Chapter Eight

T ristan accidently tightened his grip on Lady Emily's hands, only realizing it when the lady made a squeak of pain.

"My apologies," he said, glancing back at her for a moment. It was difficult to tear his attention away from Herringbone and Eleanor, dancing. Dancing and smiling . He didn't like that one bit.

It was bad enough that Ophelia had all but painted him as the worst kind of villain in front of Eleanor, but now Arthur was out there charming the woman? It wasn't exactly fair to have his family conspire against him.

"Are you quite all right?" Lady Emily asked.

She was the human equivalent of plain porridge. She was the color of dishwater, all over. Her hair, her skin—even her gowns were the most tepid and sober colors. Really, her only recommendation was her status—the daughter of a marquis. That kind of pedigree was excellent, even if their family had no money. "Fine," he bit out.

"Ouch!" she yelped. "Sir, please pay attention. I'm afraid my toes cannot support us both."

Tristan winced. This was the behavior that Ophelia was complaining about, wasn't it? His single-minded focus on his own wants and needs? "My sincere apologies, Lady Emily, I am distracted."

"I can see that well enough, and my toes can feel it."

That was a bit sharper than he expected from plain porridge. "I will make an effort to do better. You deserve my attention as my dance partner."

Lady Emily narrowed her eyes at him in contemplation. "You know, you'd be quite handsome if you'd stop being such an arse."

Tristan missed a step, and barely missed Lady Emily's toes. "I beg your pardon?"

"If I wasn't well-acquainted with your personality, I would mistake you as the better-looking brother. But as it is, Arthur has you soundly beat."

" Arthur ?" he asked. When did this woman get leave to speak of his brother so intimately?

"He's very kind, and if I may say so, much funnier than you."

Tristan didn't like this conversation at all. "My jokes are excellent, I'll have you know."

She looked at him with something like pity. "If you want to win the heart of the girl Arthur is dancing with, which is what I assume has you so preoccupied, I think you'd better rehabilitate yourself."

"I need no such thing," Tristan said, his pride doubly insulted.

Lady Emily shrugged. "Then you will love to have the attentions of my cousin, Miss Perkins. She's very pretty, but I will tell you from childhood experience, she is as mean and selfish as they come. I have the scars to prove it."

Tristan scoffed and let his mouth open and close as if he had any reasonable comeback of his own. He did not wish to be seduced by the beautiful and mean Miss Perkins. Part of why he liked Eleanor so much was that she wasn't mean. She was nice. "Oh," he said, when he began to realize what Lady Emily was really saying. "Ohhhhh."

She was saying he was mean and selfish. And if he pursued Eleanor, she would either reject him outright, or he might scar her for life. Or would she turn mean and selfish too? None of those outcomes were acceptable. But wait. "When did you start calling my brother Arthur?"

Lady Emily gave him another pitying smile. "Many years ago. I had hoped we would marry, but alas, my family hasn't the money."

"Hasn't the money?" Tristan repeated. Hang on, wasn't that what he had been thinking to himself earlier? When was his cynicism remotely acceptable?

"Arthur made it clear that he needed to marry a woman with a good dowry, which is something I cannot promise. We decided to wait, as my father had some investments he thought might come to fruition. But sadly, they did not. My dowry is virtually non-existent."

"But we don't need money," Tristan sputtered. Did they? He knew nothing of the family finances because it wasn't his business. He was the spare, off to do the lofty business of finding himself.

Lady Emily raised her eyebrows. "Don't you? I can't name a single aristocratic family that is flourishing. Owning land worked before the industrial revolution. Now what do we do? Give parties to fundraise? Sell our homes? The modern world is not built for the system created."

Tristan winced. He hadn't ever bothered thinking about any of this. Because he'd been busy feeling sorry for himself, and about how limited his choices were. When in fact, his father had the right of it: he had the most freedom out of all of them. Wasn't that an awful realization to have in public?

"Mr. Bridewell, I would normally be a bit more circumspect, but your mouth is hanging open."

Tristan shook himself out of his reflective stupor. "My deep apologies, Lady Emily. I only now realized the absolute depth of my selfishness. It can be troublesome at times to find the correct perspective, since we cannot see outside ourselves. We only see our own hardships, and not the hardships of others."

Lady Emily's eyes seemed to soften. "I believe they call it maturity."

"Rarely has anyone accused me of such a state."

Lady Emily said nothing, but continued to watch him as they danced.

"I assure you this is a painful realization for me." Tristan became aware of how absurd it might be to say such a thing while dancing, as it did not seem to show it as painful. But he hoped Lady Emily would understand.

"I imagine." Lady Emily's eyes flicked over his shoulder, no doubt to where Herringbone and Eleanor danced.

"Are you in love with him?" Tristan asked, blurting out the words before he could think better of it. He hadn't meant to be so forward, but then, so much of his life was happenstance and reactions, and not the product of thought and intention.

Lady Emily gave him another assessing look. "I suppose it doesn't matter."

"I rather think it does."

"Are you in love with her?" she challenged right back.

Tristan turned them so he could once more gaze at Eleanor, and her regimental posture, the beautiful dark tresses braided and tucked and curled this way and that. "No, but I think I could be."

"That's quite an admission."

"Is it?" It felt nowhere near enough. He wasn't in love with her—for that seemed too large of an idea for how he felt. But he respected her, thought her beautiful, and if he were to marry any woman, she would seem a good personal match, even if they weren't a terribly good social one.

"Your reputation has never been one of a poet, prone to flights of fancy."

Tristan chuckled. "Yes, my love affairs have all been very transactional."

They danced on, each smile on Eleanor's face a stab in Tristan's stomach. Every interested raised eyebrow of Herringbone's felt like a blow to the head. They shouldn't be getting along so well.

Lady Emily sighed. "To answer your question, yes."

Tristan's attention drew back to his dance partner. "Yes?"

"Have you already forgotten your question?" Lady Emily chastised.

Also, yes. He had forgotten. He'd forgotten because Herringbone's hand was on Eleanor's waist. Because they spoke and conversed and enjoyed polite conversation. Because Herringbone could smell her perfume and Tristan could not.

"I am in love with him," Lady Emily confessed. "I have been for years."

"Oh," Tristan missed a step, ruining the dance. "I hadn't realized."

"Why would you? What is the point of my tendre ? I can pine all I like, but it will bring us no closer."

"Does he feel the same about you?" Tristan asked. It wasn't as if Herringbone shared his feelings with him. Or anyone, for that matter.

"I used to believe he did. I'm not so sure, anymore."

"It doesn't seem that impossible of a situation to me," Tristan said. "You are both titled, of the same class, and we are not in need of money, so what would be the difficulty?"

"Spoken like a second son," Lady Emily said with a dark laugh.

Tristan bristled. "It isn't as if you are a merchant's daughter."

Lady Emily's eyes narrowed. "No, rather, the other way 'round. Why should a daughter of a marquis marry down? Why marry a viscount when I could marry an earl, or a marquis, or a duke? They have money also."

Tristan did not like this conversation one bit. "Are you saying my family is not good enough for you?"

"I'm saying that the considerations of family are larger than one person. A second son may think of love, but the heir must think of the family legacy as a whole. As a woman must as well, since she will enter into a new family, raising the next scion."

"You make it sound like my existence is such a waste," Tristan said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Not at all," Lady Emily said, her voice measured and kind. "I'm saying that you have a freedom that Arthur does not. If you wish to marry the merchant's daughter, then by all means, you should."

They turned on the dance floor, and he caught sight of Herringbone and Eleanor again. Lady Emily had a point. What did it matter if his wife was not of the aristocracy? Especially if she came from money, that would excuse a great number of trespasses.

The set ended, and Tristan bowed to his partner. "Thank you for the conversation, Lady Emily. It has been most enlightening."

"Likewise," she said, rising up from her curtsy. Tristan escorted her back to her mother and wandered off to the terrace to get some air. He sat in the dark, thinking about wealth and class, adventure, and future. Seriously courting Eleanor would have to wait until after the expedition completed, which would be several years. They weren't even planning on going to the Alps until next year. But if Eleanor wasn't a part of the expedition team, it wouldn't matter. He could court her in the manner she deserved.

The cold seeped through his trousers, and he knew he should get up and go back in. He had promised a dance to someone, though he couldn't remember who, since it wasn't Eleanor. Ophelia was the expedition leader, and therefore, the person who could get Eleanor off the team.

This wasn't the moment to go to her about such a personnel change.

"Oh!" A feminine voice exclaimed.

Tristan was on his feet before he squinted against the light of the house. "My sincere apologies, Eleanor."

"I didn't realize you were out here," she said. Her face was shadowed by the light of the ballroom spilling out behind her.

"I'm glad that you allowed me to call you Eleanor," he responded. His body warmed, whether that was from no longer sitting on the stone wall or being in her presence, he didn't care.

She stepped closer to him. "I'm surprised you aren't in there, charming everyone."

"You think I'm charming?" He liked that idea. He also liked how she sputtered and backtracked in the face of his confidence. She was adorable when she was on her back foot. He crept forward as she stuttered out a confirmation.

"I mean that it is a room full of your friends."

Tristan nodded. "And yours too, now. But you aren't in there either. And I know for a fact that your dance card is full."

"It is," she admitted, her fingers twisting the ribbon that dangled from her waist.

"Are you tying a knot right now?" he asked.

She snatched her fingers away. "It's an old habit. I do it when I'm nervous."

He stepped closer, trying very hard to keep a grin off his face. "Are you nervous right now? With me?" Because that was a very good sign.

"Well yes," she said. "Last time we were alone together, you kissed me and then ran away as fast as a racehorse. I'm afraid if you took that speed through the ballroom, you'd run over Mr. Moon's aged mother, and I don't think she can take the excitement."

Tristan laughed. "So are you nervous for me to kiss you, or for the health of Mrs. Moon?"

"Frankly, both." Eleanor smiled wide enough that he could see it despite the shadows.

Tristan didn't care who saw or what might happen. He took the last two steps towards her and tilted her head up, roundly kissing her. It was heady embracing her, the softness of her body melting into his. Catching her gasp as it escaped her soft lips was sheer delight. He gathered her up, encircling her waist, trying to pull her ever closer. Because he was wild about her, and it didn't need to be a secret.

She was funny and capable. She was intelligent and kind. She was beautiful and soft. What was he thinking, putting off a woman such as this?

Her hands pressed against his chest, clutching his lapels. She kissed him back with as much fervor. Her lips crushed against his, and when he tested her willingness with his tongue, her mouth opened.

He gripped her tighter, taking small steps back. His body was aflame, and all he could think was sitting down on that cold stone wall and pulling her on top of him. He explored her mouth, consumed by her scent and her taste.

Abruptly she pulled away, her eyes dark, her chest heaving in the most tantalizing way. If his body hadn't already gone hard a minute ago, the sight of her would undo him now.

"But—" she panted.

Tristan loosened his arms. As much as he'd have liked to smother all her protests with more sweet kisses and exploratory hands beneath her skirts, he was not the sort of gentleman who pressed on in unwanted circumstances. "May I court you?"

She stared at him, obviously startled at his question. "What?" She pulled away, out of his arms, which he did not care for at all.

"May I court you? I think we would suit." Tristan watched like a starving orphan as she licked her swollen lips.

"I'm sorry, I—" Eleanor took another step backwards, putting her hands on her hips.

Terror pinged through his body. Had he misinterpreted the signs? She had been kissing him most enthusiastically.

"I'm surprised, that's all," she said finally. "I thought you were a bit more of a rogue."

Tristan winced, remembering how his sister had protested his nicknaming habits. "I was a rogue. I would like to think of myself as—currently—mature."

Eleanor chewed her bottom lip, and it was challenging to leave her to the endeavor alone. She folded her arms across her chest, giving him a display of her very excellent breasts that were very difficult to not pay attention to. "You were a boy when you thought all of them up?"

Tristan looked up to the sky, for he certainly could not look at her while he thought. "All the ones that stuck, anyway."

"Justine does pick on you something terrible." Eleanor's arms dropped.

"She does," he agreed, swaying closer to her.

"But..." Eleanor looked at him, her eyes dropping to his lips.

"But you'll kiss me twice and just leave me out to dry? Use me up? Tarnish my reputation?" He couldn't help but smile as he once again closed the gap between them. "Love me and leave me?"

She gave him a schoolmarm's smile and shook her head, acknowledging his teasing. "I thought you were perhaps kissing me out of boredom."

"How utterly insulting." A thought occurred to him. "Wait. You weren't kissing me out of boredom, were you? As an experiment, I can understand. Being irresistibly drawn to me, also, very understandable."

"You do have a high opinion of yourself," Eleanor said.

" I don't have a high opinion of myself; these are all things people have told me. I'm merely repeating gossip. Well, gossip and empirical facts."

Eleanor laughed softly and shook her head again. "You're incorrigible."

"I'm dogged," he said, trying to catch her eye, but the shadows made it difficult. "I'm serious, Eleanor. I'd like to court you. We'll be proper about it and everything."

She considered him, and it made him want to straighten his spine and pull down his waistcoat. Prove he was worthy of her scrutiny. "I think I'd like that."

"Excellent!" His heart leapt. This was the future—Lady Emily was right. By God, what a smart girl. He should really recommend her to his brother. "I will take care of everything."

"May I tell people?" she asked.

"Why would you not tell people?" he asked. "Are you ashamed of me?"

She laughed, and dear God, it sounded like tiny silver bells tinkling. "No, I thought you might be ashamed of me. I am a merchant's daughter, after all."

"No, Eleanor. You are an heiress. There's a difference. An heiress has power. A merchant's daughter is... I don't know. Something else entirely." He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Let me speak to your father formally before we say anything. Give me the evening to sort it?"

"I can wait that long," she said. "For you."

*

Eleanor passed the rest of the dance in a daze. She would stare at Tristan from across the room, and he would look up, as if feeling the heat of her gaze, and smile. It melted her completely. Could this be what happiness was? She couldn't even remember what they discussed when he danced with her. She was no longer herself—she was far too dreamy for her practical self.

Even her mother remarked on her demeanor.

"I don't believe I've ever seen you this at home in public." Her mother leaned in and took a discreet sniff.

"I haven't imbibed, Mama," Eleanor said, wanting to swat her away, wondering if she would smell Tristan on her clothes. His distinctive scent of fresh air mixed with Cloverbee's clean lemon verbena soap.

"One would hardly blame me for suspecting, given how you're acting."

"It's the fresh air, Mama. It does one a world of good." And it did. She would climb Ben Nevis in a month. She would marry Tristan next year. Then they would climb the Matterhorn as a married couple. Adventurers together! It sounded so delightful. Right out of an adventure novel itself.

How her life had changed as a result of Ophelia's ribbon distress! She should send that modiste a note of thanks.

Tristan danced with her and escorted her into supper. They talked about mountains and knots, London and horses, dockside and Grosvenor Square. He was adept at conversation, making her laugh and parrying back when she managed to squeeze in a joke as well. Her father caught her eye from down the table, raising his eyebrows. When she nodded, he broke out into a wide smile. Her father would be associated with an aristocratic family after all. He wouldn't get to be his own earl, and neither would she be a lady, but it was close enough proximity that her children might be eligible to marry nobility.

Oh, their children. A whole new idea for her to fantasize over. She decided to not tell anyone officially until Tristan had a chance to speak to her father. Or his father. Or whomever he needed to in order to make their courtship proper.

What did that mean for a man like Tristan? Carriage rides in Hyde Park? Chaperone-approved balls? She couldn't believe that at twenty-five, she finally had a suitor. After being ignored for so long, someone finally saw her. And he was handsome and accomplished and an aristocrat on top of it all. She felt like she was in a fairy tale.

When the ball concluded, and Ophelia, Justine, and Prudence swarmed her, whisking them upstairs to bed, Eleanor didn't even feel tired. Her feet didn't hurt, and she could have danced for hours more.

"What's going on with you?" Justine asked, poking her in the ribs as they ascended the stair.

"Me?" Eleanor repeated, because she couldn't think of anything to say.

"You seem very... happy." Prudence observed, a secretive smile on her face.

Did Prudence know? "I had a lovely time. That was the best ball I've ever been to," Eleanor said.

"Private balls are much better than public ones," Justine agreed. "Don't you think, Ophelia?"

"Hm?" Ophelia asked. It was then that Eleanor noticed a troubled look on Ophelia's face. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

"Tired?" Prudence suggested.

"Yes," Ophelia said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just tired. I'll see you all down at breakfast in the morning."

"But—" Justine called as Ophelia peeled off from their group and went to her room. Ophelia's door shut behind her before Justine could finish her sentence. "But I thought we were all going to undress together, save the maids some work."

"I think I'd like to go to my room as well," Eleanor said. She wasn't tired, but she didn't think she could keep her mouth shut about Tristan asking to court her if they began talking about the evening.

"Well." Justine huffed. "Breakfast it is."

Eleanor gave a weak smile as they all entered their own rooms, one by one. Breakfast might be very enlightening.