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“Have you?”

“I can tell you a great deal about the west field.”

“Then I shall be careful what I ask.” She laughed when he gave her a wounded glance. “You used to go very still when anyone mentioned estate business. I assumed you were hoping to be called away.”

“I frequently was.”

“And now?”

He matched his pace to hers as the path narrowed. “At present I should resent it.”

Her parents paused a few paces behind them to greet an acquaintance. Tristan waited with Lydia beside the railing. For once she had no book between them and no question about a plant to make his attention easier to bear. When she glanced up, his eyes were on her face. She looked away first, conscious of how closely they stood.

His left hand went to the breast of his coat and rested over the folded linen. Lydia watched him do it twice before he caught her looking. He lowered his hand at once. She turned toward the water, unwilling to spoil the discovery by teasing him. The handkerchief had meant enough to her to be washed and pressed twice. Perhaps he, too, was finding it difficult to treat it as nothing more than linen.

“Lady Lydia!”

Charles Harrington was approaching with his sister. He had already removed his hat when he noticed whose arm Lydia held. His greeting lost a little of its ease, but he came forward without making her wait to acknowledge him.

“Mr. Harrington.” Lydia felt Tristan’s arm tense beneath her hand, a change so slight that only someone in contact with it could have known. “Miss Harrington. What a happy accident.”

“My brother has finally left his shelves alone,” said Miss Harrington. “I thought we ought to see whether the trees were still in their proper places.” She curtsied to Tristan, then greeted Lydia’s parents as they came up behind them.

Harrington bowed to Tristan. Lydia was grateful for the few seconds in which no one required her to explain anything. Beside her, Tristan loosened his arm enough that she could have withdrawn her hand. She left it where it was.

“Your Grace. I hope your mother is recovered.”

“I am told she is in excellent health.”

“I am glad,” Harrington said. He turned to Lydia. “And your ankle, Lady Lydia? I hope it is no longer troubling you.”

“It is quite mended,” Lydia said. “Thank you for asking.”

“Then may we still expect you on Saturday at three?” Harrington asked.

“Yes,” Lydia said. She answered him without consulting Tristan’s expression. It was harder not to notice the stillness of his arm beneath her hand.

Harrington smiled, though less readily than when he had approached, and took his leave with his sister. Lydia watched them turn onto the adjoining path. He had not tried to make her uncomfortable. Somehow that made her feel worse.

She remembered the sunny room Harrington had described, the care he had taken to leave her free to imagine herself in it. Yet it was Tristan’s silence she wanted to break. She disliked knowing that about herself while Harrington was still in sight.

They resumed their walk, her parents following behind. Lydia could hear the gravel beneath their shoes now that the nearest carriage had passed. Tristan kept pace with her. She waited for him to speak of Harrington, unwilling to make his jealousy easier for him to admit.

“He is a decent man,” Tristan said.

“He is.”

“You have continued to see him.”

“I told you I meant to.” She turned toward him. “Does it trouble you?”

He took a moment before answering. “Yes.” He looked at her as he said it, and the admission left her abruptly aware of her hand on his arm. She wanted to move closer. She also wanted to ask what right he had to make that feel possible.

“And what do you ask me to do about it?”

“Nothing.” He kept his attention on her. “You were right at the ball. I had no business interfering.”

“That is not quite the same as being pleased for me.”