“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.

“You broke it again, didn’t you?” Miss Weston’s previous antagonism had vanished with what seemed to be genuine concern. “Don’t walk on it, Ellie! You’ll only make it worse.” 

“It’s not broken,” Elinor said softly as her cousin retreated. “Though, I may need some help getting back into the house.” She bowed her head as she admitted that, avoiding having to meet his eyes or Evelina’s.

“Arabella, go tell Morgan to fetch Lord Summersby and the doctor, and send us a footman.” 

“Of course, my lady.” Looking warily at the path, she carefully but quickly navigated it, her arms extended out dramatically as though afraid her own balance might give way upon such cursed paving stones.

“If you will forgive the forwardness, Miss Harcourt?” Tristan didn’t wait for her answer or Evelina’s permission to haul the young lady into his arms. She weighed less than some soldiers’ packs and had the benefit of smelling like rosewater instead of mule teams or wet wool. And was an altogether more agreeable passenger than his comrades. Miss Harcourt went stiff for a moment, looking at Tristan like she didn’t know what to do with herself, and then he felt her relax in his arms, and her hand came up to his shoulder. 

“May I ask what the previous injury was?” Evie hovered anxiously to the side nearest Miss Harcourt’s head. 

“I broke it a few years ago. Just a minor accident. The surgeon set it without difficulty. Poor Arabella was there when it happened and has been skittish ever since.” Tristan glanced sidelong at her, suspecting she wasn’t telling the whole truth from a sudden quaver and hesitation in the words. Nor would a minor accident require a physician’s ward to have a surgeon attend.

It wasn’t his business to pry, of course. But if she had rebroken a serious injury to her leg, that was no trifling matter. 

“A surgeon?” Evie paled. “I hadn’t even considered … of course. We shall have to call Doctor Moreland at once!” And with that, Evelina rushed after Miss Weston, leaving Tristan to grimace in her wake and try to appear reassuring. 

“Pray, excuse my sister, Miss Harcourt. She will recall propriety once her maid’s fussed over her. She never dealt well with injuries.”

“I really don’t believe it is anything serious,” she said, her other hand going to her knee, her chin lifting toward the black leather shoe which peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirts. Tristan decided not to offer his opinion. 

“Hm. At least she didn’t faint. I couldn’t have carried you both.” 

She finally turned her head to look at him, perhaps understanding the reason behind his apology. “I’d hate to accuse you of lying, Lord Asherton, but I somehow suspect you’d have no trouble carrying both of us if you set your mind to it.”

“For a short distance in extreme necessity, perhaps. Though I thank you for your faith in my abilities.” He adjusted his hold on her before starting up the steps. Her muslin gown and petticoat were not the best grip a man could wish for, not least because feeling the warmth of her skin through it was … distracting. He welded his focus on the stone path before them. “I hope you will accept the surgeon’s opinion. He is at no great distance and surely will not regret the dinner my sister will insist on giving him.” 

“To be honest, I know myself to be quite useless at the slightest discomfort, and I hate that he should come only to reaffirm that.”

“You could scarcely touch your foot to the ground. That isn’t the same as fainting over a needle prick.”

“I fainted after the first injury.” He felt her shiver. She must have tried to recall it.

“When you fell?”   

She cleared her throat. “More than once.” 

“I’ve seen hardened soldiers lose consciousness, and their stomachs, when moved with a broken limb. I don’t know who taught you to expect more of yourself than His Majesty’s army, but you’ve a good reason to trounce the idiot.” 

“I—Oh! Oh, no. The book! I left it at the gazebo. If it were to rain…” She shifted in his arms, her left hand going behind his neck, her upper half pressing more fully against his chest as she lifted her face above his shoulder. If she hadn’t been light as a summer’s breeze, he might have dropped her. If he didn’t need to be a true gentleman these days, he might’ve done one or two other things as well. But he was not a rakehell or impetuous officer anymore. He couldn’t distract a pretty girl from her pain by kissing her senseless. Not until he knew her longer than half an hour at least.