“Given you what?”
“Said that. Said they were proud of me.” Tristan shook his head and sat up, leaning back carelessly in his chair. “Well, why should they, at any rate? Another brandy?”
“No, thank you.” Charles studied him a moment, then said, “That Culpeper’s on the table over there if you want to take a look at it.”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder. “Might as well,” he said, still in that careless tone; but he got up and went to the table, picking up the book respectfully and settling back in the chair to read. Charles watched him a moment, smiling to himself, then went back to his own book.
Over the course of the next few hours, Charles watched subtly as Tristan went back and forth to the shelves, looking at the well-organized titles and picking out new books to read. Once in a while he’d draw Charles’s attention to a passage and they’d discuss it based on Charles’s experiences and current medical practices. “Was George Roberts a medical man?” Charles asked finally, as Tristan showed him another old gem he’d discovered.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Tris said. “I think his widow said he’d bought the library off someone else years ago. We of the ton do that a lot, you know. Better to
look
educated than to actually
be
educated.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Charles said thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine not building a library of your own if you’ve the money and space. I’ve only a few books—rather hard to haul a library with you all over God’s green Earth. I sent them home as I traveled, and my father has them down at Chilson.”
“You’re welcome to….” Tristan’s smile faded. “I was going to say you’re welcome to have them here, but I forgot that we’ll only be in this house another couple of months, and by then you’ll have found your own lodgings. You won’t want to rusticate with us while you’re studying, so there’d be no point joining your library with ours. But until we do move, you are welcome to use whatever texts you find here.”
“Thank you,” Charles said soberly. “And I do promise to find you those English translations I mentioned.”
“Thank you,” Tris began, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Reston poking his head in. He looked surprised.
“Mr. Northwood? It’s two of the clock….”
Tristan blinked, then his eyes shot to the clock on the mantel. “Oh, God,” he said faintly. “It’s bedtime—and I’m still sober!”
“Is that a problem?” Charles frowned.
Tris gave him a quick, humorless smile. “I don’t sleep well,” he said dryly. “And I hate laudanum—it gives me horrible headaches. Brandy usually does the trick—but it will take me hours to reach a sleepy state.”
“Brandy is as bad as laudanum as a sleep aid,” Charles said. He rose from the desk. “However, I have some herbal powder that’s effective with less aftereffects. Reston, if you’ll bring tea to Mr. Northwood’s room, I’ll fetch the Scutellaria.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Tris said wryly.
“It sounds worse in the vernacular,” Charles shot back. “It’s called ‘skullcap’. I know, that’s just a hat—but to me it always reminds me of the fairy tale of the Red Cap—the evil ogre that dyes its hat with the blood of its victims. My mother was quite fond of the darker German fairytales. The Scutellaria is much more benign. It’s from North America—a native plant, so you won’t find it in Culpeper’s.”
“I suppose that means I must trust you,” Tristan said, giving him a skeptical look.
“You must.” Charles grinned. “I promise it’s safe.”
Tristan shrugged. “As long as it works, I don’t care if it’s safe.”
Charles’s amusement faded, and he said grimly, “Well, I care. I’ve no desire to injure you, Tris. In any way.”
Tristan
felt his face heat—not an unusual feeling when Charles said anything that could even
remotely
be taken wrong. He was beginning to think that Charles deliberately said things he knew Tris would misinterpret, as if he suspected Tris’s feelings for him and was taunting him. But he didn’t think Charles was that unkind. God, he was confused. He rubbed his hands over his face. “I didn’t realize it was this late,” he said. “I must be tireder than I thought.”
Charles curled his fingers around Tristan’s elbow. “Come, then,” he said, his voice gentle, “we’ll get you your tea and Reston can put you to bed. I’m sorry to keep you up so late—I hope you’ve enjoyed the evening.”
Tris lowered his hands and met Charles’s concerned eyes. “Yes,” he said, and to his surprise it was true—not just because he was with Charles, but because he’d honestly become interested in what he had been reading and discussing with him.
“Good,” Charles said, releasing him as they reached the door. “Because I’m hoping that you don’t mind my using the library for my study on occasion. And repeating this evening’s experience when you’re not elsewhere committed. I’ve enjoyed it.”
Oh, God
, Tristan thought as Charles gave him that affectionate smile.
I am so lost.
He followed Reston up the stairs, painfully aware of Charles’s solid presence behind him.
Charles went into his room and came out a moment later with a small packet of herbs, which he gave to Reston. “Here. Steep this in Mr. Northwood’s tea for ten minutes. It’s as bitter as any tea,” he said to Tris, “so you might want to add some honey to it.”
“Thank you, Major,” Reston said, and to Tristan, “I shall be right back with the tea, sir,” and went back down the stairs.
Charles and Tristan gazed at each other a long moment, then Charles said, “I’d best get to bed. It’s later than normal for me.” Was it Tristan’s imagination, or did he sound reluctant?
“Yes,” Tris said curtly. “Good night,” and he turned and went into his own room. A moment later he heard Charles’s door close quietly. He shed his clothing quickly, pulling on the nightshirt Reston had set out, and climbed into the big bed, curling up on his side with a pillow tucked in his arms, just as he had that day when he’d first met Charles, and come running upstairs to hide in his room. Then, he’d only lain miserable, fiercely aroused and not daring to do anything about it, because doing something about it meant that it was
real
, that he was aroused by a
man
. Now he knew it was much worse—that he thought he was in love with Charles. It couldn’t get any more real than this.
How much longer could he go on? It was barely the middle of January and Charlotte wasn’t due for nearly three more months. He needed to survive until he could safely bring her down to the country—what would that be? Four months? Five? Five months of living next door to a smart, funny, beautiful man, a man Tristan couldn’t
have
? Five more months of dreaming of Charles, of waking to wet sheets and terror that he’d cried out Charles’s name in the throes of his dreaming? Five more months of living what was rapidly becoming a nightmare of his own devising?
Or he could find some way to put this behind him. To forget that he was in love with Charles, that he didn’t feel that warmth every time Charles spoke his name or addressed a comment to him. That he didn’t long for Charles’s approval far more than he had ever wanted his father’s, with no more probability of ever earning it. How could he, when Charles was always so kind, so thoughtful, so considerate, things he’d never experienced in his adult life from another man. Was that all it was? Was it merely that Charles was kind to him, that he never seemed to
expect
anything from him? Was it only that Tristan was so hungry, so desperate for Charles’s friendship that he had convinced himself that it was love?
But these feelings had started before he really knew Charles—when he’d first met him, before he’d experienced Charles’s kindness. The desire wasn’t for friendship. That was physical, purely and simply. He
wanted
Charles—wanted those strong arms, that lovely mouth, those horseman’s thighs—wanted him naked, in bed, with him. Wanted him to
love
him.
There was a scratching on the door and Reston came in, the tea tray in his hands. “Oh, sir,” he said in distress, “you should have waited—I would have helped with your clothes.”
“I’m sorry, Reston,” Tris said wearily, “but I was too tired to wait. Sorry about the boot jack.”
“It’s nothing, sir. Your Hessians will be quickly mended, I assure you.” Reston set the tray on the table and poured the tea. “Shall I add the honey as the major suggested? It
is
quite bitter.”
“Yes, please.” Tristan took the cup and tasted it, making a face at the bitterness. “Thank you, Reston.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Reston busied himself picking up Tristan’s clothing and setting everything to rights, then turned back to Tris. “Will there be anything else tonight, sir?”
“No, Reston. Go to bed.”
“Yes, sir.” At the door, Reston paused and turned back. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“It’s not my place to say, but if you’ll be so indulgent, I would like to express my admiration for Major Mountjoy. He is a very considerate gentleman.”
“Yes,” Tristan said sadly. “He is.”
Reston cocked his head a moment, but said nothing more to the subject. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Reston.” Tristan waited until his valet had gone, then drank his tea quickly, setting the cup on the nightstand and blowing out the candle. It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired—he tired far too easily these days, and in truth, the brandy was less about helping him sleep than numbing him so he didn’t remember his dreams. He lay in the dark, not daring to move, praying for sleep to come quickly, and that, for once, he wouldn’t dream.
“Ho’sies
, Papa! Ho’sies!”
“Yes, love, I see them.” Tristan laughed, shifting Jamie from his hip to his shoulders, where he promptly knocked Tristan’s hat off into the dust of the Horse Guards’ parade grounds. Charlotte started to bend over to retrieve it, but a gentleman standing a few feet away picked it up and handed it to her with a bow. She smiled her thanks.
They had braved the January chill since the entire cavalry corps presently billeted in London was on review for the Prince of Wales. Charles, being still an active cavalry officer, had put on his uniform for the first time in weeks and joined those of his regiment not still in America. He was riding Paragon, Tris noted, admiring the way he looked on the horse, the gold facings on his dark blue uniform glittering in echo of the decorative trappings of his mount. “Do you see Uncle Charlie out there, Jamie?” he asked his excited son.
“Unca Cholly!” Jamie shrieked, waving his arms and bouncing madly. “Ho’sies!”
Charlotte fretted, “Is he safe up there, Tris?”
“Safer than on the ground, Lottie,” Tris said absently, his attention on the parade.
The Royals might be the flashier troop
, he thought, with their horsehair-tailed helmets and scarlet coats, but there was a powerful elegance to the gold-braided shakos and darker colors of the dragoons. It suited Charles: power and elegance, rather than flash.
“He does look lovely, doesn’t he, Tris?” Lottie asked at his elbow.
He glanced down at her, schooling his features to show only mild interest. “The blue uniforms are more elegant than the red,” he said coolly. “And of course, he does have an excellent seat—which he should after twelve years in the cavalry. One is only surprised that he is not bowlegged.”