by Adele Clee
Tristan watched them hurry away before heading to the empty row at the back. Flopping down into the chair, he gazed over the sea of heads and stifled a yawn.
Good Lord.
What the hell was he doing? With each passing day, he lost sight of the man who spied on smugglers, got drunk on cheap wine, cursed and laughed with labourers and farm hands. He hated behaving like a preened prig. Had his mother not been so distraught over the death of his brother, they would be sharing a few stern words.
Tristan closed his eyes, but the low hum of mumbled whispers from the crowd, interspersed with a few strained chords of the cello, proved too distracting. He peered between the rows of shoulders to see Miss Smythe seated next to Mr. Fellows. Perhaps the gentleman had developed an affection for her. Tristan sincerely hoped so as it would ease his burden a little.
As the musicians began to play and the haunting notes filled the air, a sudden shiver raced through his body. Having chosen not to sit next to the aisle — if he fell asleep there was a good chance he would end up on the floor — he was surprised to find that the latecomer had decided to sit next to him as opposed to the empty row adjacent.
For fear of appearing rude, he did not gape but glanced covertly out of the corner of his eye. The lady was dressed in grey silk, the edges of her sleeves trimmed with black lace. She held her hands demurely in her lap. The sight of her black gloves coupled with her sombre-looking gown complemented his own choice of black attire.
The lady edged a little closer. The air around them vibrated with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the music. The hairs on his nape stood to attention, his body growing more acutely aware of the woman seated at his side. He shuffled back in the chair in an attempt to study her profile. But without any warning, she spoke.
"Hello, Tristan." Her words were but a soft purr, the soothing sound causing tingles to spark suddenly like fireworks, shooting sporadically through various parts of his body.
He would know her voice anywhere.
He had heard it in his dreams too many times to forget its sweet timbre.
Turning slowly in a bid to prepare his weak heart, he glanced at her face. Her deep pink lips were just as full as he remembered. Her dark brown eyes still held the power to reach into his soul. The ebony curls were just as dark as the night he had covered her body with his own to claim the only woman he had ever wanted.
"Isabella." Years of torturous agony hung within that one word, years of longing, years of living with her betrayal.
"I must speak to you," she said, her breath coming as quick as his.
He suppressed a snigger of contempt. She'd had nothing to say to him when she left him and married another man. During the five years since their separation, she could have written to him many times. She could have found him in France if that was what she'd wanted.
Why here? Why now?
"After all this time, I doubt there is anything left to say." His tone was deliberately cold, blunt. The memories of her were like painful wounds that refused to heal and so he had no choice but to hide them beneath bandages of indifference.
"I did not come here for the music," she whispered, but he noted anger infused her tone.
What the hell did she have to be angry about?
The gentleman in front turned his head. "Shush."
Tristan cast him an irate glare. "And I did not come here to revisit the past," he muttered to her through gritted teeth.
"But this is not about the past." She gave a weary sigh as though she would rather be anywhere else than sitting talking to him. "This is about Andrew."
"Andrew?" He could not hide his surprise.
During the two months since his return, she had not called at the house. She had not come to pay her respects, or to offer her condolences.
"I cannot speak about it here," she said as she placed a hesitant hand on his arm. His traitorous body responded immediately as a familiar warmth travelled through him. "My carriage is waiting outside."
Without another word, she stood and walked out through the door.
His heart lurched. The urge to run after her would never leave him.
He should tell her to go to the devil, let her husband be the one to listen to her pitiful woes. Turning back to face the musicians, he closed his eyes in the hope the melody would ease his restless soul. But the haunting harmony only served to remind him of all he had lost.
Perhaps if he went to her, she would offer an explanation for her lies and deceit. Perhaps then he would be able to move forward, take a wife, and produce an heir.
Straightening his coat as he stood, he crept out of the room.
When it came to Isabella, he would always be too weak to resist.