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“You wouldn’t dare.”

The arc of Tristan’s brow said otherwise. “Care to make a wager?”

“Please, don’t start that again, Tristan,” Cecilia pleaded. “Cav, you did promise me you wouldn’t do anything with our elder sister’s health already so delicate.”

“I was tired.” His shoulders slumped. “And sick of all you boring grownups thinking about kissing and wives.”

“And you weren’t at all trying to get Miss Weston’s attention, of course,” Tristan said with dripping sarcasm. Cav’s cheeks burned an extra shade of scarlet, but he stayed miraculously silent.

Elinor threaded her colder fingers through Tristan’s. “I hear you are quite an accomplished musician, Cecilia.”

“I … am often asked to play.” Cecilia glanced at Tristan before continuing, as if unsure she was allowed to answer. Elinor found herself wondering exactly what sort of rule his father had over the household. When Tristan didn’t object, Cecilia continued, “There hasn’t been much chance since Father got word of A-Arthur’s death. And then everything else happened so quickly.” She cleared her throat, touching the band of black ribbon on her sleeve. “Our great-aunt, Lady Hartfell, said we must be very strict about mourning with so much misfortune about.”

“I am very sorry about your father and brothers,” Elinor said, squeezing Tristan’s hand. “I should think music is quite crucial when mourning. It can express so much without words. Grief, sorrow, solace, prayer… Silence seems so cold in comparison.” She froze after the words were uttered, clamping her lips shut. “I am sorry. I speak out of turn. I only mean that I hope to hear you play soon.”

“You will hear her when we get to London.” Tristan spoke with such easy authority. “The housekeeper writes that the pianoforte has been tuned this very week.”

Cecilia’s eyes darted between her brother and Elinor. “Do you play, Miss Har—erm—Lady Asherton?”

“Elinor,” she reminded gently. “I am, ah, adequate with a keyboard. I think I’m a far better singer.” She’d only sung once or twice on long evenings at Merfield, all but petrified of going off-key in front of Tristan and cast an uncertain glance at him. He rewarded her with a smile, so she refocused on Cecilia. “Perhaps we might be able to perform together?”

“I would like that.”

“You may need to purchase new music. I fear our stepmother did not keep much of a library,” Tristan said, surreptitiously squeezing Elinor’s fingers.

“Can we play cards? If nobody’s going to sing.” Cav’s sulky demeanor was somehow hopeful as he produced a deck and began fiddling with a folded tray built into the side of the carriage. Likely more intended for writing, it was at least big enough for the cards.

“Very well,” Tristan chuckled. He helped Cav secure the tray into place and the pair amicably argued which games would suit. Elinor, who had played no more than a hand or two of whist, offered little input and Cecilia demurred any opinion.

Soon enough the cards were dealt, with Tristan and Cavendish settling into tutorials. Cavendish showed remarkable patience once he was no longer thinking of his own disquiet, and Elinor found herself distracted by Tristan’s warm breath on her cheek as he whispered instruction, the way their fingers grazed now and again, the hard muscle of his leg against her own. She hardly noticed the length of the ride until the carriage slowed and the driver called out to someone as they rolled onto a brick street. The raucous noise of a busy coaching inn on a main road crashed over them, even before the footmen swung both doors open. Tristan leapt out first, and she immediately missed his warmth. But she had to remember that they were to share a bed once they retired. Was that not worth a few cool moments now?

She waited for Cecilia to go first, but the young woman smiled and gestured with a black-gloved hand. When Elinor hesitated, Cecilia laughed. “Lady Asherton?” she whispered. Oh, bloody hell! Elinor jolted into motion, sliding to the door, where her new husband stood. One brow arced at her, but his smile remained sweet as she stepped out into the damp summer air.

She glanced quickly at her surroundings without really seeing them. The inn was old but not in disrepair, its wood frame faded, and bricks discolored in places, but the thatching was fresh and plasterers were at work on the east wing. Low conversation and laughter drifted through half-open windows, along with the clatter of flatware on crockery. It must be supper? Already? The thought spurred her own stomach into growling.

Cecilia and Cavendish poured out of the carriage behind her while Tristan spoke brief instructions to the footmen. Before she could think of what to say, her husband returned to her side, escorting her over the threshold. The warmth from the inn’s great fireplace washed over her, along with the scents of roasting mutton and vegetables, and she eagerly unfastened her coat.

“It smells good,” Cavendish said, echoing Elinor’s thoughts. A few patrons sat at the tables enjoying what looked like stew. The savory aroma reminded her of winters in Bath. Arabella often complained that they ate stews too often, but Elinor could have eaten it for months at a time without ever growing tired of it. Her stomach lurched at the belated realization she might not eat Dawkins’ rabbit or beef stews again.

“Perhaps before we retire we can—”

“Lord Asherton!” The unknown voice cut off Elinor’s suggestion. Tristan released her and spun around as a lanky young man approached from the door, his cheeks red and his hair windswept. He dug into a weather-beaten leather satchel at his side and pulled out a letter sealed in red wax. “Urgent note for you, milord. From London.”

Tristan handed the boy some coins and disappeared back outside into the light before Elinor could protest.

“Elinor, should we hire two rooms?” Cecilia asked. “Do you think we might share a maid for this evening and in the morning? They always have a girl or two about…”

“Certainly, yes,” Elinor answered without really hearing. Her attention remained on the doorway until Tristan returned. His eyes were dark as thunderclouds.

“Refresh yourselves. Order something we can take with us. Sandwiches or cold joints and bread, whatever is available.” He directed this to Cecilia and caught Elinor’s arm. “I apologize, my lady,” he said more quietly as his brother and sister, apparently used to rapid travel alterations, summoned the innkeeper or some assistant to sort out the food. “I’ve hired fresh horses. My driver will follow with ours and the baggage cart, but we must press on to town.” Tristan’s expression shifted to one of entreaty. “Forgive me? I know this is hardly the wedding night you wished for.”

She wanted to cry, and she wasn’t sure which disappointment cut deepest—the thought of having looked forward to a warm meal or, well … a warm bed. Elinor shook her head, doing her best to look amiable. Unruffled. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said quietly, hoping her smile showed her understanding more than her regret. “I do hope it is business and not some more misfortune?”

Tristan’s lips thinned before he kissed her temple. “Business. Which swift intervention may prevent from becoming misfortune.” His fingers entwined with hers for the most torturously brief of moments. “I know you are not fond of London. If you wish, I’m sure they must have some remedy to help your nerves available. It will be some hours before we arrive, and I may have to leave you in the house with Cecilia straight away.”

Foreboding stiffened her spine, and she blinked back tears. “I should have asked Lady Summersby for some of that cordial,” she joked despite feeling quite humorless. “Never mind, husband. I should have little trouble. I look forward to getting to know your sister better.” That much was true, at least. “And I am sure she will help me acclimate.”

“She would adore such an assignment.” Tristan gave her an encouraging look, but Cav returned before he could say anything else.