Chapter 6
Tristan laid the ancient bone carefully on the table, then took out his caliper to take and record measurements. As he did so, the whirl of thoughts in his mind refused to settle. His work gave him a deep sense of satisfaction, and it usually calmed him too.
Not today.
All that had happened in the Beckfords’ garden weighed on his mind.
Hyacinth Briarwood was ever in his thoughts—her vivid green eyes, her smile, her kindness, her refusal to blame him for causing her injury.
He wondered constantly how she was faring and whether her injury was healing.
He still wanted to buy her new shoes, or a book she might like, anything to make up for his clumsiness.
Then there was Lady Felicia. The mortification of what had happened in the Beckfords’ garden still gnawed at him.
He’d been a fool to think Lady Felicia was inviting him to a private tête à tête.
And more so to assume the man she joined in the garden was a suitor.
He now knew it had been yet another of her and Collier’s cousins, a Lord Lisle.
Having met and danced with the Lady Felicia—after making sure Miss Bridewell was in a carriage and on her way back home—Tristan suspected she would never suggest anything scandalous.
If anything, Lady Felicia had seemed nervous and and anxious to adhere to all the rules of propriety. Their dance had been awkward, and she’d held herself stiffly, seemingly uncomfortable despite making conversation and responding to each question he asked.
Afterwards, Collier had been eager to reiterate that she was everything Tristan might want in a bride—poised, proper, kind. And how could he argue with his best friend after but a single dance with the lady?
Emma had been encouraging, as was her nature. We’re inviting her, she’d insisted on the carriage ride home.
Now the prospect of a fortnight of playing host to both young ladies seemed daunting.
At the telltale shuffle and tap of his father’s footsteps followed by the strike of his cane on the laboratory tiles, Tristan laid his instruments aside and turned to face his visitor.
“Are all the preparations in readiness for our visitors?”
“Yes, Father, according to Barton and Mrs. Paxton, the rooms are tidied, and Emma has seen to planning meals with Cook. She has a whole agenda arranged for the fortnight.”
His father nodded. “Very good.”
“And you will be joining us over the coming days, Father?”
As a rule, he did not pay social calls, nor encourage them at Oakhill. Their family’s country estate had rarely had as many visitors as they were expecting in the coming fortnight.
“I shall join for a few meals,” he said, his deep voice raspy after a bout of illness. But don’t expect me to be dancing any jigs.”
Tristan nodded in return. “Understood. No jigs for you.”
His father arched a thick silver brow. “Your sister tells me there’s a young noblewoman who’ll be among the guests.”
“Several in fact.”
His father waved as if annoyed with Tristan’s prevaricating. “You know the one. A Lady Felicity, isn’t it?”
“Lady Felicia.”
“A penniless earl of a father, I take it. A noble in the family. Think of that.”
That was news to Tristan. He’d not made inquiries, and he said nothing in reply.
“Pleasing to look at, so I’m given to understand.”
She is, Tristan thought, but it wasn’t Lady Felicia’s face that arose in his thoughts.
He thought of the moment they’d collided, the softness of her skin.
Why had she been on that side path that evening?
“Will you marry her then?”
Tristan frowned at his father, pushing thoughts of debutantes aside. “I do not know, Father. I have danced with Lady Felicia once.”
“Mmm,” his father murmured. “Then this house party will prove useful, rather than being a foolish whim of Emma’s.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. He wanted to point out that Emma had gone most of her life without being able to entertain guests at Oakhill because their father preferred quiet.
He wanted to say that Emma was quite brilliant at strategizing and planning and this house party had given her an opportunity to prove it.
Instead, he bit his tongue, as if he often did when he yearned to snap back at his father. He was the only parent they had, and he and Emma were both loath to upset him, especially now that his health seemed fragile.
“It is why I agreed to it,” his father added.
“Yes, Father.” Tristan knew, of course. Emma told him how their father had requested that several unmarried young ladies be invited. He understood that his father had allowed the expense of a house party because he expected Tristan to offer for one of the eligible ladies who attended.
His father eyed him a moment. Thoughtful. Assessing. “I shall let you return to your”—he waved a hand in Tristan’s direction—“work.”
Without another word his father departed the half of the conservatory that Tristan had turned into his laboratory.
Tristan’s shoulders dropped an inch and released a sigh the moment he was alone again.
He took up his pen, returning this his notations. And unbidden, one lady’s voice echoed in his mind.
Hyacinth. She’d asked him to call her by her first name, and the way she’d looked at him in that moment had made his breath tangle in his chest. He’d told himself it was a play of the light, or his own guilt assailing him.
But now he couldn’t get that look out of his head.
It had been full of heat. Full of yearning.
“Oh,” he said aloud.
A mad hypothesis took hold in his mind. Perhaps she hadn't just been out wandering in the garden that night. She had taken that left-handed path, the same as he had. Perhaps she had simply heard Lady Felicia’s laughter and been curious. She admitted curiosity was in her nature.
But was it more than that? Had she followed him out into the garden?
He shook his had and chuckled. The thought was full of ego and presumption, but he had seen a glimmer of something in her eyes when she looked at him. An admiration that had made his chest feel warm even as he sat beside her on that cold stone bench.
Regardless of why she’d come out to the garden and why fate had brought them face to face, it had been easy to talk to her. Enjoyable. She had been understanding. Funny. Charming.
And now, he couldn't seem to get her out of his head.
Yet she was Emma’s friend and it somehow felt as odd as him trying to pair Emma with Collier.
And she was the sister-in-law of a duke, who likely had high expectations for the sort of man who’d court her.
A noble title, for certain. A long and storied bloodline.
Wealth and estate far beyond the modest comfort of Oakhill.
But he couldn't deny that he felt anticipation at the thought of seeing her again, even if they could only ever be nothing more than friends.
And, he had to admit, he liked the idea of having her here in his workshop.
Footsteps, quick and even, heralded Emma’s arrival, and he turned to greet her.
“There you are,” she said breathlessly.
“Here I am.”
“I should have known you'd be here. Barton thought you might have been in father's study, but you weren't there. Has he come to see you?”
“He has. And expressed his eagerness for me to consider Lady Felicia.” Tristan tipped his head as he observed his sister. “What have you been telling him, Em?”
She blinked. “Only what he’s asked me to regarding our guests.” Her brow furrowed as she frowned. “Are you not pleased that we invited her?”
Tristan forces a smile, not wishing to make her feel uncertain of her planning. “Of course. And how could we not, when Collier has been invited? He’s quite keen and that his cousin and I…”
He didn’t want to say “marry” because he wouldn’t be maneuvered anytime exchanging vows with anyone.
“Yes?” Emma prompted after a few moments of silence.
“Become better acquainted,” he finally added. “And so we shall.”
Emma crossed her arms, clearly displeased with his reply. “Do you not wish to marry? Father made it sound as if you are eager to do so, and the house party will help you achieve that goal.”
Tristan crossed his arms too, rested his hip against his work bench, and gave the question due consideration.
Did he wish to marry? Yes. He would soon turn thirty and the prospect of a wife, a family, pleased him. Especially now that he was satisfied with his work.
“Goodness, you’re not enthusiastic about the prospect at all.” Emma took a few steps closer.
Tristan shot her a half-smile. “Perhaps I’m bristling over Father’s enthusiasm, though I’ve never been much of a rebel. And I do think it’s time.”
That didn’t seem to satisfy her.
“It will be all right, Em. Once our guests arrive, I’ll be merrier, I promise.”
“Good.” She smiled softly. “The first shall begin arriving within the next few hours. Will come and help me greet them? Father says he plans retire early and won’t be greeting any guests this evening.”
“Of course, I’ll help.” He glanced back at his bones and tools. “I’ll finish up, change, and meet you in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” She turned on her heel, her lavender gown flicking at her heels, and headed out of the conservatory.
“Em?” Tristan called to stop her from departing.
“Yes?”
He took a few steps closer, determined to read her expression. “And you? Are you eager to marry?”
“Oh,” she let out on a breath of surprise. Her cheeks bloomed with bright pink blush. “No one has asked me, as you know.”
“That’s not the question I asked,” he pointed out, though he already had his answer.
And it worried him, especially with her evident interest in Lord Alexander Cartwright. The man was known as a rogue, and she was a young lady of twenty. But so was Lady Felicia. And Miss Bridewell.
“I do hope you will converse with him and form your own opinion, Tristan.” No explanation was needed about what gentleman she referred to.
“I will. I promise.”
She sniffed, then notched up her chin. “Thank you. And perhaps I don’t need to ask this, but please be particularly kind to Hyacinth.”