.