Mirrie still felt frozen into position. With great effort, she lifted her gaze to seek out Esme. “I can no longer see her.”
“She disappeared in a trice.” His lips twitched. “I begin to suspect my little sister has a secret lover here at Wolvesley. ’Twould explain why she was so cross when I told her she must leave for Ember Hall.”
Mirrie was so aware of Tristan’s proximity—of his masculine fragrance of sandalwood soap mixed with leather, of the way his powerful shoulder muscles rippled beneath his tunic—that she had little space left in her thoughts for Esme.
She nodded vaguely, before realising that more was expected of her.
“Esme is surely old enough to know her own mind.” She stepped sideways, moving from the path of two splendidly-dressed young ladies who were deep in conversation.
Tristan’s smile became rather fixed. “True enough, no doubt. But I fear my sister does not share the good sense and self-discipline necessary to makeknowing one’s own mindsuch a virtue.”
Mirrie’s mouth hung open. Surprise made her uncaring of curious eyes. “Are you cross with me, Tristan?”
He turned his shoulders, shielding her from the crowd and giving them at least the illusion of privacy. “’Tis a role reversal, is it not?” He looked down sombrely before his lips twitched. “I speak in jest, Mirrie, surely you know that?”
Her heart sank a little. For a brief moment she had glimpsed the possibility of change.
“But I have missed you, these last days,” he whispered against the top of her head. “I have gotten the impression thatyoumight be cross withme.”
She could not help her gaze travelling upwards until it clashed with his. “Not cross,” she managed, trying not to stare at the fullness of his lips.
Lips that pressed against mine with such passion.
“Not happy, either.” He shrugged his shoulders with an appearance of pragmatism, before clasping both her hands inside his. “’Tis true, we wandered somewhat from the path of friendship.” He held her a prisoner of his blue eyes until she felt a blush rise up to stain her cheeks. “And we found ourselves somewhere unfamiliar.”
Is that a hint of nervousness?Not in his voice, nor in his eyes, but in a slight tremor that passed from his fingers to her.
He cleared his throat. “Perchance we need to work together, Mirrie, to find out where we are.” His voice deepened. “And where we might go next?”
It was as if the noise and bustle of the great hall faded away to nothing. There was just Tristan, holding her hands, saying unexpected things.
She could only nod. Her mouth had turned too dry for her to speak.
“So you will not run from me, after the ball? You will stay close so we can talk?”
Now she saw urgency and sincerity in his eyes. Real, not imagined. She would ne’er have imagined this.
“So we can be truthful,” he whispered, leaning so close she could see a faint line of stubble on his bronzed cheeks.
“I would like that,” she managed to say. “After the ball. Not here.”
God’s bones, she could not have this conversation in front of so many witnesses. Not when she was also expected to dance and dine and smile.
Tristan waved to a servant and took two goblets of mead from a tray.
“To us.” He passed one to her and held the other high.
“I do not think we should make such a toast,” Mirrie said quickly. She did not think she should partake of too much mead either. She knew well enough how potent the brews were at Wolvesley.
“To our success in opening the ball.” Tristan drained his goblet with a flourish. “My mother has been gesticulating at me e’er since you and Esme entered the room.”
Mirrie was instantly flustered. “Then we should take our positions.” Her hand trembled as she pushed her goblet, still full, back onto the tray of the bewildered servant.
Tristan winked. “Without delay.”
He led her to the centre of the large dance floor. Usually this space was cluttered with tables and chairs, but all had been pushed back for the evening to allow space for dancing. The vast fireplace had been left unlit, but in place of blazing logs, blood-red roses had been arranged amidst the granite stone. The musicians paused, waiting for Tristan’s nod, and the assembled guests fell to silence. Mirrie felt her limbs tingle with a feverish mix of nerves and excitement. This was all she had dreamed of and more.
She was about to dance with Tristan.
