ten
For the second time in a row, Tristan had failed to talk with Winchester. For the second time in a row, he’d been distracted by Effie’s radiance and spectacular eyes.
After the ball, he had trouble focusing on anything that wasn’t sitting and staring at the fire. Alone in his warm study, he wondered what the hell had happened that night. He’d blabbered about his family for no reason, but seeing her sweet, kind eyes, he’d known she wouldn’t judge him or dismiss him. Still, he’d talked too much.
It was the first time he’d lacked the focus and determination to complete a task. The first mistake had been dancing with her. It’d been a decision made on the spur of the moment, not to annoy Winchester. He didn’t care about petty teases. He wasn’t that cold-hearted.
Effie had looked so beautiful in her dark red gown and flushed cheeks that he’d ceded to the temptation of holding her for a moment. And he loved how she stood up to him.
And then there was her kindness—the most dangerous and attractive of her qualities.
He put a hand on his stained shirt over his sore flesh. She’d given him stitches. He chuckled, feeling them pulling at his flesh. A beautiful, excellent veterinary doctor had attended to his cut.
He could have easily told her not to bother and sent for his physician although Dr. O’Neil would have asked too many questions. But the truth was he’d wanted her to do it. His skin tingled with the memory of her gentle fingers and fast chatter.
His family had made quite a few enemies in the past years. Between Grandfather’s mistakes and Father’s aggressive economic expansion, the other peers didn’t exactly sing the Montcrests’ praise. He didn’t care about that either. He didn’t give a damn about what the others thought of him. He only cared about his family’s finances and the tenants depending on it.
But Effie had made him realise how much he was used to being treated with coldness at best and disdain at worst.
She’d revealed a side of him he didn’t like. A part of him craved simple social relationships. It would be good to chat with his friends at the club and enjoy a ball without ulterior motives, like a normal person would.
He exhaled when someone knocked on his door. Not George again. “Come in.”
The door was pushed inwards, and Rowan peeped inside. “May I? Uncle George is here as well.”
“Of course.” He buttoned his jacket to cover the blood.
Explaining the injury to Dr. O’Neil would be difficult but explaining it to Rowan would be impossible.
George followed Rowan inside, his gaze immediately falling on Tristan’s abdomen as if he knew. “Was the ball productive?”
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.” He was too tired to discuss business strategy. “Why are you still up?” he asked Rowan.
“I couldn’t sleep, and I played Ludo with Uncle George.”
George’s facial muscles relaxed as he ruffled Rowan’s hair. “He won. Three games in a row.”
“The secret is how I throw the dice.” Rowan mimicked the gesture of tossing the dice.
They laughed together as old companions. A pang of loneliness struck him. He was happy Rowan had a good relationship with George, but he’d spent hours working side by side with George and had never developed anything but a strained friendship. Business had always got between them. Different views, decisions, and the business strategies of two stubborn men weren’t the best premises for a smooth friendship.
“It’s late. I’d better leave.” George hugged Rowan fondly. “And you need to talk to your brother.”
“Thank you, Uncle George.” Rowan squeezed him tightly, and suddenly Tristan felt like a stranger invited to a family dinner.
After they exchanged a few laughs and private jokes, George opened the door and started to leave. “We’ll talk soon, Tristan.”
“I’m sure we will.”
George closed the door behind him, and the atmosphere in the room became heavy as if a pea soup fog had descended.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
Rowan shuffled forwards in his dressing gown. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
Rowan chewed his bottom lip and twisted the belt of the dressing gown.
