Page 6 of A Desperate Proposal

“My brother-in-law is very fond of books. As is his wife, when she’s not mad with garden improvement schemes. She takes after our mother in that respect.”

“Your mother…?” Those lapis eyes flared, seeking his face. “I did wonder, actually, if your sister happened to be named for one of my favorite books.”

Tristan chuckled. “So you know of Mrs. Burney’s works?” She managed a nod, and he continued. “That is indeed her namesake. My other sister is named Cecilia, if you wonder about our dear lady mama’s second favorite novel.”

“Cecilia is such a beautiful name,” she remarked, almost dreamily. “I think I might have gotten on well with your mother, for I did enjoy Evelina. Much more than Pamela, anyway,” she added with a bit of sourness in her tone.

“Our father only put his foot down regarding the naming of his sons.” And even then with limited success, to Tristan’s way of thinking. He’d never been sure if Charles Ruthven, Sixth Earl of Asherton, had lost the argument against the boys being named for Arthur and his knights, or if he’d simply been pleased by their traditional nature. His stepmother, Eliza, certainly hadn’t kept the theme, but had saddled her son with the weighty Cavendish Humphrey Markham instead, which didn’t seem any easier a burden than a legendary table of armored braggarts when one came down to it. “But pray tell me, what part of Lord Summersby’s collection catches your eye?”

“So much. But anything written by Shakespeare. His sonnets, his histories, his tragedies… Perhaps I will not love all of his works, for I daresay I’ve not come close to reading all, but I do love a great many of them thus far.” The girl’s delicate features flushed again. “I—I’m sorry, I forgot to say… I do wish to impart my condolences. Regarding your father and brother. If it’s not too bold.”

So, Evelina spoke of more than our names. Tristan’s expression sobered. “They are at peace.” He privately hoped his father was in Hell, but it didn’t do to say so out loud. “I—”

“My lord Asherton!” A familiar voice rang through the misty, chilly breeze, cutting off whatever Tristan might have said. He turned to find his sister rushing down the path from the house of all places, another golden-haired nymph beside her—somewhat younger than the one he’d been speaking to, her hair partially fallen down and her dress a bit more ruffled. Surely that’s a sister, not a cousin? Did Evie choose two different virgin sacrifices instead? “You beast! You weren’t meant to be here for hours.”

“Some of us are capable of leaving a place earlier than we plan, dear sister.”

Evelina’s hair was a little windblown, her sculpted cheeks bright pink with the chill. While her two blonde guests wore modest white dresses and simple wool shawls, Evie’s shot-green silk gown and embroidered pink pelisse must have come straight from a fashion plate and set off her hazel eyes to dazzling effect even as she narrowed them and made a most unladylike face before throwing herself into his embrace. “Thank God you came to no harm! Summersby has gotten the most dreadful reports of a highwayman on the London road.”

Tristan hugged her as tightly as he dared. “I am sorry I didn’t get the chance to sort the problem for him.”

“I think you’ve served the nation well enough without clearing the highways as well as the continent.” Evie slid her arm through his and steered his attention back to their company. “And before you accuse me of dereliction in my own duties, may I present Miss Weston of Bath, and Miss Harcourt from Bristol, two of the merriest guests I could ever wish for. Elinor, Arabella, my dears, this is my brother, Lord Asherton.”

Harcourt? That last name was familiar. But worse, did that mean she was the cousin, and Evie was intending him to eye the young woman who appeared scarcely old enough to dance in company? Miss Weston couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and although beautiful he felt a headache coming on at the very thought of conversation with her. Bad enough trying to talk to an English girl who’d passed twenty years, but at least they generally had some idea as to the location of Portugal and who Wellington was.

“Miss Harcourt and I were just discussing your excellent library,” he said instead of commenting on his sister’s scheme, though he fixed her with a warning eye. Evie’s glinted in return.

“Is that true, Miss Harcourt? Or has he been bullying you as he does everyone else?”

Miss Harcourt’s smile was sweet as honey. “He has done nothing of the sort. A complete, and absolute gentleman to be sure.”

“And if Elinor is saying that, it must be true. She doesn’t know how to tell a lie,” Miss Weston added. This cut Miss Harcourt’s laugh short, and a brief but noticeable tension passed between the cousins. A warning? A threat? “All she does at home is read. I half feared once she saw the library, we’d never get her out of it.”

Miss Harcourt’s jaw tensed though her smile remained. “Arabella, please be still.”

Evelina took Tristan’s arm. “Well, she would have excellent company. I can scarcely stir the general out of his library whenever he is home. Yet it is still so cold out here! What say we go investigate the new package of books my dear Summersby ordered from Town. They arrived last evening. I had meant to have them arrayed out to impress you, Tristan. But you do spoil the best laid plans.”

“Would you like me to leave and return for supper?” He arched a brow at his sister, already knowing the answer before she squeezed his arm.

“In this chill? Never. We shall have to muddle along. At least you weren’t late. Cook has devised your favorite orange ice cream for dinner.”

Evie gestured toward the path up to the house, and Tristan dutifully led her where she wished to go, the two blondes trailing behind. Tristan glanced over his shoulder once, catching the effect of Miss Harcourt’s simple dress as she walked, close enough to her dainty cousin that he almost didn’t hear her hissed reproof of Miss Weston. He did catch Evie’s wicked look, and cast his own eyes straight ahead, lest he be forced to admit some merit to Evelina’s mad schemes.

“Elinor!”

He turned again at a feminine cry. Miss Harcourt pitched forward. Miss Weston attempted to catch her, but her cousin’s arm slipped through her gloved hands. Elinor’s graceful posture broke, her bright eyes wide as moons. He acted on reflex, darting back in time to keep her from tumbling into the roses. He pulled her against his chest, bracing for both of them, aware of her body pressed to his as much as the precarious positioning. The world stilled, and once he was sure neither of them would fall, he straightened his posture, helping her upright.

She quickly pushed herself away but froze at the first step back. “Oh,” she said on a whimper. “D-do be careful when you step there. It is a touch slippery. Thank you, my lord,” she added quickly, speaking to his shoulder, without quite letting go of his arm.

“Slippery?” Evie glared at the pathway. “Oh, drat. I told Corden a dozen times to see to these bricks…”

“Elinor, are you all right?” Miss Weston demanded. “What happened? Is it your ankle again?”

Tristan was more concerned with the odd pallor sweeping Miss Harcourt’s high cheeks in place of any maidenly blush. Studying the pinched edge of her full lips, and the odd tension in her posture told him enough. Pain. Fifteen years of marching and warfare taught the signs, ill-fitting on a lady though they might be.

“Miss Harcourt, are you able to walk?” He asked, his voice quiet while his sister and her cousin set to moaning about the fickle nature of gardeners.

“I don’t believe I am injured.” She shifted her weight and her expression gave away the truth. He’d seen enough injuries to know that look. “Perhaps, um, inconvenienced,” she amended.