Page 11 of Courting the Country Miss

“He should stop trying. I’m sure he has other skills. Of some kind. However hidden.”

“He had some rather kind words in your behalf.”

“Did he?” Tristan frowned. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Did you know his father is a member of the House of Commons?”

Tristan shrugged. “Of course. That’s why he’s invited to these parties.”

Sobering, Richard turned a rather discomfortingly piercing gaze on Tristan. “He said someone with a fine mind like yours should consider becoming an MP.”

Groaning, Tristan held out a hand. “Oh, no. Not the you need to grow up and start doing something worthwhile with your life speech again.”

Richard sighed. “Not a speech, a plea. Grow up. Choose a worthwhile occupation—something better than the next race or card game or light skirt.”

Anger simmered in Tristan’s stomach. First Leticia and now Richard. One would think they’d decided ahead of time to beat him with the whip of responsibility during the house party.

Tristan fisted his hands. “For your information, I have nobler pursuits.”

“I have something more meaningful in mind than fencing and shooting and fisticuffs.”

Tristan reined in his temper and smirked. “One never knows when one may need to use those skills.”

“I mean a calling, a profession—anything.”

Tristan’s last attempt to hold on to his humor collapsed. “Face it, Richard, I will never measure up to your level of perfection, so stop trying to make me over into your image.”

“That’s not what—”

“Stop.” Tristan wheeled around and strode toward the stables. With each step, his frustration heated, speeding his steps, until he reached a boiling point. Veering away from the stables, he headed for the open fields. He broke into a run, his long strides taking him far from the stables, far from the house, out toward solitude.

Dodging hedgerows and bracken, he flew over the ground, trying to leave all thought behind him. Still he ran, pushing himself harder until his lungs burned and his legs ached. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t lose the demons that always lurked nearby, nor all their insidious whispers that he’d never be good enough, never be worthy enough. Never be loved.

When he could run no more, Tristan slowed to a walk. He stripped off his tailcoat and loosened his cravat, then lifted his face to the sun. The image of Mama’s back as she left him burst into his memory along with his own child’s voice begging her to come back.

After receiving a paddling for not correctly conjugating his Latin verb, he’d fled his tutor in the nursery. Seeking Mama’s comfort, he’d raced into her sitting room. He’d found it empty. The house was empty. From that moment, his heart was empty.

A glimmer of life had sparked when he’d met Elizabeth, but that extinguished. Just as well. She and Richard were disgustingly happy.

And so he excelled as a debauched bachelor. Or he would be as soon as he cleared his conscience regarding Leticia. Then he could focus on getting Richard off his back. Perhaps it was time for a Grand Tour. The continent would take him far away from Richard, responsibility, and maybe his demons. He might pay a call on his sister Selina, try to coax her into coming home. Surely, she’d painted all of Italy by now.

Tristan headed for the river and strolled along its sun-dappled surface. Idly fingering his signet ring, he watched the sunlight shimmer on the water like thousands of prisms.

His stomach’s rumbling drove him back to the manor house. As he arrived at the edge of the outer garden and rounded a topiary shaped like a peacock, he almost collided with Leticia.

She put an arm out. “What’s amiss?”

He shook his head.

Leticia linked arms with him, and he slowed his step to match hers. She said nothing while they strolled in companionable silence.

After a pause, she offered, “You’ve been running again.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair but no doubt needed a comb and mirror. “Richard gave another speech about how I ought to do something meaningful with my life. He doesn’t understand. I’m not like him.”

“No of course not—you’re much more charming.”

He looked up at the exaggerated serious tone in her voice. As he suspected, her voice had been a mask for humor; her eyes twinkled and that mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her teasing soothed like balm over his wounds.