thirty-one
Tristan met his valet’s gaze in the wall mirror as he got ready for another dinner with Effie. A dinner that made him more nervous than it should. After she’d left him desperate to take her, he’d been too agitated to sit and work, and there was only one solution for his troubles. He’d gone to The Octagon.
James glanced at the large bruise on Tristan’s ribs and winced but didn’t say anything.
The last session in The Octagon had been intense. A blow to the head had left him dizzy and queasy. The stab of pain in his lungs every time he inhaled hinted he might have broken a rib or two. But the last thing he wanted was his physician preaching to him about changing his lifestyle. Or worse, a dose of laudanum. The pain kept his inner turmoil quiet and his mind sharp. Laudanum made him numb, and numbness was the feeling he hated the most.
Not feeling anything was the closest thing to death.
“My lord, you might want an extra layer for the…” James cleared his throat. “There are a few cuts on your back that might bleed, and you don’t want to stain your shirt.”
“You didn’t have problems removing the stains in my other shirt, did you?”
James inhaled. “It was a challenge, my lord.”
“Fine. Add another layer.”
“Of course.” James helped him wrap a large bandage underneath the shirt and the jacket.
In his fine tailored jacket, white shirt, and bow tie, no one would guess his body was covered in dark bruises and almost broken. His need for The Octagon had increased recently. He had to go more often, stay for longer, and feel more pain. After the incident at Aldersgate Station, the twitch tortured him.
“You’re ready, my lord.” James dabbed Tristan’s jaw with a warm, wet cloth, removing the tiny traces of shaving cream. “If I may.”
Tristan shot him a glare. “What?”
James swallowed a couple of times. “I know it’s not my place, but you probably should see your physician.”
“Should? I shouldn’t do anything, and I don’t want to have this conversation ever again.”
James nodded, but he didn’t miss his valet’s exasperated expression.
He’d thought being with Effie would have calmed his temperament. But seeing her without the freedom to touch her as much as he wanted only made him feel more guilty and desperate.
The dining room looked pristine with the white tablecloth, the white lilies in the vases, and the white candles burning softly—a stark contrast with the constant dark anxiety raging inside him.
Harris was finishing arranging the terrine and dishes on the banquet table. “My lord, everything is ready.”
“Thank you, Harris.” He looked out of the window at the lanterns glowing in the garden. “You may retire.”
The butler paused at the door. “Mrs. Newton prepared an arnica salve for your…condition.”
Calling his addiction to The Octagon ‘condition’ irked him; it made the situation weigh down on him with too much strength.
“I don’t have any condition,” he said.
Harris didn’t flinch and left a jar on the table. “With all due respect, we’re all worried about you.”
“That’s not what you’re paid for.”
“Some duties have nothing to do with our salary.”
Pain stabbed him in the ribs, forcing him to control his voice. “I’m fine. Thank you. You may leave.”
The disappointed look in Harris’s gaze was another source of pain.
Harris left quietly, but his words lingered in the room like an unwanted guest. The other night, Tristan had promised he would change his attitude with his servants, but the damn twitch made him grumpier than usual. A headache bothered him as well.
His hand shook when he poured himself a glass of water. His household had decided to preach to him. He didn’t need anyone’s help, least of all the help of people who wouldn’t understand what he was going through.
