Chapter 31
thirty-one
Tristan met his valet’s gaze in the wall mirror as he got ready for another dinner with Effie.
A dinner that made him more nervous than it should.
After she’d left him desperate to take her, he’d been too agitated to sit and work, and there was only one solution for his troubles. He’d gone to The Octagon.
James glanced at the large bruise on Tristan’s ribs and winced but didn’t say anything.
The last session in The Octagon had been intense.
A blow to the head had left him dizzy and queasy.
The stab of pain in his lungs every time he inhaled hinted he might have broken a rib or two.
But the last thing he wanted was his physician preaching to him about changing his lifestyle.
Or worse, a dose of laudanum. The pain kept his inner turmoil quiet and his mind sharp.
Laudanum made him numb, and numbness was the feeling he hated the most.
Not feeling anything was the closest thing to death.
“My lord, you might want an extra layer for the…” James cleared his throat. “There are a few cuts on your back that might bleed, and you don’t want to stain your shirt.”
“You didn’t have problems removing the stains in my other shirt, did you?”
James inhaled. “It was a challenge, my lord.”
“Fine. Add another layer.”
“Of course.” James helped him wrap a large bandage underneath the shirt and the jacket.
In his fine tailored jacket, white shirt, and bow tie, no one would guess his body was covered in dark bruises and almost broken.
His need for The Octagon had increased recently.
He had to go more often, stay for longer, and feel more pain.
After the incident at Aldersgate Station, the twitch tortured him.
“You’re ready, my lord.” James dabbed Tristan’s jaw with a warm, wet cloth, removing the tiny traces of shaving cream. “If I may.”
Tristan shot him a glare. “What?”
James swallowed a couple of times. “I know it’s not my place, but you probably should see your physician.”
“Should? I shouldn’t do anything, and I don’t want to have this conversation ever again.”
James nodded, but he didn’t miss his valet’s exasperated expression.
He’d thought being with Effie would have calmed his temperament. But seeing her without the freedom to touch her as much as he wanted only made him feel more guilty and desperate.
The dining room looked pristine with the white tablecloth, the white lilies in the vases, and the white candles burning softly—a stark contrast with the constant dark anxiety raging inside him.
Harris was finishing arranging the terrine and dishes on the banquet table. “My lord, everything is ready.”
“Thank you, Harris.” He looked out of the window at the lanterns glowing in the garden. “You may retire.”
The butler paused at the door. “Mrs. Newton prepared an arnica salve for your…condition.”
Calling his addiction to The Octagon ‘condition’ irked him; it made the situation weigh down on him with too much strength.
“I don’t have any condition,” he said.
Harris didn’t flinch and left a jar on the table. “With all due respect, we’re all worried about you.”
“That’s not what you’re paid for.”
“Some duties have nothing to do with our salary.”
Pain stabbed him in the ribs, forcing him to control his voice. “I’m fine. Thank you. You may leave.”
The disappointed look in Harris’s gaze was another source of pain.
Harris left quietly, but his words lingered in the room like an unwanted guest. The other night, Tristan had promised he would change his attitude with his servants, but the damn twitch made him grumpier than usual. A headache bothered him as well.
His hand shook when he poured himself a glass of water. His household had decided to preach to him. He didn’t need anyone’s help, least of all the help of people who wouldn’t understand what he was going through.
He grabbed the pot with the white salve. The scent of flowers tickled his senses. He opened the window and was about to lob the pot into the hedgerows when a hand touched his arm.
“Tristan?”
He spun around, startling Effie who leapt back. He hadn’t heard her coming.
“I called to you, but you didn’t hear me.” She frowned at his hand gripping the jar. “What were you doing?”
He fiddled with his collar and put the jar on the table. “I was distracted.”
She kept frowning. The beautiful lime and tea rose pink gown gave her an ethereal, sweet aura, like a spring fairy, which was exactly what he needed to silence his anxiety. And he would rather cut off his left bollock than scare her.
“Is everything all right?” A long chestnut curl bounced over the crook of her neck, touching her creamy skin.
He’d never been jealous of a curl of hair.
The temptation to wrap the curl around his finger to straighten it, only to see it curl again, was too strong. He gently rubbed the curl between his thumb and forefinger, feeling how silky her hair was.
“I don’t feel like myself tonight.” The small, vague confession cost him energy and control.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No.” He held out a chair for her. “Please stay.”
She sat down in a swish of silk. “You look tense.”
“I am, but don’t worry about me.” He poured her a glass of elder water. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She put a hand on his, right over his scratched knuckles. He could avoid being hit in the face and could hide his body, but the bruises and scratches on his knuckles were in plain sight.
“What happened to your hands?” she asked, her voice sweet and soft like her touch, but devastating like a blow.
“I box regularly.”
She stroked gently the fresh bruises. “So does my brother Frank. He was a boxing champion at Cambridge. But I’ve never seen him with such angry bruises on his knuckles.”
“It’s nothing.” He’d said that countless times to everyone who had shown concern about his health and bruises.
But that night, the familiar words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could easily lie to Harris, James, George, or Rowan. He couldn’t easily lie to Effie.
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, still touching his hand. “I can recognise brutal trauma when I see it. You don’t box with gloves, and bare-knuckle fights are illegal. But why would a marquess, who can do everything he wants, risk life and limb in an illegal fight?”
He stared at his glass of water, a sense of shame gnawing at him as never before.
“And then there was that cut I stitched,” she continued. “Tell me the truth.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” He didn’t sound confident to his own ears.
All those people worrying about him were chipping away at his composure.
On top of everything else, the headache pounded at the base of his neck and sweat damped his back. His sight darkened at the edges with a pulsating black halo that made him queasy.
“Please, Effie, let it go.”
But she didn’t. She kept caressing his hand. “This is the first time you’ve said please.”
“That tells you how much I want you to stop questioning me.”
She closed her hand around his. “There’s something else I recognise, something animals and humans have in common. Fear. The eyes of a scared animal are the same as those of a man. What are you afraid of?”
He couldn’t breathe. The blow he’d received in the head was affecting him. He tried to take another sip of water, but the room suddenly became dark.