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Wanstead House, Redbridge—near London. July 20, 1814.

Elinor would never forget the first time she met the new Duke of Wellington in the gaudy, glittering fairytale that was Wanstead House. Until that moment, she’d only read of the triumphant hero who forced Napoleon to surrender and brought an end to the perpetual wars with France. The man was too mythical to actually exist, a legend of ballads and broadsheets, Hercules and Nelson and Marcus Aurelius combined. When Tristan introduced them, she was so afraid of fainting all she could do was nod and smile.

In reality, he was shorter than her husband—by more than a few inches—but that didn’t impinge upon how tall he seemed. The man had the presence of Goliath but greeted her with an easy smile. His kind, though somewhat amused, words that were directed more to Tristan than herself.

Then he laughed, and it was the laughter that reminded Elinor that the Duke—like everyone else in the room—was human. Off the battlefield, he was not simply a fearsome general and walking legend but a doting uncle who swept one of his young nieces into a jaunty dance. Napoleon surely held a different opinion.

Perhaps Wellington’s danger was the only thing Prinny and Napoleon would agree upon, she reflected to herself when Wellington stood up to toast the Prince Regent’s honor. The duke got scarcely a dozen words out before the Regent pulled him back down into his seat. Next to her, Tristan’s shoulders stiffened, and tense looks flickered across dozens of military brows. After an awkward moment, their host—a nephew of Wellington’s—called for music, and the night continued on.

The food at Wanstead House did not disappoint either, though she did not eat so much as she’d have liked for fear of spilling anything on her new gown. Never in her life had she worn anything so fine. Or expensive. The outrageously costly Dhaka muslin felt like spun clouds, so light that even where the material was gathered—her sleeves and at her breast—it remained translucent as mist. A red overdress edged with ornate lace parted at her waistline beneath a matching ribbon of lace to show off the delicate fabric, beneath which she wore a white underdress for modesty’s sake. Between that and the rubies draping her throat and garnets and pearls woven into her hair, who would believe she was only a soldier’s daughter?

As dinner ended and more guests filtered out through the mansion and onto the dance floor, she finally managed to steal her husband away from a knot of other officers. She’d learned weeks ago that he’d told no lie when he claimed to be an accomplished dancer. Or when he said he enjoyed the pastime. The problem of dancing with her husband was entirely in her own reaction to his hand lingering at her waist or pressing just a moment too long against hers. To say nothing of his eyes darkening in a turn, or his fingers sliding slowly along hers in a pass. The man could seduce a tree within three bars of the average country dance, let alone someone with a vivid recollection of his tongue on her thigh.

When the music stopped, Elinor stepped closer to Tristan and clasped his arm, her own breath coming quicker than warranted by the reel they’d just danced. “Might we take a turn on the terrace, my lord? I think I could use some fresh air.”

“Of course, love.” Tristan reached for her easily, a line appearing between his brows. “I knew you weren’t recovered enough from the last fete at Burlington House.” His gloved hand supported her elbow as they left the dance floor and slipped to her waist. His fingers curved along her spine and her knees almost buckled.

She considered reminding him the fete was the least exerting thing they’d done in the last two days, but they were hardly alone. Wanstead was crowded beyond belief, and moving through the press of people toward the terrace was no time to discuss private affairs. “I am well,” she assured him. “If a bit warm.”

Tristan’s expression remained skeptical, but he did not voice any argument. Instead, he focused on navigating them through the shifting tide of nobles and servants. Wanstead was a truly palatial house, glittering with gilt and silk hangings, silver, and polished marble, but nearly a thousand people reveling and dancing would have crowded even the Duke of Devonshire’s establishments. The miasma of a thousand perfumes, added to sweat and drifting scents of food and wine, warred on her senses as the dazzling, shifting reflections from chandeliers and mirrors, candelabras and gas lamps played hell with her overheated head. By the time they emerged into the cool summer night breezes, she’d begun to rue the dance entirely.

“You’re tired. I’ve been taxing your strength too much,” Tristan murmured, guiding her to a shaded bench along the graveled garden path. He urged her down, and somehow got her fan flipped out before she’d even reached for it. “Perhaps I should have kept you in the house and not dragged you along for this riot of a Season.”

“If you’d kept me in the house, my lord, I’d have missed out on a lovely dinner, and meeting the Duke.” She put her hand over his as he sat next to her, stiff and oddly formal in his crimson dress uniform. “And I imagine keeping an eye on Cavendish would have been more tiring than this. I swear to you, it’s only the heat inside. I am already feeling much better.” Sitting down with the night breeze blowing was already clearing her head. “What might I do to prove to you that I am well?”

“Nothing.” Tristan took hold of her fingers, his brow still revealing his worry. “But I will have the carriage brought round. I would not have you exhausted entirely ‘ere we get home.”

She was on the edge of telling him not to. That he was being overly concerned, and in a moment or two, she’d be ready to go back in. But something in his posture and his tone gave her pause. “Lord Asherton?” She touched his wool-clad shoulder, feeling far more tension in his coiled muscles than a little faintness should cause. “What is wrong?”

Tristan’s eyes met hers for the briefest moment before he rose, bidding her stay and rest while he sent word for the coachman. She could only puzzle his mood at his retreating back and then the starry night above. While she’d accustomed herself—somewhat—to a perpetual edge of mystery as to her husband’s movements, this abrupt change left her more disconcerted than the ballroom’s heat. Questions and doubts swirled round her head in a sharp review of every interaction she’d observed or partaken in since their arrival four hours earlier, absorbing her so completely she almost jumped out of her skin when Tristan touched her elbow. His frown had deepened, and her cheeks flamed as she realized he must’ve spoken without her hearing.

“Come, dearest.” His voice was as gentle as his grip on her arm, as though he thought she was still in danger of swooning. Perhaps she was. “We can talk in the carriage.” They walked back through the endless galleries and rooms, a sea of silks and trilling song that felt as distant as the moon every time she looked up at Tristan.

He’s had news. That’s it. He’s going to leave me for India. Or Australia. Or the wretched Americas. What if the Duke had told him he thought her too common? What if someone was dead? So many ugly possibilities clamored in her head, she was half sick with them before Tristan handed her into the carriage.

The second the door shut, his hold on her tightened, and his lips crashed against hers as if he could not breathe without tasting her. The carriage rocked and jolted into movement, gravel crunching beneath its wheels, but Elinor didn’t care. The shrieking doubts scattered as her pulse quickened and her blood warmed, a now-familiar ache building low inside her. “I hate not being able to kiss you when I want,” he growled at last, once his tongue and clever, wicked lips had her gasping with need.

Lifting her hands to his chest, she closed her eyes and tried to gather her bearings. Much as she hated it, she knew something felt wrong. This was unlike him—leaving a party in Wellington’s honor so soon—and she couldn’t ignore it. “I feel the same way,” she said, lifting her chin to open her eyes and meet his dark gaze. “But you didn’t answer my question, my love.” Except, in his way, he did. Something was surely the matter, and her nerves began creeping back the longer he hesitated.

“Hm?” He’d somehow loosened her laces already, and his elegant fingers danced along the rise of her left breast. She knew her gown would be up to her waist in another heartbeat if she didn’t get his attention. Perhaps she was going mad to resist such a delicious fate, but the fears wouldn’t entirely shut up, and…

“Tristan?” She tried again, and something in the way she said name must’ve gotten through. His touch stilled, but he didn’t withdraw his hands. And sure enough, one of them rested on her bare thigh. How in the blazes did he get that many layers of skirt up so quickly?

“I must be losing my touch. I’d hoped you’d have forgotten every question but that of when I might bring you to climax.” She caught the flash of his smile in the filtered edge of moonlight leaking around the coach’s drawn curtains.

“Believe me. You have not lost anything of the sort,” she said, her fingers itching to pull at his cravat to expose his wonderful throat. But if she did that, there’d be no returning to rational thought.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave her the gentle, lingering style of kiss he always did when he was about to say something serious. She took the weight of his hand remaining on her thigh as a hopeful sign. Surely, he wouldn’t be caressing her if he was about to launch into anything too dire.

“If you can promise me now that everything is well, I swear that will be my only question.”

“Everything is, hm, in flux.” The fingers on her thigh tightened, then released. Whether he meant the gesture to reassure her or himself, she couldn’t guess. “Wellington has asked for me to join his embassy in Paris. And I know how you’ve struggled with London…” The words came out in a gentle torrent yet knocking her world sideways all the same.

Elinor pushed at him to give her space to glare. Even in the dark, she hoped he felt it. “Struggled? I thought I was doing well. Have I not proved that I can face my fears by now?” She pouted, her chest jutting out in indignation.

“You have. Of course you have. Only I know London isn’t your, er, preference.”

“Well, all right. It’s not.” A deep breath. “I assume you have no choice but to accompany him,” she said, her tone softening.