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“You’ve been pouring Dr. Moreland’s opiated cordials down her throat. She’d talk candidly to a pack mule right now.” He sighed. “And I am somewhat a professional in getting people to tell me things even when they do not wish to. Particularly when they do not wish to.”

“I see.” Evie made a fuss of trimming phantom strings from the shirt. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t seek out her company so much. What purpose does it serve if you’re set against pursuing her?”

“But now I’d like to sound her out in other matters. Like my setting her up in a house in Town as a paramour.” He fixed a level gaze on his sister. She laughed.

“Now who is no better than father?”

“All that bar requires is she not be already married when I set her up.”

“Fair.” Evie chuckled. “And I suppose her father will be quite content with the arrangement. His eldest daughter mistress to a man he served with.”

“It’s happened before.”

“Peace, Tristan. I surrender.” She raised her hands, palms out. “I shan’t press you further to endear yourself to Miss Harcourt. I shall see who else may be eligible. I have not given up hope yet of finding you a wife this Season.”

The prospect did not amuse him. “The fact is, I suspect you found the perfect wife for me, Evie.” He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. The truth hurt to share. “But not for the Earl of Asherton. So I do request you ensure she at least breaks free of the odious Henry Weston, and finds a better match.”

Evie leaned back against the wall. “I don’t understand. I was a terrible match for Summersby, if you remember. Practically no dowry, my family mired in scandal. But he loved me. He chose me. You like Elinor! You could marry her despite her lack of grand wealth.”

“But you were an earl’s daughter, Evie, and educated to run a great estate. You knew the Ton—were part of it yourself, however disgraced we were. Imagine he plucked you out of some village with none of that experience and dropped you here while he went off to fight the French.”

“For him, I’d have learned.”

“And learned to weep behind closed doors, too.” He’d seen what happened to a quiet woman of gentle birth thrown higher than they ever meant to go—Lord Wellington’s wife was a resounding example. She was miserable in company, too awed by her husband to interact with him as a wife ought to, forever spiraling on frayed nerves and unbalanced thoughts. He couldn’t bear to picture Elinor in her place.

“I see your point.” Evelina eyed him cautiously. “I promise, Tristan. She will not marry Henry Weston. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you.” He exhaled, rubbed his neck, and wished he could stop remembering Elinor Harcourt’s lips on his. “I wish I could follow your advice this time, sister,” he said as an olive branch. “But I watched so many pretty girls fall to pieces in the Peninsula trying to follow their husbands, I would prefer not to reenact that in London and Ashforde House. Find me a capable girl with the right background to be a Countess. As only Tristan, I will learn how to care for her.” Eventually. Probably.

He could at least learn to respect her, as Wellington did with his Duchess. The prospect left a sinking pit in Tristan’s chest, but what else was there? Condemning a woman he did care for to a life of miseries with her only respite their bedchamber? That was no lasting recipe for happiness. He had to choose what was best for Ashforde House, the children, the tenants, and the estates. And for Miss Harcourt.

Yet the idea of anyone else having a right to her company and pleasures was abhorrent, and he allowed himself to secretly hate whoever she wed. If the as-yet-unknown man harmed her, Tristan resolved to kill the bastard.

Chapter Eight

Merfield House, Somerset. May 27, 1814

“I hate when you take the cordial before bed,” Arabella whined, sitting straight-backed at the vanity while Hannah stood behind her, combing out her long, golden hair. She winced when the bristles caught a knot, and pouted into the mirror. She wore a rather unremarkable pink day dress, though it would be replaced soon with an elaborate and as-yet-unworn white satin gown. Elinor could not say the same of her own gown—a yellow silk hand-me-down from Mary’s debut much remade over the last three years. Of course, Mary could make rags look like they belonged to a princess. Yet, no matter how Elinor tried, whether she retrimmed the square neckline with a white ribbon or raised the hem, and no matter how many beads ornamented the waist or the back, she remained a plain wallflower.

“Was I snoring again?”

“Snoring is not the right word, dear cousin. More like moaning.” Hannah dropped the brush to the floor, and Elinor slammed her book shut, glaring at Arabella who grinned maniacally at the reaction. “So you were dreaming about the Earl?”

She’d dreamed of him the last ten nights, and sometimes during the days as well. It was much easier until three nights ago, while she had a room to herself and did not need to worry about any audible sounds that might escape her dreams. She understood why he’d not sought her out alone again, but that hadn’t stopped the dreams. Seeing him only at dinner and across the drawing room as everyone entertained themselves with cards, singing, or reading poetry hadn’t helped either. Especially not when he’d read poetry aloud, or taken turns with Lady Summersby reading parts from Shakespeare. If the man had read one more impassioned speech from Henry V or Romeo, Elinor feared for her own sanity. Men were not supposed to be that beautiful and that clever with words. It couldn’t be good for the world’s general sanity.

“That’s ridiculous, Arabella. And completely inappropriate,” she added, gesturing to Hannah whose pleasant face had turned a worrying shade of raspberry. Though Elinor suspected it had more to do with her trying not to laugh than mortification.

“And completely true?” Bella asked, all innocence.

Elinor shifted in her chair by the window, deliberately set on ignoring her cousin for the rest of the morning. “Leave me alone,” she grumbled, trying to rein her thoughts back to things she should be thinking about. Things besides Asherton’s deceptively soft lips. Or how they made her shiver. She definitely shouldn’t be thinking about his hands moving along her back, her sides. How his tongue parted her lips and sent a lightning strike straight to her very core. No, she needed to think of something else. Anything else.

A knock on the door startled her out of her guilty mind, and she sat up straighter as Hannah answered it. Arabella twisted in her chair, her dainty knuckles white against its back.

“Are you two slugabeds not even up yet?” Mary’s familiar voice called. “A fine greeting you’ve made,” she continued, breezing past Hannah. “I’ve had to come find you myself!”

“Mary!” Arabella rose and threw herself into her older sister’s arms. “You’re here! We didn’t even hear the carriage.”

“Nonsense, you lazy creature.” Mary kissed Arabella’s cheek. “You’ve decided that since poor Ellie is wounded and Lady Summersby’s sick, you’ll keep invalids’ hours, too.”