Tristan’s lips curved. “You’ve enough of the corporeal sort. Those London ladies clamouring for your attention.”
Hugh waggled his eyebrows in that way of his. “Can’t help that, can I? But…” He rubbed his chest with a palm. “Between you and me, Tris…of late, I’ve been thinking it might be time for something…more. Companionship and suchlike.”
“Do not all men?”
“Perhaps.” Hugh shrugged and stared at him. “But for some men it may be nearer at hand than they think, whereas for myself, it might not be out there at all.”
Their gazes returned to the mausoleum, thoughts their own, and Tristan wondered if Gwen had come here on occasion. To remember him.
He swallowed. “Is Rhys on his way?”
With a nod, Hugh waved a gloved hand in the direction of the house. “Isabelle will see that he happens to stumble upon us, have no fear.”
“A fortunate chap, my brother. He’s found a charming duchess.”
“Indeed, although it wasn’t all plain sailin–” He glanced askew. “No offence.”
“None taken.”
A gallop of hooves in the valley induced two robins to depart the mausoleum pediment.
“I’d best make myself scarce.”
“Thank you, Hugh.”
“My pleasure.” And with a wink, he skulked off in the direction of Grandfather Cadogan, who’d insisted on being interned in his own mausoleum so that a bell could be set atop his roof with a rope connected into the coffin as he’d been a little too fond of whisky and hence concerned about being buried alive. It had scared the bejabbers out of everyone when it had rung ten years later and no one had been able to explain it… Well, except Mrs P who’d happened upon his ghost in the old music room the week before.
Hugh jangled the bell, hopped over the wooden fence that enclosed the area and vanished into the copse.
Tristan waited.
Fidgeted with his scarf.
Watched as his brother rounded the Llanedwyn mausoleum with a bunch of hothouse daisies in his hand.
Noticed his boot stumble as he glanced up and saw him.
Rhys’ step slowed as he approached. “I… I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Just inspecting my mausoleum. You did me proud.”
“Well…” He wafted the daisies. “Of course. We all wished to…er.” He fussed with his jacket. “I’m here because Isabelle sent me to…” His brother frowned.
“I wanted to talk to you, Rhys.”
“Ah,” he mumbled. “That would be it.”
Tristan felt inexplicably nervous, which was ridiculous. This was his brother. Yet Rhys had forever hidden his emotions deep. Laden with the earldom at a fairly young age, a quirk of lineage had then added the dukedom, and he was accustomed to hiding his thoughts behind an aristocratic façade.
“Remember when we filched brandy from Father’s cabinet?”
“Lud, yes.” Rhys batted the daisies upon his thigh, petals tumbling like snow. “He gave me such a rollicking, said as the elder and future earl I should’ve set an example, even though it was all your idea.”
“Suggestion, surely.”
A silence fell, better than at the dinner table yet still uncomfortable. Tristan thought to just stop waffling and get on with it.
“Rhys… What has happened to us? Why do I feel as though we don’t know each other? Our bond broken. What is wrong?”
