And Tristan wanted them to talk together,truthfully.
Even as her heart galloped, Mirrie bade herself to remain calm. She had been here before. So many times she had believed Tristan to be on the cusp of a declaration or e’en just a realisation that his feelings echoed her own. So many times she had been disappointed.
But only a fool would deny the beauty and wonder of this single moment in time. When Tristan’s hands held hers. When his blue eyes shone with excitement, looking only at her. When their bodies moved as one, in time to the lilting melody of the musicians.
The crowd exhaled in collective approval as they picked up speed, Tristan’s hip against hers as he lifted her in a spin. Mirrie felt a smile stretch across her lips. She had always loved dancing and Tristan was the perfect partner—perfectly in time; perfectly accurate in his steps. His nimble feet were always where they should be; his strong arms always ready to provide support.
All too soon, the music came to an end. Tristan bowed and she dipped into an answering curtsy, as applause rippled through the crowd. His lips brushed against her cheek, so lightly she could have imagined it.
“We did it,” he said.
She smiled. She had no words left inside her.
“Come.” He offered her his arm. “We should go and find refreshment.”
Mirrie felt as if she were in a waking dream. Together, they walked through the crowd to a long table filled with drinks. He poured her a goblet of wine and she took it, uncaring of anything except Tristan’s smile and how it seemed meant for her alone.
Can this be the moment I’ve so long been waiting for?
Just then, a tall, dark-haired beauty melted away from a group of guests stood by the hearth and walked proprietorially towards them.
“Tristan,” she said. “Dearest. How grand you look in all your Wolvesley finery.”
For a terrible moment, Mirrie thought this might be Juliana, returned to Wolvesley in a gown fit for a princess. But whereas Juliana’s eyes held wisdom, this woman’s eyes seemed devoid of any real feeling. The pearls around her neck shone with more warmth than the insincere smile she bestowed.
Mirrie immediately felt diminished. Dismissed even.
“Mirabel, this is Lady Susannah Grey. I trained alongside her brother at Lindum.”
Of course you did,thought Mirrie.
Outwardly she smiled and dipped into a small curtsy.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
The woman’s cool eyes raked over Mirrie’s re-fashioned dress. “Likewise.” Her attention then turned fully to Tristan. “You must come and talk with us, Tris. Jakob is insisting he won the joust at Forbisher last summer and I just know that isn’t true.”
A beat passed during which Mirrie truly believed that Tristan would refuse. But with naught more than an apologetic smile, he took Lady Susannah’s proffered arm and was soon swept up in the chattering group. Before he disappeared from view, Lady Susannah placed a possessive hand on his shoulder, as if staking her claim. Tristan did naught to move it.
Mirrie thought she might be sick. She was glad to have refused the mead, otherwise the rolling in her stomach might have caused her e’en more embarrassment. She felt rather than saw dozens of curious, calculating eyes swing in her direction and once again wished that Frida was by her side.
If not Frida, then Isabella—who would detract from Mirrie’s shame with her pure, unparalleled beauty.
Or Esme, who would bring a smile to her lips with some frivolous remark.
Or Jonah, who ne’er passed up on a chance to comment on Tristan’s ill behaviour.
Mirrie dared to raise her eyes and look around in some desperation, but not a single ally was near. A peal of laughter from the group by the fireplace seemed entirely directed at her.
This cannot be borne.
Holding her head high, she slipped through the thronging crowd and out of the great hall. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as she marched down the marbled corridor, remembering how happy and excited she had been to parade in the opposite direction so very recently.
Not e’en Mirrie, with her low expectations of life and love, had anticipated a fall so swift and severe.
She steadfastly ignored the inquisitive gaze of Alfred, Tristan’s manservant, who was waiting in the entrance hall. But the presence of so many maids at the foot of the stairs made her alter her planned course; instead of racing for the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she turned out of the front door and all but ran down the stone steps towards the fountain.
With her sobs masked by the splashing water, she gripped the stone basin and allowed her emotions to surface. Her shoulders shook and the ribbing in her bodice nipped at her flesh, but Mirrie’s sadness was too raw to be easily subdued.
