The evening went rather well. Wherever she went, the gentlemen parted and dazzled her with inane quips. No one dared touch her. In fact, they kept a good arm’s reach away from her, orbiting their new lucky charm as she wove through the room, tapping cards with her finger and bestowing her favor. He introduced two men from Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s list. Lord Wickham and Mr. Hartford seemed benignly charmed but not interested in a romantic way, to Tristan’s relief. Mr.Hartford had a vast fortune and the good looks of a lad with a robust family tree, a strong jaw, and a full head of light brown hair. Lord Wickham had bowed over her hand, and that was the extent of his attention on her.
At the end of the evening, they retreated to the ladies’ gallery. The third evening and the fourth went the same. Nothing eventful happened, and Flick was enjoying herself. The Den was crowded with her admirers, begging for her to touch their cards or throw their dice. Whether they won or lost didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d like a cup of tea before I retire. My mouth is dry and sore from all that smiling.”
Tristan led her to a small table, holding her chair before taking a seat across from her.
She leaned forward. “I wish I could take this mask off.”
“We could go somewhere more private. Mrs. Dove-Lyon isn’t in her private parlor. She wouldn’t mind if we used it.”
Flick nodded. They left the vibrant symphony of the Den and entered the part of the house that was off limits. Tristan led her to the parlor, lighting the oil lamp and stoking the banked fire to life. He turned at the sound of her sigh.
She’d removed the mask, and now she was rubbing her hands on her cheeks.
“I might develop a permanent deformity if this goes on much longer.”
Tristan schooled his features to something impassive. “You’ve met a few of the gentlemen. Do any of them stand out to you among the others?”
She was silent a moment, and then she sat. “I seem to forget why I’m there.”
Tristan pulled the bell cord. “I can’t imagine what this feels like for you. I don’t often meet the women she intends to match.”
She glanced up at him. “Do you intend to marry?”
Tristan rubbed the back of his neck as his face heated. “At this moment in time, it seems impossible. All I can think about is getting my Lark Hall back and bringing Gwennie and Dougal home where they belong.”
“Those are your siblings? How old are they?”
Tristan smiled as he thought of them. “Gwen is twelve and Dougal nine. He’s the spitting image of our father. We all have his black hair, but Dougal is a perfect replica. It’s a shame Father won’t see him grow up to become him.” Tristan sighed somberly as he added a log to the fire. “Gwen got our mother’s freckles and her full cheeks. How old are your siblings?”
“When did your father pass?”
Tristan rose slowly. He set his elbow on the mantle. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked about his father. “It was 1806, winter, snowing, and one morning he just never woke up. My mother had already passed two years before. Sometimes I think he waited just long enough to see Dougal past his first years and then he couldn’t live another day without his love.”
Her lips parted and she stared at him in shock, but she did not say anything.
“She passed giving birth to Dougal. My father never overcame his grief. I think he died of a broken heart.”
She covered her mouth and shook her head. “To lose a parent so young—I can’t imagine the pain he must feel. He can’t remember either of them.”
“No. All he had was Colin, who could barely tolerate him or our sister for behaving like normal children, and me. Not the warmest of childhoods.” Another regret of Tristan’s. He’d been too young and stupid to understand just how much Gwen and Dougal had lost. He had to bring them home. He had to make it right. His father must he cursing him and Colin from the heavens.
“What of your sisters?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together before answering. “Belinda is fifteen, and Georgiana is twelve.”
Tristan sat in one of the wingback chairs. It was too tempting to sit next to her on the settee. “Do you write to them?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. There’s too much risk I’d be found. I’m certain my father would not give them my letters, anyhow.”
Milly appeared in the doorway, frantic. “Miss Smith, Lucia is asking for you. She’s burned her ear with the curling tongs!”
“Oh no.” Flick stood. “I have a salve for that in my room. Where is she?”
“In her room. She won’t leave. She won’t let anyone see her but you.”
Tristan stood to follow her. He wasn’t about to let her go to the upper floor, where the courtesans entertained the gentlemen, without him to guard her. Not at this time of night.
