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CHAPTER ONE

By the time Tristan reached the end of the drive, roses had appeared in the west windows. Pale blooms now pressed against the glass that had been bare when he left three days ago. The front doors stood open, servants hurrying in and out with armfuls of hothouse lilies and cases of gleaming silver. From inside came Mrs. Bell’s commanding voice mingling with the scrape of furniture being dragged across the floors.

The ball was two days off, and already he could hear the preparations from the road. Tristan slowed his gelding to let a cart pass, beneath the canvas, borrowed chair legs knocked together. By the end of the week, half of Hampshire would have eaten at his expense, inspected his house, and calculated which daughter might improve it.

The supper menu had been approved, the invitations signed. He would receive his guests, dance when required, and remain until the last carriage left. His mother could reasonably expect all of that. She could not expect him to enjoy it.

Ashcombe had been built for grandeur, its sprawling rooms more than capable of accommodating extravagant gatherings. It could contain all number of musicians, politicians, cousins, and marriageable families without appearing crowded. Tristan had always regarded that as one of the house’s less useful talents. A ball meant surrendering every corner of his home to guests, with little hope of privacy until the last carriage departed. For two days he could surrender the house to hospitality. He objected only to the unspoken expectation beneath it: that a widowed duke with an old title and no heir should eventually stop behaving as though solitude were a permanent arrangement.

The cart cleared the drive. Tristan urged his horse forward, thinking of a bath and an hour behind a closed door before dinner. Ahead, a carriage emerged from between the trees and swept toward the entrance. He saw the Ashcombe crest. His mother had returned from London, having apparently conducted the rearrangement of his house by correspondence.

A second carriage followed hers, and he glanced at the luggage strapped behind it; even allowing for the ball, it was excessive. He dismounted, handed his reins to the waiting groom, and crossed the gravel as the footman lowered the carriage step. The Dowager Duchess of Ashcombe descended in an immaculate traveling gown. Her silver-blond hair had survived the journey without a strand escaping. She offered her cheek.

“Tristan.”

“Mama.”

“You are late.”

“I was not aware you expected me at a particular hour.”

“I expected you before me.”

He kissed her cheek and stepped back. Behind her, the footman reached into the carriage for a small leather case. “That is a great deal of luggage.”

“Most of it belongs to our guests.”

“What guests?”

“The Pembrokes. They accepted my invitation to stay before the ball.”

“You did not mention an invitation.”

“I have scarcely seen you.”

“A letter would have reached me.”

His mother glanced toward the approaching carriage. “We can discuss this later.”

“I would have preferred to discuss it before you invited people into my house.”

The second carriage had drawn level with the steps. His mother held her place beside him, certain he would swallow the objection rather than embarrass the people she had brought. He stepped aside and let her be right. The Earl of Pembroke descended first. Tristan knew him by sight and had heard him speak in Parliament. The countess followed, then a dark-haired man whose resemblance to the earl marked him as a son.

A young woman appeared in the doorway. She placed her gloved hand in the footman’s and stepped onto the gravel, pausing to free the hem of her traveling gown from the carriage step. And finally, a young man, the youngest son one would presume, climbed down behind her. Tristan had never seen her before. Her gown was blue and almost severe in its lack of trimming. Golden hair showed beneath her bonnet. She studied the house first, not the duke waiting in front of it, and the small refusal caught his attention more effectively than beauty alone would have done.

Beside him, his mother touched his sleeve. Across from him, Lady Pembroke was already smiling at Tristan’s mother. So that was why these guests had been invited. Irritation stirred beneath his carefully maintained composure. He could endure a ball; such obligations came with his title. But he had certainly not agreed to endure his mother’s matchmaking campaigns. For the next two days, he would be expected to escort Pembroke’s daughter through his gardens, sit beside her at meals, and listen while their mothers discovered how admirably their interests agreed. Every courtesy would be entered as evidence. He knew the young woman’s function in the arrangement before he knew her name, and though she was hardly to blame, he could not help resenting her presence.

The knowledge deepened his irritation before Lady Lydia had done anything to deserve it. She stood beside the carriage; her attention fixed on the house rather than its owner. Much like himself, she seemed to be at the center of an arrangement put in place by others, and seemed no more inclined than he did to participate in it. He suspected she had chosen the terms of her welcome no more than he had, and his silence would look to her like the discourtesy it was.

He took his sleeve from beneath his mother’s hand. “You should have told me.”

Her smile remained in place. “Lord Pembroke. How glad I am that you could come.” The families met at the foot of the steps. His mother made the introductions, naming Edmund, Henry, and finally Lady Lydia.

“My son, the Duke of Ashcombe.”

“Your Grace.”

Lydia curtsied. When she straightened, her blue-gray eyes met his. She offered no smile to rescue either of them from the silence.