“See?Barm heids.”
Her lips twitched. “What is a barm heid?”
“An idiot. A fool. There is foam where their brain should be.”
She covered her mouth as she laughed. “I think I understand. Are you Scottish, Mr. Chase?”
Tristan rolled his neck, a flush likely giving him away if she could see it in this lower light.
“Perhaps.”
“Is that knowledge a secret?”
Tristan raised his hand to summon a footman and ordered tea. “Maybe another time I’ll tell you.”
“Why not right now?”
“You should focus on looking over the gentlemen.”
“According to you, they are not worth my time.”
He shrugged. “I can tell you who they are if one catches your eye.”
She dipped her head and bit her bottom lip. “Catches my eye? How am I to know what sort of men they are?”
Tristan could sense her rising panic. “I will tell you. I know everyone’s secrets, remember?”
“Except mine.”
He ground his teeth. How had she gotten under his skin? He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t personal. “No, not yours.” He reached across the small table and put his hands over hers.
She froze, her gaze on his hand.
Tristan pulled his hand away. “Apologies.”
“No—it’s all right. I’m just... To say I’m sheltered is an understatement.”
Now she revealed something. Would she tell him more? End this misery?
“Understandable, given your father’s profession.”
She softly shook her head, as if shaking a thought free. “The notion that I have to marry someone based on so little...”
“Marriages are arranged all the time.”
“Oh? You’d be fine with marrying a stranger?”
“Marriage isn’t something I can afford. I have more pressing matters.”
She huffed out a laugh and rested her cheek on her hand, elbow perched on the table. “Your pressing secrets?”
He could easily be irritated by that remark, but he watched her carefully. The stiffness in her shoulders, the fluttering pulse in her neck. If he revealed something to her, would she return that good faith? Was it worth the risk?
“See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand,” a voice called from below. “O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”
Her head snapped up and she looked down to the gaming floor. Tristan did the same.
“Sir Elliot,” Tristan grumbled. “Bloody Shakespeare?” The nobleman in question stood with his hand raised toward the gallery, towardFlick, his top hat over his heart.
