“I’ve lost her,” Tristan said at last, the words landing with the finality of a signed death warrant.
Henry did not pretend confusion. “Lady Lavinia.”
“In three days, she’ll be married to Dawnford.”
Henry made a low noise, part laugh, part curse. “Is she so eager to be a countess, or is it merely a matter of survival?”
Tristan looked up. “She does it for her sister. For her family. She would have never—” He stopped, the sentence broken before it could betray more than he intended.
Henry nodded, then took a measured sip of his own drink. “Is that what’s destroying you? That she sacrifices for others? Or is it the man she is to marry?”
Tristan swallowed, the glass trembling as he set it down. “Dawnford will crush her. She is not—she cannot?—”
“Then do something about it.” Henry’s voice was calm, but beneath it was an old, hot anger, banked and ready for fuel.
Tristan looked at the wall, at the dancing lamplight, at the way his own hands looked foreign in this new, unfamiliar sorrow.
“She was the woman at the masquerade.” He said it as if he were confessing to murder. “The one from Scarfield’s Ball. And I, like a blind fool, did not see it until she walked away from me forever.”
Henry absorbed this without surprise. “That was a memorable night, as I recall. I thought you’d been enchanted, but you denied it so fiercely I assumed it was only the wine.”
“It was never the wine,” Tristan said, and for the first time, his voice cracked.
Henry, not given to sentiment, leaned forward anyway, elbows braced on his knees. “If it’s her, and if you care, why let her go?”
“Because I do not know how to keep her,” Tristan said. “I tried. I thought—” He shook his head. “I do not even know what I thought. When she left, all I could do was let her go. And then Sophia asked why I couldn’t just marry her myself, and I could not answer.”
The confession hung in the air. Henry considered it, then gave a humorless smile. “Well, why don’t you?”
“There are things you do not know.” Tristan’s jaw worked. “About my first marriage. About the promises I made, and why I do not intend to break them.”
Henry’s gaze softened, just for an instant. “A man can be loyal to a memory, but it will never keep him warm at night. Or give him an heir.”
Tristan let the words settle, then pushed them aside. “It isn’t that. It’s—” He broke off, unable to say the rest.
Henry waited as he always did.
Tristan poured another measure, then took it without ceremony. “She deserves love and care, but I do not think myself capable. I told myself it was enough to keep Sophia safe, but even there, I have failed. She is bereft, and it is my doing.”
“Children are more resilient than you think,” Henry said, and then, more quietly: “So are women. Especially that one.”
Tristan let out a brittle laugh. “You have never met a woman like her.”
“I have not,” Henry said. “Which is why you are a damned fool for letting her slip.”
Tristan stared into the glass, as if the bottom held secrets. “She would not want me now. Not after what I said. Not after?—”
“You can undo it.” Henry’s voice was sharp enough to cut. “Go to her. Tell her the truth.”
Tristan shook his head, but with less conviction than before. “I have never told anyone the truth, not even myself.”
“Well, it is time.” Henry leaned back and tilted his head as if he was challenging Tristan. “Unless you would prefer to sit here and drink yourself into legend.”
There was a moment’s silence between them before Henry said, “Are you in love with her, Tristan?”
The word felt dangerous, like a weapon left out in the open. Tristan rolled it around, testing its shape and heft. He looked up, met Henry’s eye, and said, “Yes.” The syllable fell like an axe.
Henry smiled, thin and real. “Then you know what to do.”
