Tristan stood idlyin the ballroom, trying to look as if he enjoyed himself. The dancing had just begun, and given that he was the spare—even if he were objectively the more attractive brother—he was ignored. It was not unpleasant.
Herringbone was here tonight, already dancing with the carousel of respectable ladies with adequate dowries and determined mamas. His brother caught his eye, not betraying anything to the wider public, but Tristan could see his exasperation. Tristan raised his cup of overly sour lemonade to his brother as if to toast his dedication. That’s what a title got you. Well, tedious time in a ballroom, some dilapidated country houses, and frustrated tenant farmers. Tristan was happy to think about mountains instead.
If Tristan were honest with himself, he was waiting for the Pipers to arrive. He looked forward to seeing what Miss Eleanor was wearing, yes, of course—he was still a hot-blooded male of his species—but also to furthering a discussion with Mr. Piper about sponsorship. It would be expected for him to dance with Miss Eleanor as Tristan’s father talked with Mr. Piper. And there was a certain delight in dancing with her, not just because she acquitted herself well.
She was clearly knowledgeable about rope quality, and yes, knots. There was information to be gained there, and he was not such a blowhard as to refuse to learn from a woman. Besides, he did like her. She was pleasant, and she thought him handsome.It was obvious, after all, that she did. And who would blame her? He’d heard it all his life, that he was the handsome one in the family, and it would be terribly false to say he wasn’t.
All in all, it was that reason that Tristan was watching the entrance to the ballroom, not for any other. Because he was not the sort who watched for young ladies. Or a young lady in particular. Tristan simply wasn’t the sort. However, he was the sort who enjoyed lying to himself.
“Looking for someone?” Francis Brewer asked, coming up for air from the card tables.
“Have you finally lost enough money for the evening?” Tristan responded, sipping his sour drink and struggling not to make a face.
“Just getting started.” Francis was Bad News’s brother, and a classmate of Tristan’s from boyhood. It was, in fact, how the girls met each other and then became inseparable. For a time, the families had hoped that Tristan and Bad News might wed, but their rapport was not suitable to matrimony. Bad News was likely to push him down the stairs, and Tristan would be apt to go join a war just to get away from her. “You seem to be unusually focused on the majordomo.”
“I have to look somewhere, don’t I? This way no young lady can later claim that I was gazing at her across the ballroom.”
Francis clapped him on the shoulder. “Or you could tell me who you are waiting for.”
“Don’t you have a boat to lose to someone, somewhere?” Tristan asked.
Francis leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Why? You want a boat?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do tell me who she is.”
“Who?”
“This lady you await, your Isolde,” Francis teased him, using the familiar names from chivalric tales. It had been one of the first ways Francis, bookish as he was, chose to mock him. It had never caught on, because none of the other schoolboys were that smart.
“For your information, it’s Mr. Piper, who, as a businessman of some experience and acumen, might object to being referred to as Isolde.”
Francis groaned. “Still with the Matterhorn?”
“Always with the Matterhorn. You know how we Bridewells are. Like mastiffs, unable to let go once we’ve sunk our teeth in.”
“After that little display at the salon last week, I’m shocked you still think Piper will give you any money. Justine says you plan on taking the girl with you? No possible way.”
Tristan felt the same way, frankly. Miss Eleanor should not accompany them to the Alps. If the Matterhorn killed avid male adventurers, that girl had no business in Switzerland. But he disliked Francis telling him what to do. “We aren’t going this year. Hell, we aren’t even going next year. She has plenty of time to acclimate to the physical demands the mountain requires. We would never put a member of the expedition in danger.”
Francis smirked. “You like her.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “You think that about every woman I look at.”
“You like beautiful women, and Miss Eleanor Piper is objectively a beautiful woman. How she’s managed to remain unmarried, I haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps just being the daughter of a tradesman has kept her from making a decent match.”
“I’m not terribly interested in why Miss Eleanor Piper has not been brought to the vicar.” Tristan shifted his weight, and then straightened as he saw Mr. and Mrs. Piper appear on the threshold. Miss Eleanor stood right behind them. Hecouldn’t hear the announcement of their names from across the ballroom, it was far too crowded, but at last.
She wore a dark wine-colored dress, her dark brown hair shining and lustrous in the light. Before he even could check his own behavior, he was cutting across the ballroom, barely able to give his excuses as he worked his way to Miss Eleanor.
Fortunately, he came to his senses before he reached them. What on earth was he doing? He’d been obvious that he wouldn’t be dancing the first set. He’d been clear he would not be courting anyone, let alone a friend of Ophelia’s. Had he lost all of his faculties?
“You look lost.”
Tristan whirled as a woman’s gloved hand snaked onto his forearm. But it was only his sister—the other one, the married one, the only reasonable Bridewell among them—Portia Preston, neé Bridewell.
“My goodness. What has you at a hair-trigger?” she asked. Her husband, Garrett, a barrister and a fellow second son of the nobility, stood by.
