“Ripon,” came his name yet again. This time, it was a voice he’d heard more recently than ten years ago.
He lifted his gaze to find the Duke of Ravensworth weaving his way across Persian carpets. Blonde hair muted beneath the low light of dim lamps and customary sardonic twist to his mouth, Ravensworth commanded nods of respect and deference as he neared Tristan. Not many spoke to the Duke of Ravensworth until they were spoken to.
“Ravensworth,” said Tristan. He liked the man. He took his responsibilities seriously, and perhaps himself a touch much, but what else did one expect from a duke? After all, they were treated as demigods from their moment of birth. It was a rare occurrence, in fact, to meet a duke who wasn’t entirely insufferable.
He snorted. He knew of one person who would place him in the category of Insufferable Duke: the woman with whom he was smitten. What was she doing this very moment? Though he wasn’t familiar with the Windermere address—he hadn’t allowed himself to inquire, or he might find himself driving past at odd hours of the day and night—he would wager she was no more than two miles from where he currently sat.
And he knew what she was doing.
Readying herself for her triumphant return to society—at the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball.
He consulted his pocket watch. The most eager guests would’ve already started arriving.
Ravensworth took the armchair opposite and signaled for a brandy. “How do you find our fair homeland of Albion after such a prolonged absence?”
Tristan snorted. “Entirely unchanged.”
Ravensworth accepted his drink from the waiter and held it up in a toast. “To our stubborn England.”
Tristan took a swig. “Last I saw you was in the Italian countryside, occupying a barouche full of opera singers.”
A faraway look entered Ravensworth’s eye. “Ah, Italy. How I miss her.” His gaze narrowed on Tristan. “And you? After five years, England must come as a bit of a soggy shock.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” said Tristan. “I left needing a different kind of life.”
Ravensworth nodded, discerning in his eyes. Tristan realized that if anyone could understand, it would be this man—a man who had been a duke from the moment of his birth.
“But now that I’ve returned,” Tristan continued. “I think maybe I’ve brought what I need from that life back with me.” A beat. “But also I feel ready for a life different from those other two lives.”
“The next chapter.”
Tristan nodded. That was it exactly. Though he wasn’t certain what that chapter entailed precisely, a certain face kept appearing in his mind when he thought about it.
He shook the image away.
She’d said no.
“Our mutual friends the Windermeres are in Town,” said Ravensworth, as if he’d peered into Tristan’s mind.
“Oh?” Tristan tried to sound aloof.
“They arrived about a fortnight ago.”
“Hmm.” This wasn’t new information.
“Interesting timing that you returned only a few days later.”
Tristan didn’t like the way Ravensworth was watching him, as if he knew something.
“Is it?” Tristan wouldn’t be sharing the details—or secrets—of his interior life with Ravensworth.
“They’re attending the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball tonight.”
“There is no shortage of nightly entertainments this time of year,” said Tristan coolly.
“I’m giving it a pass,” said Ravensworth. “You?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
