Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
London, Six weeks later
Tristan’s father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father had all surely set arse on the wide leather armchair presently hosting his own arse, newspaper spread before him, crystal tumbler in hand, two fingers of brandy inside, attentive staff on high alert to refill at the subtlest lift of his eyebrow.
Such was the privilege of a duke in a gentleman’s club such as Brooks’s, whose sole purpose was to cater to his every need and whim.
He’d been back in London for less than a week and was already chafing at Town life. But he had no one else to blame. He’d chosen to return four months earlier than was strictly, absolutely necessary.
And why had he done it? He’d been asking himself that question from the very moment he’d made the decision to journey home. He always arrived at the same answer.
Because of her.
It was a fact.
He’d followed Lady Amelia Windermere from Italy.
Another fact that kept taunting him?
The reason why.
He was very likely smitten with the woman.
He’d vowed never to put himself in such a position, but here he was, feeling slightly wretched, unable to eat more than a few bites of any meal, and decidedly grouchy about it all.
He couldn’t understand what it was about this state of being that invoked rhapsodies of verse from poets.
Lovesickness was a decidedly pitiable state.
Which, of course, didn’t mean he had any intention of acting upon it. She’d very firmly refused his proposal of marriage. Yet…
He’d followed her.
It was a paradox.
“Ripon!” he heard for at least the thirtieth time in as many minutes. Yet another old school chum. London abounded with them. It was quickly returning to Tristan what it was to lead the life of a man-about-town. Blasted boring.
“Ripon,” came his name yet again. This time, it was a voice he’d heard more recently than ten years ago.
He lifted his gaze to find the Duke of Ravensworth weaving his way across Persian carpets.
Blonde hair muted beneath the low light of dim lamps and customary sardonic twist to his mouth, Ravensworth commanded nods of respect and deference as he neared Tristan.
Not many spoke to the Duke of Ravensworth until they were spoken to.
“Ravensworth,” said Tristan. He liked the man.
He took his responsibilities seriously, and perhaps himself a touch much, but what else did one expect from a duke?
After all, they were treated as demigods from their moment of birth.
It was a rare occurrence, in fact, to meet a duke who wasn’t entirely insufferable.
He snorted. He knew of one person who would place him in the category of Insufferable Duke: the woman with whom he was smitten.
What was she doing this very moment? Though he wasn’t familiar with the Windermere address—he hadn’t allowed himself to inquire, or he might find himself driving past at odd hours of the day and night—he would wager she was no more than two miles from where he currently sat.
And he knew what she was doing.
Readying herself for her triumphant return to society—at the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball.
He consulted his pocket watch. The most eager guests would’ve already started arriving.
Ravensworth took the armchair opposite and signaled for a brandy. “How do you find our fair homeland of Albion after such a prolonged absence?”
Tristan snorted. “Entirely unchanged.”
Ravensworth accepted his drink from the waiter and held it up in a toast. “To our stubborn England.”
Tristan took a swig. “Last I saw you was in the Italian countryside, occupying a barouche full of opera singers.”
A faraway look entered Ravensworth’s eye. “Ah, Italy. How I miss her.” His gaze narrowed on Tristan. “And you? After five years, England must come as a bit of a soggy shock.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” said Tristan. “I left needing a different kind of life.”
Ravensworth nodded, discerning in his eyes. Tristan realized that if anyone could understand, it would be this man—a man who had been a duke from the moment of his birth.
“But now that I’ve returned,” Tristan continued. “I think maybe I’ve brought what I need from that life back with me.” A beat. “But also I feel ready for a life different from those other two lives.”
“The next chapter.”
Tristan nodded. That was it exactly. Though he wasn’t certain what that chapter entailed precisely, a certain face kept appearing in his mind when he thought about it.
He shook the image away.
She’d said no.
“Our mutual friends the Windermeres are in Town,” said Ravensworth, as if he’d peered into Tristan’s mind.
“Oh?” Tristan tried to sound aloof.
“They arrived about a fortnight ago.”
“Hmm.” This wasn’t new information.
“Interesting timing that you returned only a few days later.”
Tristan didn’t like the way Ravensworth was watching him, as if he knew something.
“Is it?” Tristan wouldn’t be sharing the details—or secrets—of his interior life with Ravensworth.
“They’re attending the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball tonight.”
“There is no shortage of nightly entertainments this time of year,” said Tristan coolly.
“I’m giving it a pass,” said Ravensworth. “You?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought.”
He couldn’t very well say it was, in fact, all he’d been able to think about from the moment his eyes had opened this morning.
“Lady Amelia worked diligently for this night,” continued Ravensworth. “It’s almost a shame to miss her triumphant return.”
Tristan grunted, but the gears of his mind turned over a few times before a realization walloped him over the head.
He wanted to witness the moment of Amelia’s triumph.
He wanted to see her get what she wanted, even if it wasn’t him. Then perhaps he’d be able to move on from this inconvenient adoration he’d developed for her.
And he had the perfect excuse. Mother would be attending the Marchioness of Sutton’s ball as the two women had been bosom friends since their come-out.
While he had no interest in putting himself in the line of sight of matchmaking mamas, his mother would likely appreciate the escort of her only son.
He shot to his feet. “Ravensworth, good seeing you made it back to England all in one piece, but I realize I’m late for an appointment.”
A knowing glint in his eye, Ravensworth gave a nod. The man might understand too much.
Not two hours later, Tristan found himself entering the Marchioness of Sutton’s glittering season-end ball with his mother on his arm. As the ballroom opened before them, he began scanning the room for Amelia. She would be the brightest diamond in a room full of rhinestones.
Mother pulled his arm close. “Can you imagine my shock, Tristan,” she began, accepting a coupe of punch from a servant, “when you arrived at my front door to play the gallant escort tonight? To a ball, no less?”
He grunted. She was teasing, and he deserved it. “The marchioness is waving for your attention,” he said. He’d thought she would go her own way once they arrived.
“She can wait,” said Mother. “Take a turn about the ballroom with me first.”
Tristan had known that tone all his life.
A capital ‘C’ conversation was coming. When he’d arrived home a week ago, they’d caught up on five years’ worth of business and dined together every evening since.
So, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t spoken in all that time or lacked opportunity.
But it was a different sort of conversation Mother was determined to have tonight, and in truth, it was the conversation he’d long needed to have with her, though he hadn’t known it until this very moment.
“I suppose you’ll tell me what this is all about?” she asked conversationally while they walked. Hers was the smile of a woman secure in her place in the world as she nodded at friends and acquaintances.
“A nice evening with my mother?” he asked, purposely evasive.
“Try again.”
A strange moment for him to ask of his mother the question he’d needed to ask her his entire adult life, but here they were. “I need to ask you something.” A beat. “About you and Father.”
“Ask anything.” She was ready.
“You never recovered.”
“That’s not a question.” She smiled, even though melancholy shone from her eyes. “But I understand what you’re not asking. The love your father and I shared was deep and true, but I did recover.”
He tried not to let his surprise show. “You never remarried.”
She met his gaze. “There are other ways to recover from the sort of loss that tries to devastate. I took to running the estates during your minority, and even these last five years.” She hesitated.
“And while I might not have remarried or found another great love like the one I shared with your father, I did have lovers.”
Tristan only just didn’t groan. “I’m not sure I need to hear this.”
“I think you might,” she said. “I’ve had discreet companionship over the years.
I’m neither a nun nor a saint. I’m merely human, and I’m not a martyr to my love for William.
” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Though you were but a babe, your father’s untimely death affected the trajectory of both our lives, but I fear you’ve taken the wrong lesson from my adoration of William.
It was the blessing of my life to have had him for five years.
His memory is a blessing to me every single day.
” She swiped away an errant tear. “But it is time, my son, that you open yourself to the blessing only true love can deliver. I thought perhaps—hoped, even—it would happen in Italy.”
Tristan grunted. The image of a face appeared in his mind—her face.
His mother gave him a quick buss on the cheek. “Think upon what I’ve said. Your happiness depends upon it.” With that, she left him, weaving her way through the crowded ballroom toward her friend, the Marchioness of Sutton.
Strangely, he felt as if a physical weight had been lifted off his shoulders, one he’d been carrying his entire life. Mother was content and fulfilled, and further she’d led a full life. Not the half life he’d always thought, but one where, unafraid, she’d sought and found her own happiness.
Now it was his turn to follow her lead. Though it did occur to him that he’d likely bungled his chance in Italy.
Again, he scanned the ballroom, his height allowing him an unimpeded view. No sign of unruly platinum curls anywhere.
“Ripon!” came a voice with the sound of Eton about it. Yet another old school chum. They seemed to be multiplying, for he found himself surrounded by five or so of them. “Join us in the card room. Old Flicksy is getting a game of loo going.”
Tristan opened his mouth to refuse and closed it.
If he didn’t go with these men to the card room, then his only other option was to stand here like a lovesick swain and become an object of attack for the matchmaking mamas who had begun to cast calculating glances in his direction. Better to retreat now.
And, really, when he thought about it, what had he expected to say to Amelia as she basked in her moment of triumph? Propose marriage again?
He snorted. Not bloody likely.
She’d made her feelings on that matter very clear.
Impossibly, he grew grouchier. He would turn into a bear by the end of the night at this rate.
So, he nodded and took himself off to the card room, even if he might’ve given the ballroom one last quick scan on his way out.