He avoided the last few sessions of the Ladies’ Alpine Society salons, which earned him beleaguered looks from his mother and outright disdain from Ophelia. His father said nothing. It made him wonder if the man knew. His father was by nature reticent and might not broach a subject for years if he deemed it uncomfortable. Tristan kept his head down, but still attended the weekly family dinners.
He also attended a few parties and balls, but only the ones he was fairly certain the Pipers would not be able to secure an invitation to. These were parties of the rich and the titled. He saw Lady Emily and her cousin, Miss Sophia Perkins. Miss Perkins was very pretty, and he didn’t mind dancing with her one bit. Her interest was obvious. And he was fairly certain that she was more than game for a rendezvous in a dark library or garden maze.
But he never asked.
Lady Emily tried to discuss Eleanor with him during one of the assemblies, but stopped when she could see Tristan’s reluctance. He didn’t dance with Lady Emily again after that. Hedidn’t want the reminder. Nor did he want the shame of thinking of her encouragement. If it hadn’t been for her, Tristan would have never thought to throw caution to the wind and ask to court Eleanor. It was a truly ridiculous idea. A merchant’s daughter? Not to mention the complete lack of responsibility it was for a man who had a hobby of climbing treacherous mountains to have a wife back at home. No, he needed to remain unattached. That was clear.
As long as he supported his sister’s climbing career, which he intended to do for as long as possible, then he should not have attachments. It wasn’t fair to keep someone waiting for months on end, wondering if he’d lived or died.
Ophelia called for another expedition meeting two weeks before they were set to depart for Scotland. Tristan contemplated not attending, until his father pulled him aside after the weekly meal and explained that he needed to participate in the planning, or he would be struck from the expedition.
Chastened, Tristan appeared on the Thursday as directed. He sat in his mother’s drawing room, waiting for the rest of the company to descend. He was met first with thin and angular Mr. Leopold Moon, the young financier who was tracking the finances and investments of the expedition. The man was like a walking letter opener. He was sharp and pointed, and while normally that didn’t bother Tristan at all, right now he was feeling much too raw to risk a cutting remark.
Tristan selected one of his mother’s books to leaf through as they waited for the rest of the company to materialize. Ah, drat. It was sonnets. He really didn’t care for sonnets at the moment. They were too curly for his taste. There was something about the Bard’s poetry that felt like a curlicue, or something else equally baroque. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on what made it sochallenging to like them, but he was fairly certain the shape of it in his mind was enough.
Eleanor entered with Prudence. They seemed thick as thieves now, laughing and talking. Eleanor stopped short when she spotted him.
It gutted him to see her. She was stunning, with rosy cheeks and her hair shiny and lustrous. There was something else about her as well, that he couldn’t quite place. She was clearly doing well without his interference. Pride pricked at him. He was barely getting through his days, and she was happy and hale, giving no thought to his suffering.
He should have known, really, that any woman allowing herself to be kissed out in the woods wasn’t the type to be respectable. Even if he had been the one to initiate the kiss. He had, hadn’t he? His very ego depended on him having some semblance of control, so he definitely must have been the person to start the kissing. Both times.
His body tightened in response to the memories of her. The feeling of that soft skin pressed against his. The silken texture of her lips on his. The gripping of her fingers on his chest. He swallowed and turned his attention back to the sonnets. The damned curling sonnets.
He glanced up at her. She was sitting next to Prudence on the sofa near the door. Likely because it was on the opposite side of the room from him. But it gave him a direct line of sight to her. Or perhaps she wanted to look at him, and examine his obvious distress.
Ophelia entered with his mother. Thank goodness. That meant the meeting would start soon. For wherever Ophelia was, Justine was not far behind. Tristan concentrated on his sonnets. His mother approached.
“Shakespeare, is it?” she asked.
Tristan made a very enlightened noise.
“I thought you hated Shakespeare.” His mother tilted the book with her finger so she could see what he was reading.
“Only the sonnets,” he said.
“Which,” she observed, “is precisely what you are reading. How interesting.”
“I enjoy pain.” Tristan watched as Justine entered and flounced towards Ophelia. All the while he studiously avoided looking at Eleanor.
“Clearly.” Tristan watched as his mother’s gaze drifted to Eleanor, who was as pointedly not looking at him as he was not looking at her. “Tristan, perhaps—”
“Please, Mama.” He closed the book. His father appeared, which signaled the start of the meeting and would prevent a humiliating conversation.
She held up her hands, her cane dangling from her thumb, indicating she would let him be for the moment. Tristan wished the whole thing with Eleanor could be erased from his memory. As if it never happened. What was worse was that nothingdidhappen. Flirtation and a few kisses did not a love affair make. So why was it so damned difficult to get back to some semblance of normalcy?
Ophelia stood and called their meeting to order. They discussed Scotland, as it was now only two weeks away. There was inventorying of equipment to do, the last checks for each item to ensure they were still in pristine condition. Ophelia handed out a packing list for each of them.
Tristan looked his list over, frowning when he looked at the clothing section. “Fee, why did you include petticoats, and what is this? Rags? Rags for what?”
Justine tittered. He shot her a look. That was something that hadn’t changed.
“This is a standard packing list for our expedition. Since we are six in number, with the majority female, I standardized ourlist according to our needs. You may not take petticoats as you so desire.” Ophelia spoke as if she’d practiced this speech. She likely had.
“This is not how other mountaineers pack.” He couldn’t resist a parting shot.
“We are not other mountaineers. We are these mountaineers,” Ophelia shot back, gesturing to herself and the other women seated next to her. “May we move on? Or do you need more clarification of the packing demands?”
Tristan grumbled his assent, knowing he’d lost face. Frustration boiled inside. He felt stepped on. He felt dismissed.
