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“I … I did notice him as well,” Ceclia looked rueful.

“I wish he wasn’t a raving boor, but truthfully I wouldn’t wish Alex to marry my worst enemy. His wife will be miserable. His older brother might, with significant patience, make someone a happy match. Provided she didn’t mind being unhappy for the first twenty years.”

Cecilia laughed brightly. “Oh, I’ve missed having another woman to talk to.”

“Good. And I hope you think better of me than to regard yourself as merely an assistant, Cecilia. We are sisters now.”

“Sisters,” she echoed, nodding. “Yes. But you are the Countess of Asherton. You mustn’t forget that now.” Cecilia gestured to a pile of cards and letters. “And this is your kingdom, or the start of it. Congratulations from some of the far-flung family tree, and rather more invitations than usual.”

She shuffled through a few of the cards and pulled one out at random. A congratulatory note written by a Lady Fenwick. “How are there so many?”

“Tris was already an object of curiosity, and this sudden marriage may have whetted a few more appetites. Of course, you can decline most of them for a few weeks as a new bride. But the summer is going to be rather dizzy, I think. I hear Lord Wellington is still across the Channel somewhere, but with the Tsar and so many of the German princes in residence, he’ll doubtless be here soon and when that happens…” she ended with a shrug. As if this were some inevitable finality, though Elinor had no idea what ending Cecilia meant to imply.

“And when that happens?” Her voice shook. “Have I already lost my husband to Wellington so soon? Any idea when I might have him back?”

Cecilia’s teacup clinked into the saucer, and her hazel eyes—so hauntingly like Tristan’s, though much easier to read—were wide with something akin to pity. “I—” She coughed, fiddled with dabbing a napkin to her lips, then twisted the corner of it. “Elinor, I thought, um, that is to say… Did my brother not, er, explain the way of things? With his … career?”

“He said he was soon to be promoted. That he could not abandon Wellington.” Elinor pursed her lips. “I have put together that there is more to it, but I believe I am missing some pieces.”

“Ah.” Cecilia poured herself more tea and looked into the cup as if reading the leaves. At last, she squared her shoulders and faced Elnor. “I must caution you that you did not lose him to Wellington.”

“That doesn’t sound as comforting as it should.”

Cecilia gave a rueful chuckle. “It’s not. I think the better way to think of it is that you had him on temporary loan from the General.”

“Ah.” Elinor’s heart sank, but she kept her back straight, and waited as Cecilia continued.

“Tristan is not one for home and hearth. He almost never came back once Father sent him to the army. He sailed to India at once. And when he did return, he either went to Merfield or stayed with friends in London. The truth is, he would mourn Wellington or Lord Hill more deeply than ever he did Father.” She looked down at a half-eaten piece of buttered bread and turned it on her plate. “The army has been his family these many years, and I do not think he regrets the trade.”

Elinor tidied the stack of correspondence to keep herself from worrying at her muslin dress. At least Father came home. No wonder Cavendish behaves as he does. Everyone leaves this place. Everyone except Cecilia. “I didn’t know. Oh, Cecilia. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She took a tentative sip of her tea, and something of her usual calm reappeared. “Father was always, er, stormy with all my brothers but worst by far with Tristan. I had hoped he would be here more now Father’s gone, and with the title, and then you, of course.” She offered an apologetic smile. “But leopards have difficulty changing their spots, I’m told. And the Allied Sovereigns’ presence must require a great deal of diplomacy and such things.”

And such things. The phrase caught in Elinor’s head. Tristan never spoke of himself as a diplomat. He never got bellicose or grandiose about battles won or lost, either. Father talked of battles sometimes, and of sorties and scrambles, retreats and forlorn hopes. He talked about scouts, too—quiet men who found French secrets and movements. She stared at her own fidgeting fingers, twisting her sapphire wedding band.

“Never mind. I shall have enough toil ahead in learning to be a countess. If you will help me, I hope it will be a successful endeavor.” My future is secure. I have a title. I just … may not have the partner I expected by my side. And that thought stung deeply enough she had to blink away tears.

“I know my brother is most anxious for you to find your feet easily. If there is anything you need, it will be provided at once.” Cecilia’s silk dress rustled, and she put aside her unfinished toast. “We do have a dancing master who comes to tutor me and Cavendish, as one can never be too prepared for the ballrooms of the Season. You should join us! Music you are accomplished at already, and we can practice whenever you like. Do you ride? We have horses here. My stepmother left her very sweet mare…”

Of course, she left her mare. And her nightgowns. Everyone leaves something here.

“I do ride,” she said, taking a deep breath to keep her tears at bay. “It does sound like I’ll be kept quite busy. But for now, perhaps you might help me go through all these letters? I may recognize a few names, but I shall need your expertise in knowing how to respond to some of these.”

“Yes. I admit even I refer to the family trees and Debrett’s Peerage from time to time.” Cecilia grimaced. “At least perhaps now the war’s done they’ll stop promoting people every three weeks. It’s been a nightmare keeping up with Lady Wellington’s addresses alone, and I—” A knock cut her off. They both turned to find a liveried footman in the doorway.

“Lady Asherton, Lady Cecilia. Apologies for the interruption. A courier just brought this from His Lordship.” He bowed low and waited for Elinor’s acknowledgment before bringing over a small, exquisitely carved wooden case with an envelope tied to it by crimson silk ribbon.

“Thank you.” Elinor took the box, bringing it to her lap and tracing the intricate geometric design. Indian? Persian? She had no knowledge to tell its origin, save that it didn’t look very English. Carefully, she pulled on the ribbon to release the envelope and removed the note.

Tristan’s handwriting was surprisingly neat, his letters small but uniform and easy to read. Not at all like the messy scrawl of her uncle or the cat-scratch Alexander and Henry passed off as penmanship. Her posture straightened as she all but heard his voice saying her name with each letter.

Elinor,

I know I am asking too much of you, but I pray I may one day earn your forgiveness. Until then, I will trespass upon your goodness and sweet nature with this trifle. There’s an old custom in our family that a groom should give his bride a present on their first morning. Circumstance has parted us too soon, but let this be a reminder that my absence was not by choice. I await the hour I will see you again.

I could not love thee, Dear, so much

Loved I not honor more.