With relief, Tristan turned towards his father’s solar, the room he was beginning to think of as his private retreat. Angus had not yet picked up the reins of earldom, and Tristan was enjoying taking on the duties in his stead. They gave his days shape and purpose.
But now, he had no intention of working, he merely wanted to be alone so that he could think more of his quest to woo Mirrie.
The stakes had just risen that little bit higher, and Tristan loved nothing more than a challenge.
Chapter Fifteen
Mirrie had neverforgotten how magnificent Wolvesley Castle looked on the occasion of a feast or ball, but on this day, the opulence and grandeur held a special significance for her.
Firstly, because she had never before opened a Wolvesley ball by dancing with Tristan.
Secondly, because once events had taken their course, she might never see such splendour again.Not for some time, anyway, she corrected herself.
With that in mind, she paused for several seconds atop the sweeping staircase, breathing in the heady fragrance of wildflowers which had been wound about the pillars and scattered in vases about the entrance hall. Down the marbled corridor to the great hall, she could hear the excited chatter of assembled guests, together with the first melodious trills from a group of musicians that had been especially selected for this occasion. Liveried servants wore crisp, freshly laundered tunics paired with highly polished boots, their faces taut and professional as they offered up goblets of mead carried on silver trays. Mirrie did not allow her eyes to linger long on the giggling group of young ladies who had just ascended the steps to the keep. She knew that each and every one of them would be more attractive than she. Each and every one would be more fashionably attired.
Each and every one would wield a more proper claim to Tristan’s attention than she ever could.
Her insecurities could rise up and ruin the evening, if she allowed them to.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mirrie startled to find Esme by her side, linking an arm through hers. “I always think at these moments that ’tis as if the castle is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen,” she added, dreamily.
“That’s mighty fanciful, Esme,” Mirrie commented, though she had been thinking along similar lines herself.
“Well, ’tis not only Jonah who has an appreciation of the finer things in life.” Esme waved her free hand airily. “And we cannot all be practically-minded, like our dear Frida.”
“No indeed.” Mirrie did not try to hide her smile. Beside her, Esme was as bright and beautiful as a butterfly. No one could ever accuse the younger de Neville sister of being practically minded. Big-hearted and fun-loving; aye. But not the one you would choose to have by your side in a crisis.
But this was a ball, not a crisis, Mirrie told herself, even as her heart lurched for want of Frida’s steadying company.
“You look lovely too, Mirrie.” Esme’s big blue eyes looked at her searchingly. “Wherever did you find that luscious gown? I feel quite plain in comparison.”
Esme was resplendent in a gown of alternate deep blue overlaid with panels of gold silk. She would not have looked plain beside a peacock.
Mirrie looked down at the dusky pink dress, originally tailored for her many years ago, but updated and refreshed by Molly, who had worked night and day to make it suitable for tonight. She had expertly replaced the fur trim with delicate lacework and lengthened the skirts to achieve the flared cone-shape which was the height of fashion, even if it was also the height of impracticality. The bodice, tightened by Molly’s determination and backed up by whalebones, made it difficult totake anything more than shallow breaths. This would have to be a night of low emotion and even lower exertion.
“’Tis an old one from my closet,” she answered honestly. “You know as well as I do, that I shall have little need for fine gowns after tonight,” she added in a whisper.
Esme pursed her lips as they began to descend. “I have never been so clever as Frida or Isabella, but one thing I’ve learned over the years, Mirrie, is this.” She paused dramatically, one dainty foot hovering in mid-air. “One simply never knows what is going to happen next.”
Mirrie had been hoping for something more profound, but she covered her disappointment with a smile. “You are entirely correct.” She nodded with all the emphasis that her restrictive gown and heavy headdress would allow.
They reached the bottom of the staircase and turned towards the great hall. Here, the swell of sound from music and conversation seemed so much louder. There was a rush of bodies, bright colours and almost tangible excitement. Mirrie breathed as deeply as she could, grateful for Esme’s arm still linked with hers.
“Lady Esme de Neville and Miss Mirabel Duval,” the Seneschal boomed.
Esme smiled and nodded, taking admiration from the crowd as her due, whilst Mirrie tried to hide her unease. She had not been expecting to make such a grand entrance, nor to receive such a reaction to it. The nearest guests sank to the floor in deep curtsies and low bows, leaving only a handful of high-ranking earls and countesses still standing.
And Tristan.
Her breath caught at the sight of him.
He was attired in an emerald-green tunic which glittered with gold thread. His hair swung about his shoulders like burnished bronze, his breeches were spotless white and hisleather boots fit snugly about his muscular calves. When he walked towards her, she froze like a deer facing a hunter’s arrow.
“Mirrie,” he bowed as low as a servant approaching the earl. “And Esme.” His sister received a pat on the shoulder. “How lovely you both look.”
“Indeed we do,” Esme responded breezily. “’Twas ne’er in doubt.” Her eyes skittered over her brother’s and scanned the crowd behind him. “Excuse me, both of you, there are people I must say hello to.”
“Is she looking for someone in particular?” Tristan murmured in her ear. He had come to stand by her side, somehow taking her arm in the process.
