Page 19

Tristan had no answer he could give without confirming the accusation.

The earl studied him, then inclined his head. “I shall return to my wife.”

Tristan remained beneath the portrait, from which he could see the sofa. Lydia had risen. She handed her glass to a servant and spoke briefly to the countess, who touched her arm before letting her go, and then she left by the garden doors. To follow at once would be a second public demonstration of his inability to leave her alone, so he settled the question of supper with Whitmore and spoke to two departing guests.

When he finally stepped onto the terrace, he had stopped pretending to himself that he was taking the air. The cooler air caught the damp at the back of his collar. Several people stood near the open doors. Farther along, a woman drew her shawl over her hair while her companion searched his pockets for her gloves. Voices and candlelight reached across the gravel. Tristan found Lydia beyond the terrace, at the beginning of the orchard walk.

She stood beside a low apple tree. The house remained visible between the trunks, its music reaching her through the open doors. He stopped several paces away.

Apple trees ran off in crooked rows, their lower branches heavy with green fruit that would not ripen for weeks, and the grass was damp enough to darken the hem of her gown. Behind them the house glowed, every window lit, and its music reached the trees as little more than a pulse of strings.

“Lady Lydia.”

She turned, one hand holding her shawl closed.

“I owe you an apology.”

Lydia glanced toward the house. He stayed where he was. “I should have waited until you had finished dancing with Julian. There was no reason to interrupt you.”

“Then why did you?”

“I wanted to dance with you.” It sounded worse aloud than he had meant it.

He had wanted to dance with her and had simply taken the dance. Put that way, it sounded worse. Lydia lowered her head, winding the loose end of the ribbon around one finger. “I would probably have said yes.” He had prepared himself for another rebuke. He had not prepared for that.

“If you had asked afterward,” she added.

“I know.”

“Then you should have waited.”

He could not dispute it. A breeze moved the branches above her, and when she lifted a hand to free a ribbon caught against the edge of her shawl, her glove made the task awkward. Tristan took a step, then stopped. She managed it herself.

“I am sorry,” he said. “For spoiling the dance, and for making it difficult for you to refuse me.”

Lydia examined the freed ribbon before letting it fall. “I was enjoying myself.”

“I saw.”

Her eyes returned to his face. The answer had exposed more than he intended. He let it stand. “You looked angry,” she said.

“With myself.”

“Before I left?”

He hesitated. The hesitation was enough. She turned slightly toward the house. “I do not want another argument.”

“Nor do I.”

“Then let us stop having this one.”

He nodded. For a while they listened to the music. A new dance had begun, and someone on the terrace tapped its rhythm against the stone balustrade. “I liked talking to you yesterday,” Lydia said.

“So did I.” His voice emerged softer than he intended, the admission carrying more weight than those three simple words ought to have.

“I thought perhaps we could do that again,” she said. “Without everyone deciding what it means before we do.”

Everything he had spent five years building advised a courteous refusal. He heard himself ignore it. “I would like that.”