Chapter 2

London, England

The gravesite seemed to grow more beautiful with every spring. Wildflowers peppered the ground, already promising a full bloom that would wash the vast space in their beauty. Lush green grass, and even a few heads of weeds, bent under the force of a gentle breeze. The day was young and cool, just how Tristan liked it.

Everything was far too perfect, as though to spite the somber cloud weighing over his head.

He gripped the bouquet of early-blooming rosebuds tightly, not caring their thorns bit into his gloves and pricked him. Perhaps the physical pain would distract from the emotional one that had been ripping him apart all week—even stronger this morning than any other. He trudged up the slight incline stretched out behind the parish church, bypassing rows of headstones and raised earth where there were none.

Then Tristan saw it. Nestled between a bunch of wildflowers was the simple granite stone that marked her name —Maria Andrews. Already, tendrils of ivy were clinging across the letters, and he pulled them away and snapped their wiry strength clean off. His fingers gently traced the incised lettering, as though he stroked her cheek.

Her name brought a rush of emotions he'd been trying to hold at bay ever since he arrived. Today was the anniversary of her passing four years ago, when he'd lost the love of his life. And every year, he returned, bringing her favorite flowers, to cry over her grave as if he was losing her all over again. Each year seemed to get harder.

Tears already pricking his eyes, Tristan bent and rested the flowers against her headstone. He straightened and clasped his hands before him, standing with his legs apart as if that would keep him from sinking to his knees in despair.

"I miss you with every passing day," he whispered, his throat growing thick. Tristan swallowed, willing the tears to abate. He didn't like to cry, even when he was alone.

"I find my days are getting better," he went on. "I am managing. My friends…they have been a great support, as you very well know. But when this day comes, I—"

A sob lodged in his throat. Tristan bent his head, letting the tears drip to the ground before he raised it again. "I love you," he murmured. "And I miss you."

His life would have been so different with her still here. He would have had a family, perhaps a brown-haired son that looked like him and a blond daughter that looked like Maria, the way they'd always dreamed.

He would have gone to bed at nights with the woman he loved for her gentle quietness, the way she hooked her arm through his so trustingly when they strolled in the gardens, the way her gaze flew to his when amused, sharing a jest. Pain and fear would have been replaced by happiness and gratitude, as they shared a beautiful life filled with ups and downs, the way it was intended to be.

Without Maria, Tristan's life was bleak and repetitive, filled with a constant struggle not to give in to black and bleak emotions.

He didn't say anything else, simply staring at her headstone as waves of sadness washed over him. He sighed and mustered up the strength to take a step back and then finally walk away. He didn't know how long he'd spent there simply staring without a word, but he knew that if he remained for much longer, he would undoubtedly break down again in tears.

Trudging down the slight slope seemed more difficult than going up, and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. By the time he reached his waiting carriage, he'd composed himself enough to nod to the driver and thank him for waiting. But the pain lingered; he didn't think it would ever go away.

Maria's death would always be a blight on his life, something he could never truly erase. It had affected so many parts of him, not only his heart but his peace of mind and confidence. He'd watched his wife fall prey to the jaws of influenza and pass away.

Even though he was a doctor, he couldn't do anything to stop it and had helplessly watched her worsen and decline until she couldn't hold on any longer. It had broken him into a million pieces, and Tristan was still picking them up.

It had been difficult, after that, to trust his training and skills, to feel that he could truly make any difference in the world of sickness and suffering. After all, if he could not save the woman he had loved, what use was any of it? He made his medical rounds in a haze of self-loathing, for he'd been unable to save what he treasured most dearly.

Long days filled with septic throats, fevers, aches and agues, rheumatics and delusions, left him stunned with exhaustion, for he pushed himself too hard for several years, trying to somehow atone for letting his own wife die—exhausting himself in the hope of paying some unknown debt.

But it had been his friends who had saved him. They'd all gone through their fair share of heartbreak, which had deepened their bond. Pain had a way of bringing people together and he was now on his way to see one of them, perhaps the most trusted of them all.

Within half an hour, Tristan arrived at the fencing school. He'd made plans to meet with Robert for a quick round before they headed off to Redfield's, but, given how deeply miserable Tristan felt that day, he didn't think a quick round would suffice.

When Robert entered the room to see Tristan already practicing his positions, he said soberly, "It looks as if you are ready to beat me as many times as you can today."

"Then prepare yourself," Tristan responded without smiling. He twisted his foil dangerously in his hand. "Because I will not go easy on you."

"I don't doubt it."

Robert Cavendish was a no-nonsense man, with a constantly serious expression sketched into his handsome features. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he'd pulled himself up into London's high society as a wealthy merchant despite his broken background.

Tristan knew he wouldn't ask what was bothering him—at least, not yet. First, he would let Tristan work out every bit of his frustration physically—they each knew well enough the sadness of that anniversary, but there were times when actions and not words were needed, and Tristan was content merely to be in the company of his friend and allow his emotions to work themselves out.

"Let's begin," Robert said, raising his own foil.

Tristan faced him, lowering the guard over his head before he stood en guard . They circled each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. After a few seconds, Tristan lunged, his muscles singing at the movement. Robert was quick to dodge, then deflected Tristan's incoming attacks with relative ease.

They continued sparring until Tristan grew accustomed to the movements again. It became easier to put Robert on the defense after a while, forcing the other man to spar more seriously. Robert had always been the most physically gifted of the two, quick on his feet and with fast reflexes. But soon enough, Tristan made it difficult for him.

After a long while, they collapsed to the floor, heaving from exertion.

"I underestimated you," Robert commented, whipping off his head guard.

"As you are wont to do," Tristan replied, doing the same. Sweat pasted his hair to his temples, the ends a dark brown rather than their usual chestnut.

Robert chuckled at that. "I suppose you are right. Though, I'm sure you could tell what I was doing."

Making me frustrated so that I will spar harder . "It was quite obvious."

"And I'm sure you know why," Robert pressed.

Tristan sighed. The foil lying on the floor by his side, he leaned back on his hands as he looked up unseeingly at the ceiling. "I went to visit Maria's grave shortly before I came here. Today is the day she died."

"I know, which is why this is important—words are…hard to come by," Robert said, giving his friend a weak smile.

"You don't have to say anything," Tristan told him with a mirthless laugh. "I have heard it all. And it has been four years already since she's left my side, there is nothing you need to say. I am only glad to have your company."

"I cannot imagine that it has become any easier."

He sighed again. "No. It hasn't." For a moment, he sank into his memories of a time when everything had been perfect, and her illness had not ripped them apart.

Robert cleared his throat. "Well, you know I am not good at consoling others and so there is only one thing we can do." He got to his feet and pointed the tip of his foil at Tristan's nose. "On your feet, my good man."

"Do you mean to push me until I am far too tired to think about anything?" Tristan asked, getting to his feet. "Because I must remind you of our plans to meet with the others at Redfield's."

"That was not my intention, but perhaps that could be arranged. I do think it would help you greatly."

"As would a glass of whiskey," Tristan said, shaking his head and smiling.

Robert grinned. "You've convinced me. I shan't push you until you collapse then."

Tristan couldn't help chuckling at that, rolling his eyes. "As if I would have let you do that in the first place."

But his spirits had been lifted. When he raised his foil again, it was with renewed vigor, driven by his competitive nature rather than the need to simply forget. Another reason he preferred having Robert as a sparring partner was that they were equally competitive.

By the time they stopped an hour later, Tristan found himself drenched in sweat and exhilaratingly exhausted. Spending the afternoon with the others at Redfield's would be a perfect way to end his day.

They toweled off with hot flannels and changed before climbing into their carriages. Redfield's, the gentleman's club, brimmed with people as usual, and Tristan spotted a few familiar faces. He gave them his greetings as he and Robert headed toward the room they usually occupied at the top of the stairs, next to the library.

A man stepped into their path. Nathaniel Redfield, the Marques of Hambleton and owner of this establishment, greeted them with a wide smile and a gleam in his eyes. "It is about time you two arrived. The others have already begun."

"Begun what?" Robert asked as Nathaniel turned and continued toward the room. A servant fell into step, bearing decanters of whiskey and fresh glasses.

Nathaniel didn't have to answer. He swept into the room and, with a tilt of his head, indicated two men sitting at a round table in the very middle. The rest of their friends, the Duke of Thurlstone and the Earl of Embleton—Marcus and William, respectively—were already partaking in a game of whist. Tristan could instantly tell that William was quite inebriated, which would only lead to one thing—

"You're cheating," William slurred. He scratched his head, tufts of blond hair sticking up. "That is the only way you're beating me this badly."

"Perhaps you are simply terrible at this game," Marcus responded with a grin. His own ash-blond hair was in perfect condition, his brown eyes twinkling with humor. "Have you considered that?"

"Nonsense!" William's cheeks were red as he focused hard on his cards. He didn't look up when Tristan, Robert, and Nathaniel took their places at the table.

Tristan chuckled at the sight. William and Marcus had a rivalry that always came to a head during whist. It was especially amusing when William was into his cups, while Marcus and everyone else remained sober, watching his drunken attempts to best Marcus.

"You should let him win," Nathaniel said with a sigh. The servant had already left the drinks and retreated, and so he took the liberty of pouring them himself. "Or else we will never hear the end of it."

"That doesn't sound the least bit entertaining," Marcus responded. He brought his whiskey to his lips, taking a gulp. "Make your move, William."

"Give me a second," William hissed, his concentration intensifying. They all watched him before he sighed heavily and tossed his cards onto the table. "You win."

"Ah, the sweet taste of victory!" Marcus drained his glass. "Will you ever taste it yourself, William?"

"Laugh all you want," William grumbled. "Don't forget you are the first to lose our bet about remaining bachelors."

"He isn't wrong," Robert jumped in. "Though it's clear you don't mind in the slightest."

"And why would I be when I'm finally happy again after so long?" Marcus' grin proved his words. Two months ago, he'd fallen in love and married the daughter of the Duke of Amerden, despite the wager they'd made with each other to never risk their hearts in love again.

"We should have raised the stakes," Nathaniel commented.

"I would still have done the same," Marcus quipped. "Being with Gemma is worth more than any title or wealth a man can possess."

Tristan didn't doubt it. They'd all had their fair share of pain. Marcus' betrothed, Lady Louisa, had broken his heart when she'd become with child by another man. Nathaniel had always held a cynical view of love and marriage after watching his parents. William had become somewhat of a rake when his heart had been shattered by his first love. And Robert's background had been enough to dissuade him from any commitment to a woman.

Yet within months of meeting Lady Gemma—now the Duchess of Thurlstone—Marcus had willingly lost the bet to live in blissful matrimony.

Tristan envied him, especially today.

"But enough about that," Marcus went on. "I know I need not remind you I intend on hosting a dinner for my birthday the day after next."

"Did he say that because he wants us to talk about him for longer?" Nathaniel leaned closer to Tristan to ask.

"I think he did," Tristan played along, tucking away his melancholy thoughts.

Laughter filled the room. It was easy for Tristan to simply be with his friends. He didn't have to actively participate in the conversations, didn't have to make his presence known. He needed only to relax and let his burdens and worries fade away. His patients, for the moment, ceased their needy calls for his help that usually filled his mind and their exhaustive catalog of fears and symptoms.

Yet he knew when the night grew old, and he and his friends parted, he would have to face his emotions again. He was already dreading the very thought.

Sometimes, the faces of his patients haunted his dreams, and he'd wake with a start to light a candle beside his bed and scribble questions he must ask them, potions the apothecary must mix for them. He was unwilling to lose a single one…

not after letting his cherished wife slip the mortal coil while he held her limp and sweating hands, weeping.