“Only because I lost my grip on it while unfastening it from the goats.”
“You used goats to pull a hay cart?” Tristan asked, sitting up straighter.
Lady Lilliana rolled her eyes. “I was twelve and there weren’t any other animals about. Certainly none I could manage on my own.”
“You could have taken a wheelbarrow,” Henry murmured. Lady Lilliana shot him a quelling look.
“What did you need the cart for anyway?” Tristan asked with increased interest. “And why would you take it from Mr. Oats?”
“Mr. Oats was the groundskeeper at the time, so it wasn’t like I was trespassing.” She slanted a critical look at her brother, no doubt because he’d made it sound as if Mr. Oats were a nearby farmer and she’d snuck into his barn. “Besides. I needed some means of transportation for Tabby and her kittens.”
“Kittens?” Tristan prompted when Lady Lilliana failed to elaborate.
“My sister may have a history of getting into scrapes,” Henry said with brotherly affection, “but she’s also got a heart of gold. So when she discovered one of our cats had given birth in a field, leaving her and her litter exposed to predators, Lilli grabbed the cart and transferred them to our barn.”
“But there’s a steep hill behind the groundskeeper’s cottage,” Lady Lilliana said, her gaze averted and her cheeks a deep shade of pink, “so when I went to return the cart, it rolled away from me and smashed against a tree.”
The ridiculousness of the story and the imagery it evoked, coupled with Lady Lilliana’s almost bashful telling of it, caused amusement to rise within Tristan. It bubbled and grew, expanding up through his throat until it burst past his lips in a most undignified laugh. His shoulders shook and his eyes began to water.
“I can only imagine how you must have looked–” he coughed, aware Henry was laughing as well “–standing there–” he sucked in a breath and attempted to temper his mirth “–with two goats, abandoned by a runaway cart.”
“It’s not funny,” Lady Lilliana said though Tristan detected a chuckle in her voice.
He met her gaze and deliberately held it. “I beg to differ, my lady. In truth, I cannot recall a more diverting story.”
“In that case,” she said, a smirk of mischief playing along the edge of her glorious mouth, “I should tell you about the time Henry returned home without his shoes.”
“Don’t you dare,” Henry warned, albeit with good–natured cheer.
Eyes sparkling with the sort of malevolent delight only a sibling can manage, Lady Lilliana dove straight into her story, which Henry corrected at least a dozen times while claiming her version was highly exaggerated.
Tristan absorbed every word with the sort of pleasure one receives from a warm fire on a chilly night or a piece of decadent chocolate. Never in his life had he experienced such a state of pure comfort and harmony from another person’s company. It occurred to him that while this was every bit the hoydenish troublemaker he’d determined to steer clear of, now that he’d met Lady Lilliana, spent a few hours in her company, he couldn’t imagine not seeing her again.
It was madness, to be sure. Inexplicable in every way. But dash it all, he wanted to spend more time with her, craved being able to witness her smiles and that bright light of mischief that shone in her eyes when she spoke of past exploits.
Most of all, he wanted to be alone with her, and as unwise as he knew it would be, he decided to find a way. As luck would have it, the viscount presented the perfect opportunity a few stories later when he declared a need to attend to nature’s call. Rising, he told Tristan brusquely to keep an eye on his sister before he strolled away in the direction of the dilapidated mill.
Tristan looked at Lady Lilliana, his heart a frantic mess of unsteady beats. Her hazel eyes widened ever so slightly as if it had not occurred to her until now that they had been left without chaperone.
Intent on avoiding an awkward silence in the wake of the fluid banter they’d recently engaged in, Tristan asked, “How’s your leg?”
“Perfectly fine. I only suffered a brief ache which was gone the next day.” She leaned forward slightly, hesitated briefly, then murmured, “I’m glad you didn’t fashion a crossbow to fire in response to a trip–wire or I might not be so forgiving.”
Despite the jest, a shudder raked Tristan’s spine at the thought of any harm coming to her. In fact, he felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce he vowed then and there that his trap–building days were over. If Henry wanted a rabbit for supper in the future, Tristan would ask the gamekeeper to provide it.
Deciding to keep the conversation light, he latched on to her comment and quietly asked, “You do not harbor ill feelings toward me then?”
“No.”
Lord help him but there was a world of information in that one word, so simply spoken yet with an underlying edge of complication that spoke of despair, frustration, and longing.
However unwise, Tristan chose to explore it, if only so he’d have the memory of this day to look back on later, a secret pocket in time for him to savor once they parted and she went off to marry a suitable suitor.
“I realize I shouldn’t be telling you this–”
“Then don’t,” she blurted, concern and possibly fear now evident in her expression.
Tristan shook his head. “You do not strike me as a coward.”
