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His expression was sad, but he smiled and his gloved hand cupped her face. “I hope you will not rescind your friendship. I do enjoy your company, Miss Harcourt. Not just for the thoughts of this nature.”
“I could never. I … I enjoy yours as well.” The significance of what he said struck her a mere moment after the words left her lips. Friendship. But of course, Elinor.
He sighed, letting his hand fall, though she wished it had stayed. Every moment was a step back toward the cold reality where she had no right to the ache inside her, or the fantasy of his arms around her. “Even though I’m quite the monster just now? My feelings at the moment are terribly uncharitable toward your cousin, and selfish in regard to your person.”
“My cousin? Why should Arabella— Oh!” The reminder of Henry should have been a slap to the face. But, for the first time in she didn’t know how long, she didn’t worry what he might say if he found out. Nothing much seemed to matter beyond the pit in her stomach. “You needn’t worry, my lord. I have no intention of rescinding anything.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” He sat back, taking the reins into both hands once more. “Now, let us find a better view than this meadow. And ensure that Beryl hasn’t thrown poor Miss Weston. I do not think Lady Summersby could cope if her new lieutenant was out of action for the ball.”
Elinor laughed, nodding her agreement, and settling back into her seat. As far as she was concerned, the meadow was the most beautiful view she’d ever seen. Even as they put it behind them, she had a strange, exciting—and terrifying—realization. She dared to glance up at Asherton again, her soft smile growing as warmth enveloped her.
“Elinor?” She tore her eyes away from the Earl and turned her head to look at her cousin. When had they caught back up to her? “Are you well?” Arabella asked with the barest hint of a smirk, reining in the prancing mare with expert ease. “Your cheeks are awfully pink.”
She lifted a hand to her face to cover one of them. “I’m sure it’s just the wind, Bella. I promise, I have not felt so well in ages.”
Arabella grinned and, pointing her chin toward the horizon, she said, “I knew you only needed some fresh air,” before spurring Beryl toward Saunders. “Let’s race back to the crossroad, Saunders!”
Chapter Seven
Merfield’s library was a bright, well-lit room with two large windows and a white marble fireplace one could roast a stag in, if Evelina ever allowed such barbarity near her books. The overflowing shelves occupied so much of the walls that one might miss their pale-yellow paint altogether, but not the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling or the imposing bust of Marcus Aurelius presiding over the mantle and stag-free hearth. Two high-backed chairs sat close beneath the emperor’s stoic gaze, as empty as his fireplace. Tristan turned to the room’s farthest end and found his quarry. Evelina sat in a window seat, wrapped in a heavy green wool shawl, her dark hair hidden under a lace cap as white as her complexion.
“Is that mine or Summersby’s?” Tristan asked from the doorway, removing his gloves and running a hand through his hair, as if that would banish the last hints of his folly with Miss Harcourt. If only it worked. The ache in his chest felt so raw he feared even his powers of dissembling would fail. Evelina was sewing a label into a shirt whose dimensions and material he did not recognize. But then, she’d made him several new ones lately.
“Yours, of course. You’ll be back in London before he is.” She snipped a thread and looked up, smiling. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“I haven’t.”
Her lips thinned. “The new Duke of Wellington can manage without you at his side.”
“Of course. But he prefers yelling at men he chose himself for the purpose.” Tristan crossed the well-polished wood floor toward her. “Sadly, he’s quite fond of raking me over the coals. It’s among his favorite hobbies.”
“He can find new hobbies now he’s a duke.”
“You should tell him so. He’ll take the suggestion better from a beautiful woman. I’d get something heavy thrown at my head.”
“Haven’t you been staff long enough? It’s time you took a promotion, Tris. You could be a Colonel by now.”
“I couldn’t.” He settled beside Evie on the cushioned seat and idly picked through her workbox. She didn’t reprimand him as he began rolling a trailing red thread back onto its spool. “I like where I am.”
“Meaning you like spying and sneaking around under French noses. But now there’s peace, whose nose is left to sneak under?”
Tristan could think of several noses in need of tweaking, but chose discretion for the moment. “As a colonel, I’ll be buried under regimental hubbub and nonsense all day.” He offered a reassuring smile. “Stop frowning! I’ll buy a commission in a couple years of tedious peace. And I shall do my best to be a general before you’re too gray to care about having more of them in the family.”
Evelina put a hand on her belly. “You could play subterfuge and hoodwinks in the Cabinet, I’m sure. If that’s what you want.”
“I’m not interested in politics,” he said with a theatrical shudder. “If I can’t shoot my enemy across a sunny field, it hardly seems worth bothering with.”
Her lips thinned to the point of near-invisibility. “You need to be more than a soldier now, little brother.”
“Technically, I’m a Peer and need only do what I want. Isn’t that the whole point of privilege?”
She grabbed his hand before he could pick up another of her messy spools to organize. “You have a duty of care to your estates and your wards. You can’t very well manage that by letter to a solicitor while you galivant across the world spying for His Grace.”
He tapped her nose in reprimand, which she only scowled at. “There’s no such thing as a spy. You’ve read too many novels.”
“Scout? Interpreter? Does it matter what label you’ve come up with this month? It’s the same task. And now you’re running thither and yon on our own soil—”
“I am hardly—” Her hand covered his lips.
