To Love a Caring Gentleman (Preview)

Chapter One

Bath, Somerset, England

1814

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this thrilled. Emily could already see it—the glimmer of the sea in the distance. Her body thrummed with excitement at the thought of sinking into the cool water and letting it wash away all the other feelings she didn’t want to focus on.

“Mother, I think if we do not try to hold Emily down, she will jump right out the carriage window.”

Emily looked over at the droll tone of her dear friend, Georgiana. Georgiana’s eyes were trained out the window, but a tiny smile graced her small lips. She met Emily’s look with a raised brow, as if challenging her to deny what she’d said.

“I believe you might be right, Georgiana,” Georgiana’s mother said. “She certainly looks as if she cannot contain herself.”

Lady Harriet, the Viscountess of Hampshire, had given birth to a daughter who’d grown up to be just like her. Both Lady Hampshire and Georgiana were witty and easily amused ladies, who did not hesitate to jest about the things they found funny. It hadn’t taken Emily long to see that Georgiana held her mother as her best friend, something Emily couldn’t help but envy.

It was particularly interesting since Georgiana looked absolutely nothing like her mother. Georgiana had fair hair and fair features, with eyes the color of a cloudless sky. Lady Hampshire, on the other hand, was a dark-haired beauty with dark brown eyes and full features.

Emily hid her smile, looking out the window with a sigh. “I cannot help myself. It has been so long since I’ve been to the coast.”

“Yes, we know,” Georgiana spoke up. “You’ve told us that many times since we suggested it this morning.”

“You know how I get when I am excited,” Emily protested.

“And she loves you for it.” Lady Hampshire waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind Georgiana.”

“I never do,” Emily stated with a shrug.

That brought a full smile from her friend, which made Emily laugh. The past year had been filled with this easy bickering, which increased when Emily had met Lady Hampshire a week ago. Georgiana had been the one to approach Emily first, telling her she was the only lady present who didn’t seem as if she would be a great bother. Emily had been quite intimidated by Georgiana at first but had learned after a while that Georgiana was as soft-hearted and kind as she was herself, even though she showed it in a very different manner.

“Though we joke,” Lady Hampshire said, “I’m happy you are so excited, Emily. I thought a trip to the shore would be a pleasing parting gift for you before you return to London.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t remind me.” Georgiana sighed. She shook her head, eyes still gazing out of the window. “I cannot imagine how dull everything will become once Emily is gone.”

“I didn’t know I was such an exciting presence in your life, Georgiana,” Emily said, feeling a little surprised.

“Fascinating is what you are. I have never met any lady who blushes half as much as you do.” To Emily’s horror, her cheeks warmed at Georgiana’s statement, and both she and her mother laughed. “See?”

“You did that on purpose,” Emily accused. She tried to will the blush away as she turned her attention to Lady Hampshire. “Thank you, my lady. I was dreading somewhat the thought of returning to London, but today will certainly get it off my mind.”

Neither of the carriage’s other occupants had to ask Emily the reason for her dread. They already knew about the embarrassing tumble Emily had taken at the fateful ball, the one that had forced her parents to send her away in the first place. The gossip that her fall had caused had effectively ruined her Season, and so her mother had proposed sending Emily to Bath to attend a prominent ladies’ seminary. Her parents had hoped she would become more versed in languages, arts, music, etiquette, and all the other qualities they believed she lacked.

And, to be perfectly honest, Emily believed the school had truly succeeded in these goals.

She hadn’t cared to attend at first, only willing to go so that she could escape the aftermath of her embarrassing scene. But there, she’d met Georgiana and had truly grown as a person. First, Georgina’s kindness and witty lightness had drawn her out of her shell. It had now been some while since she’d stammered while talking.

She’d spent a year at the seminary, and now it was time for her to return to London for the upcoming Season. That fact brought back all her anxiousness and fears, for she remembered that ball as if it had happened yesterday. She wondered if Georgiana understood how she felt, if that was why she and her mother were trying so hard to make her relax before she returned tomorrow.

Their carriage descended through the cobbled streets of the little seaside town, the fishing cottages crowding in on both sides, and newer facades of gentlemen’s residences gleaming, for the resort was becoming more popular amongst the ton. The passengers disembarked behind a line of sand dunes, which was the furthest spot the carriage could go. Emily hadn’t been to the seaside since she was a child and felt all that childish excitement rushing back the moment she turned to face the dunes. With Georgiana and her mother by her side, Emily walked along the pathway, her feet sinking in the sand, grasses whispering against her skirts. The light breeze tousled her hair and knocked her bonnet askew, the ribbons at her waist fluttering like pendants. Reaching the beach, she filled her eyes with the restless glitter of waves before crossing with her friends to a bathing machine by the water and climbing into its cramped and dim interior, redolent with dried salt.

In truth, so early in the spring, it was far too soon for dipping into the sea, but the weather had been unseasonably and strangely warm all week, as though summer was making a hurried entrance ahead of her time. Today, a huge sun shone in a calm blue sky. Once inside the machine, the women changed into modest linen shifts while the machine was pulled, lurching, into the water by a shaggy and patient horse. It came to a stop when it was deep enough for them to enter the water. Emily’s smile widened when she descended the wooden steps and felt the water lift her buoyantly, a small wave sloshing over her shoulders. She squealed at the bracing and invigorating coldness.

“You’re like a child who has been given sweets,” Georgiana commented, shaking her head at the wide smile Emily wore.

“Oh, leave her be, Georgiana,” Lady Hampshire spoke up. “Truly, Emily, I don’t know how you manage to deal with her.”

“It is not without practice, my lady,” Emily said, sighing dramatically. “She does not make it easy, I will admit.”

“Come now, since when did I become the topic of conversation?” Georgiana protested.

“Since you took it upon yourself to comment on every little thing Emily does,” her mother stated simply.

Georgiana’s small bottom lip popped out into a pout. “I cannot help myself. Teasing her relentlessly is the only way I can deal with the fact that she will be leaving us soon.”

“Oh,” Emily cooed. “She does have a heart.”

“I may be of slight stature, but my heart is larger than you can possibly imagine.”

They all laughed. Emily didn’t think she could feel happier than this. Here, enjoying the clear, lapping water and the easygoing conversation was the perfect way to enjoy her last day in Bath, their trip to the seaside a perfect antidote to the serious rigors of the ladies’ seminary. She turned around, moving her hands against the current and enjoying the way it felt sliding past her fingers. When she did, she spotted something in the distance.

Several somethings, actually—or someone’s, rather. Three men, swimming. The sight of them dampened Emily’s good mood because it brought back to mind the fact she would have to brave another Season soon. She would have to face other gentlemen and pray that they did not find her too plain or too ugly to court. And that they did not think any less of her despite the incident during her previous London Season. Men had been kept at a distance these months past, and Emily had been sheltered from the possibility of their influence by the strict rules of her new way of life—finishing school was no place for a man.

Her anxiousness grew at the sight of those men, even though it seemed as if they didn’t notice that they had strayed from the men’s end of the beach and that ladies were nearby. They were enjoying themselves too much, laughing and splashing each other as they wrestled for a ball, while Emily had gone still, simply staring.

“Emily?” came Georgiana’s voice, pulling her from her daze.

“Yes?” Emily turned to face her friend, noting the confused look on her face. “Did you say something?”

“You looked a little…odd, just then, that’s all.”

“I was only thinking.” Emily had become far better at forcing a smile onto her face, though in her current situation, this wasn’t as hard to accomplish as it sometimes was.

“Thinking about tomorrow, my dear?” Lady Hampshire asked, her voice tender.

Emily saw no point in lying. “I was. But I don’t want to dwell on it any longer. Georgiana, why don’t you tell me how you will manage to cope while I am gone?”

Georgiana pouted again, rolling her eyes, which made both Lady Hampshire and Emily laugh. Even though Emily was certain her friend knew something was wrong, she played along, grumbling about how bored she would be once more. Emily enjoyed her complaining, letting it chase away any thoughts of attending this year’s Season. That was a bridge she would cross when she reached it. For now, she simply scrambled back into the machine, chilled to the bone by the cold water and eager to peel off the wet, clinging linen.

***

Despite being pleasantly fatigued from the sea bathing and the long carriage ride back to Bath, Emily couldn’t sleep that night. The following day arrived too quickly for her liking, with a dim light seeping through the heavy curtains, and a maid knocking on her door.

“Lady Emily?” the maid, Linnie, called as she entered with a curtsey, carrying a jug of hot water for Emily’s toilette.

“Yes, I am awake,” Emily said, sitting up with a sigh, letting her hair tumble down around her shoulders. The room was only partially lit, but she could see the maid’s features, her knitted brow, and her downturned lips. She always looked as if she was saddened by something, and this seemed particularly noticeable this morning.

In silence, Linnie hurried over to draw the drapes and prepare Emily’s clothes. In the meantime, Emily pulled herself out of bed, trying and failing to shake off her exhaustion. She might be able to take a short nap during the carriage ride to London if she dared, but she doubted her mother would not find out about it—somehow. The last thing she wanted to do was to give her mother the impression that her year at the seminary had not done anything to help her.

Staying at Georgiana’s home had been pleasant for the past few days, and Emily was already sad that she had to leave. She would miss Georgiana’s company, her mother’s kindness, the lovely strolls she took through the gardens, and the hours spent with her watercolors. The house in Bath had a garden in the modern style, designed by Humphry Repton, with many curving paths leading through shrubberies, hedges, and herbaceous borders flowing with all manner of flowering plants.

A week of unseasonable warmth had created a spurt of green growth and shoots, and primroses and daphne filled the air with their sweet scents. Towering rhododendrons bore heavy heads of lilac and pink blooms with speckled throats, and Emily had spent hours drawing them in detail, then washing in colors from her palette box filled with hard cubes of paints. It was the most calming of occupations, focusing her mind only on the present moment. Sometimes, she liked to imagine that she, like a few other artistic women, could have the pleasure of drawing the array of new species that were arriving in the country in the holds of ships.

When in London, Emily knew she would have to focus on one thing—finding a husband. Her dread sank deeper into her belly. Would a husband nourish or forbid her painting aspirations? She had seen screens and fans most elegantly painted by women artists and longed to try her talent at similar pursuits. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could clearly see botanical designs for screens, complete with blossoms, tendrils, crickets, and butterflies. Yet that dream could be denied her by a husband. Some men would want her poised in the drawing room, entertaining elegantly, not dabbling in her paint box, with smears of color on her cheeks.

Thankfully, Linnie was as quiet, despite her sad demeanor, and she made no small talk with Emily, who now rose from her bed and began to wash. Emily was normally uncomfortable being around people she didn’t know, but this girl was unobtrusive, she was a girl of few words, much like Emily herself, and yet Emily felt as if they’d created a bond over the past few days, one which went beyond that of a servant and her mistress.

Or perhaps she was simply feeling a tad sentimental since today they would part company. Either way, Emily would be sad to leave, and she said as much to Linnie while she prepared for breakfast. Georgiana and the viscountess were easygoing people and so they preferred to have breakfast at a later hour than Emily was used to. She’d grown fond of that practice. As Linnie dressed her in a loose morning gown of dove gray, Emily wondered if Georgiana was ready.

“Thank you, Linnie,” Emily said, rising from the vanity table. Linnie had done her hair in an elegant style, perfect for her mother’s scrutiny. She turned to face Linnie, who clasped her hands and looked ready to cry.

“I’m happy you like it, my lady,” Linnie murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Emily smiled. “I do. And I enjoyed having you watch over me during my time here. I will miss you.”

Linnie folded her lips together, her eyes brimming with tears. Emily didn’t know whether to be taken aback or touched by Linnie’s emotional display. Linnie curtsied deeply, swallowing a sniffle. “It has been my pleasure, my lady.”

Emily’s smile widened, even as her own discomfort grew. Awkwardly, she patted Linnie on the shoulder, wanting to say something in response but not knowing the right words. Emily had never been good with emotions and not for a moment had she expected Linnie to cry.

Instead of going to the dining room for breakfast, Emily made her way to Georgiana’s bedchamber, expecting to find her friend preparing. The women at the seminary had always been displeased by Georgiana’s penchant for lateness.

As she expected, Emily found Georgiana in her dressing room, humming. When she spotted Emily standing at the threshold, she perked up. “Don’t simply stand there!” she urged. “Come and sit!”

“At this rate,” Emily said as she sat in the high-backed armchair Georgiana enthusiastically gestured to, “we shall be having breakfast at noon.”

“I don’t see what the problem would be. We would still be breaking our fast, wouldn’t we?”

Emily only sighed. “I cannot fathom how you managed to fool so many of our teachers at the seminary.”

“It is my beautiful charm,” Georgiana said, waving her hand dismissively. Behind her, her lady’s maid worked fervently to tame Georgiana’s curls. “Though, it is rather regretful that I could not fool them all.”

“Yes, I can imagine that it is.” Emily wasn’t surprised to find herself smiling. Georgiana had that effect on her, which would make their parting more difficult.

“I’m happy you came to see me,” Georgiana continued. “I was going to send for you. I want to spend every moment I can with you before you leave.” She fiddled with her jewelry box, taking out pieces and holding them up to the light as if she couldn’t decide which to wear. Emily knew that, in the end, she would put them all away and wear nothing.

“I thought the same,” Emily admitted. “Though, I cannot deny how pleased I am to see you vie for my attention like this.”

“Call it whatever you wish,” Georgiana said dismissively, making Emily laugh. “But it may be months before I see you again. Years if you are truly that bold.”

“You could always come to London as well.”

“Yes, but Father remains unconvinced. He thinks that because I have already secured a match, there is no need for me to go all the way to London for the Season. He says there will be more than enough balls in Bath for me to enjoy. But I beg to differ.”

Emily could easily picture the Viscount of Hampshire sternly telling Georgiana this. He was quite unlike his wife and daughter, a man of very few words and a strict countenance. Even so, Emily could see that he had a warm heart underneath.

“At least you do not have to worry about finding a husband,” Emily said.

Georgiana lowered her hands, dropping a necklace back into the box. “And neither do you. I’m the unlucky one who had her father take care of everything before she even had a say. But you will go to London and enjoy yourself to the fullest before falling in love and marrying a man who will make you happy for the rest of your life. I promise you.”

I doubt it will truly be that easy. The viscount had arranged a marriage between Georgiana and the son of his friend, a marquess. He was a handsome, kind gentleman and Georgiana’s biggest fear was that she would be unendingly bored while being married to him. Emily didn’t think Georgina knew how lucky she was.

Dregs of her unease and dread rose at the topic, and Emily quickly tried to change it. “I hope you won’t dare to raise this topic again with your father.”

Her lady’s maid finished with her hair, and Georgiana rose and held out her hand to Emily. Emily took it, letting her friend pull her to a stand. “You ask too much of me.”

A laugh of surprise blurted from Emily’s lips. “Well, then, I wish you all the luck.”

“And I, you.” Without warning, Georgiana enveloped Emily in a tight hug. “Forget everything that happened before, Emily, and try to relax, all right?”

“I promise, I’ll try.” After all, that was the only way she would be able to endure being in London. If she tried to forget about her fall, her embarrassment, the things people said about her, then maybe this Season would not be so terrible.

And maybe, just maybe, she would actually find someone she could love. Someone who might appreciate her ability to paint and her interest in the species of plants arriving surprisingly in England and taking root in hothouses and new gardens. And someone who also met her mother’s approval. Could such a man possibly exist?

Chapter Two

London, England

The gravesite seemed to grow more beautiful with every spring. Wildflowers peppered the ground, already promising a full bloom that would wash the vast space in their beauty. Lush green grass, and even a few heads of weeds, bent under the force of a gentle breeze. The day was young and cool, just how Tristan liked it.

Everything was far too perfect, as though to spite the somber cloud weighing over his head.

He gripped the bouquet of early-blooming rosebuds tightly, not caring their thorns bit into his gloves and pricked him. Perhaps the physical pain would distract from the emotional one that had been ripping him apart all week—even stronger this morning than any other. He trudged up the slight incline stretched out behind the parish church, bypassing rows of headstones and raised earth where there were none.

Then Tristan saw it. Nestled between a bunch of wildflowers was the simple granite stone that marked her name—Maria Andrews. Already, tendrils of ivy were clinging across the letters, and he pulled them away and snapped their wiry strength clean off. His fingers gently traced the incised lettering, as though he stroked her cheek.

Her name brought a rush of emotions he’d been trying to hold at bay ever since he arrived. Today was the anniversary of her passing four years ago, when he’d lost the love of his life. And every year, he returned, bringing her favorite flowers, to cry over her grave as if he was losing her all over again. Each year seemed to get harder.

Tears already pricking his eyes, Tristan bent and rested the flowers against her headstone. He straightened and clasped his hands before him, standing with his legs apart as if that would keep him from sinking to his knees in despair.

“I miss you with every passing day,” he whispered, his throat growing thick. Tristan swallowed, willing the tears to abate. He didn’t like to cry, even when he was alone.

“I find my days are getting better,” he went on. “I am managing. My friends…they have been a great support, as you very well know. But when this day comes, I—”

A sob lodged in his throat. Tristan bent his head, letting the tears drip to the ground before he raised it again. “I love you,” he murmured. “And I miss you.”

His life would have been so different with her still here. He would have had a family, perhaps a brown-haired son that looked like him and a blond daughter that looked like Maria, the way they’d always dreamed.

He would have gone to bed at nights with the woman he loved for her gentle quietness, the way she hooked her arm through his so trustingly when they strolled in the gardens, the way her gaze flew to his when amused, sharing a jest. Pain and fear would have been replaced by happiness and gratitude, as they shared a beautiful life filled with ups and downs, the way it was intended to be.

Without Maria, Tristan’s life was bleak and repetitive, filled with a constant struggle not to give in to black and bleak emotions.

He didn’t say anything else, simply staring at her headstone as waves of sadness washed over him. He sighed and mustered up the strength to take a step back and then finally walk away. He didn’t know how long he’d spent there simply staring without a word, but he knew that if he remained for much longer, he would undoubtedly break down again in tears.

Trudging down the slight slope seemed more difficult than going up, and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. By the time he reached his waiting carriage, he’d composed himself enough to nod to the driver and thank him for waiting. But the pain lingered; he didn’t think it would ever go away.

Maria’s death would always be a blight on his life, something he could never truly erase. It had affected so many parts of him, not only his heart but his peace of mind and confidence. He’d watched his wife fall prey to the jaws of influenza and pass away. Even though he was a doctor, he couldn’t do anything to stop it and had helplessly watched her worsen and decline until she couldn’t hold on any longer. It had broken him into a million pieces, and Tristan was still picking them up.

It had been difficult, after that, to trust his training and skills, to feel that he could truly make any difference in the world of sickness and suffering. After all, if he could not save the woman he had loved, what use was any of it? He made his medical rounds in a haze of self-loathing, for he’d been unable to save what he treasured most dearly. Long days filled with septic throats, fevers, aches and agues, rheumatics and delusions, left him stunned with exhaustion, for he pushed himself too hard for several years, trying to somehow atone for letting his own wife die—exhausting himself in the hope of paying some unknown debt.

But it had been his friends who had saved him. They’d all gone through their fair share of heartbreak, which had deepened their bond. Pain had a way of bringing people together and he was now on his way to see one of them, perhaps the most trusted of them all. Within half an hour, Tristan arrived at the fencing school. He’d made plans to meet with Robert for a quick round before they headed off to Redfield’s, but, given how deeply miserable Tristan felt that day, he didn’t think a quick round would suffice.

When Robert entered the room to see Tristan already practicing his positions, he said soberly, “It looks as if you are ready to beat me as many times as you can today.”

“Then prepare yourself,” Tristan responded without smiling. He twisted his foil dangerously in his hand. “Because I will not go easy on you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Robert Cavendish was a no-nonsense man, with a constantly serious expression sketched into his handsome features. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he’d pulled himself up into London’s high society as a wealthy merchant despite his broken background. Tristan knew he wouldn’t ask what was bothering him—at least, not yet. First, he would let Tristan work out every bit of his frustration physically—they each knew well enough the sadness of that anniversary, but there were times when actions and not words were needed, and Tristan was content merely to be in the company of his friend and allow his emotions to work themselves out.

“Let’s begin,” Robert said, raising his own foil.

Tristan faced him, lowering the guard over his head before he stood en guard. They circled each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. After a few seconds, Tristan lunged, his muscles singing at the movement. Robert was quick to dodge, then deflected Tristan’s incoming attacks with relative ease.

They continued sparring until Tristan grew accustomed to the movements again. It became easier to put Robert on the defense after a while, forcing the other man to spar more seriously. Robert had always been the most physically gifted of the two, quick on his feet and with fast reflexes. But soon enough, Tristan made it difficult for him.

After a long while, they collapsed to the floor, heaving from exertion.

“I underestimated you,” Robert commented, whipping off his head guard.

“As you are wont to do,” Tristan replied, doing the same. Sweat pasted his hair to his temples, the ends a dark brown rather than their usual chestnut.

Robert chuckled at that. “I suppose you are right. Though, I’m sure you could tell what I was doing.”

Making me frustrated so that I will spar harder. “It was quite obvious.”

“And I’m sure you know why,” Robert pressed.

Tristan sighed. The foil lying on the floor by his side, he leaned back on his hands as he looked up unseeingly at the ceiling. “I went to visit Maria’s grave shortly before I came here. Today is the day she died.”

“I know, which is why this is important—words are…hard to come by,” Robert said, giving his friend a weak smile.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Tristan told him with a mirthless laugh. “I have heard it all. And it has been four years already since she’s left my side, there is nothing you need to say. I am only glad to have your company.”

“I cannot imagine that it has become any easier.”

He sighed again. “No. It hasn’t.” For a moment, he sank into his memories of a time when everything had been perfect, and her illness had not ripped them apart.

Robert cleared his throat. “Well, you know I am not good at consoling others and so there is only one thing we can do.” He got to his feet and pointed the tip of his foil at Tristan’s nose. “On your feet, my good man.”

“Do you mean to push me until I am far too tired to think about anything?” Tristan asked, getting to his feet. “Because I must remind you of our plans to meet with the others at Redfield’s.”

“That was not my intention, but perhaps that could be arranged. I do think it would help you greatly.”

“As would a glass of whiskey,” Tristan said, shaking his head and smiling.

Robert grinned. “You’ve convinced me. I shan’t push you until you collapse then.”

Tristan couldn’t help chuckling at that, rolling his eyes. “As if I would have let you do that in the first place.”

But his spirits had been lifted. When he raised his foil again, it was with renewed vigor, driven by his competitive nature rather than the need to simply forget. Another reason he preferred having Robert as a sparring partner was that they were equally competitive.

By the time they stopped an hour later, Tristan found himself drenched in sweat and exhilaratingly exhausted. Spending the afternoon with the others at Redfield’s would be a perfect way to end his day.

They toweled off with hot flannels and changed before climbing into their carriages. Redfield’s, the gentleman’s club, brimmed with people as usual, and Tristan spotted a few familiar faces. He gave them his greetings as he and Robert headed toward the room they usually occupied at the top of the stairs, next to the library.

A man stepped into their path. Nathaniel Redfield, the Marques of Hambleton and owner of this establishment, greeted them with a wide smile and a gleam in his eyes. “It is about time you two arrived. The others have already begun.”

“Begun what?” Robert asked as Nathaniel turned and continued toward the room. A servant fell into step, bearing decanters of whiskey and fresh glasses.

Nathaniel didn’t have to answer. He swept into the room and, with a tilt of his head, indicated two men sitting at a round table in the very middle. The rest of their friends, the Duke of Thurlstone and the Earl of Embleton—Marcus and William, respectively—were already partaking in a game of whist. Tristan could instantly tell that William was quite inebriated, which would only lead to one thing—

“You’re cheating,” William slurred. He scratched his head, tufts of blond hair sticking up. “That is the only way you’re beating me this badly.”

“Perhaps you are simply terrible at this game,” Marcus responded with a grin. His own ash-blond hair was in perfect condition, his brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Have you considered that?”

“Nonsense!” William’s cheeks were red as he focused hard on his cards. He didn’t look up when Tristan, Robert, and Nathaniel took their places at the table.

Tristan chuckled at the sight. William and Marcus had a rivalry that always came to a head during whist. It was especially amusing when William was into his cups, while Marcus and everyone else remained sober, watching his drunken attempts to best Marcus.

“You should let him win,” Nathaniel said with a sigh. The servant had already left the drinks and retreated, and so he took the liberty of pouring them himself. “Or else we will never hear the end of it.”

“That doesn’t sound the least bit entertaining,” Marcus responded. He brought his whiskey to his lips, taking a gulp. “Make your move, William.”

“Give me a second,” William hissed, his concentration intensifying. They all watched him before he sighed heavily and tossed his cards onto the table. “You win.”

“Ah, the sweet taste of victory!” Marcus drained his glass. “Will you ever taste it yourself, William?”

“Laugh all you want,” William grumbled. “Don’t forget you are the first to lose our bet about remaining bachelors.”

“He isn’t wrong,” Robert jumped in. “Though it’s clear you don’t mind in the slightest.”

“And why would I be when I’m finally happy again after so long?” Marcus’ grin proved his words. Two months ago, he’d fallen in love and married the daughter of the Duke of Amerden, despite the wager they’d made with each other to never risk their hearts in love again.

“We should have raised the stakes,” Nathaniel commented.

“I would still have done the same,” Marcus quipped. “Being with Gemma is worth more than any title or wealth a man can possess.”

Tristan didn’t doubt it. They’d all had their fair share of pain. Marcus’ betrothed, Lady Louisa, had broken his heart when she’d become with child by another man. Nathaniel had always held a cynical view of love and marriage after watching his parents. William had become somewhat of a rake when his heart had been shattered by his first love. And Robert’s background had been enough to dissuade him from any commitment to a woman.

Yet within months of meeting Lady Gemma—now the Duchess of Thurlstone—Marcus had willingly lost the bet to live in blissful matrimony.

Tristan envied him, especially today.

“But enough about that,” Marcus went on. “I know I need not remind you I intend on hosting a dinner for my birthday the day after next.”

“Did he say that because he wants us to talk about him for longer?” Nathaniel leaned closer to Tristan to ask.

“I think he did,” Tristan played along, tucking away his melancholy thoughts.

Laughter filled the room. It was easy for Tristan to simply be with his friends. He didn’t have to actively participate in the conversations, didn’t have to make his presence known. He needed only to relax and let his burdens and worries fade away. His patients, for the moment, ceased their needy calls for his help that usually filled his mind and their exhaustive catalog of fears and symptoms.

Yet he knew when the night grew old, and he and his friends parted, he would have to face his emotions again. He was already dreading the very thought. Sometimes, the faces of his patients haunted his dreams, and he’d wake with a start to light a candle beside his bed and scribble questions he must ask them, potions the apothecary must mix for them. He was unwilling to lose a single one…not after letting his cherished wife slip the mortal coil while he held her limp and sweating hands, weeping.