It was so good to be back in Wales.
Carys lifted her face to the morning sun and let the rays warm her cheeks, even though it would increase her freckles. Her skirts swung loose around her legs and she reveled in the luxury of being able to leave her hair unpinned.
Guests had been arriving at Trellech Court for the past couple of days, but it was too early for most of them to be up and about, and the menagerie was a good distance from the house, so she’d tied the heavy mass up with a simple ribbon to keep it out of the way while she tended to her animals.
Geoffrey, one of the peacocks that freely roamed the grounds, greeted her with a piercing shriek.
“You’re not making any friends, you know, making that racket this early,” she scolded. “You watch, Rhys’ll pluck your feathers and send them to London to make fans.”
Geoffrey clearly knew this was an empty threat. He gave a scornful caw and disappeared behind a bank of rhododendrons with a dismissive shake of his long tail.
“Are your brother’s guests all so dull you need to converse with the animals?”
Carys almost dropped her bucket of kitchen scraps. Her heart lodged in her throat as Tristan emerged from the same bank of shrubbery, looking tall and unnervingly gorgeous in a dark riding jacket, buff breeches, and boots.
Ugh. She wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not like this. She needed an amazing outfit with which to dazzle him.
“Montgomery,” she panted. “I didn’t expect to see you—anyone—so early.”
His gaze traveled over her from head to toe and she fought the rising tide of heat that accompanied it. Her simple cotton day dress was plain and practical, and while it was perfectly modest it was so different from the outfits she wore in London that she felt defenseless, especially in the face of his sartorial perfection. Her scuffed ankle boots were probably a mortal affront.
“So I gather.” His lips twitched in amusement. “What would the ton say if it could see you now? Carys Davies, doyenne of fashion, with a pail of vegetable peelings. You look like Marie Antoinette playing at being a dairymaid.”
Irritation returned in a rush. “I’m not playing at anything. My animals don’t care if I’m wearing satin or sackcloth. They just want their breakfast.”
She fought to keep her hands steady and the embarrassment out of her voice. This was the first time she’d seen him since the opera over a week ago, and despite her best efforts she’d been unable to stop thinking about that kiss. Memories of his touch had haunted her day and night.
In the cold light of day it seemed like a fever dream, some dark fantasy she’d only imagined. Had she really kissed those stern lips?
Flustered, she started toward one of the nearest enclosures, cursing silently when he fell into step behind her.
“I like you better like this.”
She glanced back at him, startled. “Like this?”
He nodded. “Back in town you’re like a gilded lily. All shimmering color to dazzle the eye. Your dresses are the architectural equivalent of the rococo: far too ornamental.”
Carys bit back a laugh, torn between amusement and offense. “I don’t think I’ve ever been likened to an architectural style before. Is this a strategy you’ve found successful with the ladies? Did you tell Lavinia Purser she looks like a Grecian pillar?”
He narrowed his eyes at her levity. “I just hate to see a perfectly good structure hidden beneath ivy and trellis. Or frills and bows, in your case. That dress you wore to the opera was a monstrosity.” He gestured at her simple skirts. “Here there’s only … you. Without artifice.”
Carys didn’t know how to answer that. The fact that he saw through the illusion of her London self, that he might actually prefer the real, unadorned version, made her distinctly uncomfortable.
“My grandfather started this menagerie,” she said, to cover her nerves. “It began as a friendly rivalry with his friend the Duke of Richmond, who had his own at Goodwood House in Sussex. Exotic pets used to be all the rage back then. Sir Robert Walpole had a flamingo that warmed itself by the kitchen fire. The Earl of Shelburne kept an orangutan and a tame leopard in his orangery.
“We even had a moose, all the way from Canada. Grandfather had some idea of getting a breeding pair and introducing the animals to Britain for domestication, but the scheme came to nothing.”
“He couldn’t find a lady moose?” Tristan asked drily.
“Oh, no, there was a lady moose, but she rebuffed the male’s advances. She didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“That sounds rather familiar.” His amused chuckle sounded at her shoulder and she felt her own lips curl up in response.
“Well, just as in the ton, arranged matches seldom lead to success. The lady moose was lucky; she kept the male at bay.”
“As you’ve been keeping the gentlemen of London at bay for the past few seasons.”
She waved at the nearest enclosure and tried to infuse a teasing note into her voice. “Why would I add to my menagerie? A husband would be less loyal than a dog, less affectionate than a cat, and less amusing than a monkey. Not to mention less obedient.”
Tristan let out a bark of laughter. “I feel I should be offended on behalf of men everywhere.”
“Animals are cheaper than husbands too. If I marry—even someone like Ellington—I’ll lose the right to manage my own money. I’ll become a possession, thanks to the laws of couverture. I’d be the one in a cage. Why put myself in that position?”
“Good point,” he conceded. “But women have found ways around that particular issue. Just look at Victoria Howe. Her money’s tied up in a trust so her husband can’t get at it.”
She didn’t want to talk about Victoria Howe. Or her pig of a husband.
Thankfully, her two ravens provided a distraction. Carys opened the door to their enclosure and whistled. Both birds immediately came and settled on her shoulders.
“Meet Huginn and Muninn,” she said fondly. “Named after Odin’s ravens in Norse mythology.”
Huginn playfully nibbled her earlobe, while Muninn hopped onto her head and pecked at the ribbon that held her hair.
“Leave me alone, you naughty boys! Go!” She shooed them off with a laugh and the two of them flapped away to settle on the branches of a nearby tree.
“Considering your views on the ravens at the Tower, I assume you haven’t clipped their wings?”
Carys hid her surprise that Tristan recalled the conversation. She hadn’t thought he’d been paying much attention.
“No. They’re free to fly wherever they please. They come back each night because they trust me to care for them. But it’s up to them if they want to stay or leave.”
Wasn’t that the true measure of love? Entrusting something with its freedom, and having it return to you through choice? Keeping it with kindness, not restraint?
“They’re incredibly intelligent,” she continued, keeping her eyes on the birds rather than glancing over at Tristan. “They’re especially good at mimicking sounds. One summer, a few years ago, I decided to practice shooting Rhys’s pistols in that field over there.” She waved vaguely to the north.
It had been the summer after Howe had ruined her. She’d imagined his perfidious heart as her target every time she fired. She’d become an excellent shot.
“I heard the sound of a pistol cocking in the trees behind me. At first I thought it was Rhys, playing tricks, but when I shouted a challenge, no one came out. Then I thought it was poachers. I was about to fire, when Huginn flew out of the trees.” Carys smiled in memory. “He landed on a branch next to me and made the exact sound of a pistol being cocked and fired.”
“Can you get him to make the sound?”
“Sometimes, if I nudge him and click my tongue. But usually it’s random. Muninn can do it too. And I’m fairly sure they both mimic Geoffrey the peacock, as well. It drives Morgan mad. Geoffrey’s lucky none of us have strangled him by now.”
Tristan’s low chuckle sent a frisson of awareness through her. She could see his broad shoulder and sleeve from the corner of her eye.
“One time, Huginn pretended to play dead. Another crow, Colin, really had died, and Thomas, our keeper, put him in a box lined with cloth, ready for burial. Huginn, seeing all the attention Colin was getting, decided he would try it. He lay on his back and curled up his claws and stayed completely still. He was so convincing that Thomas got a box for him too, but when he went to pick him up, Huginn bit his finger and flapped off, croaking evil raven laughs.”
Carys snorted in memory, then clapped her hand over her nose and mouth, horrified that she’d made such an unladylike sound. Tristan, however, only laughed, and when she glanced over at him her heart missed a beat at the unexpected warmth in his eyes.
A strange, weightless feeling came over her. Who’d have thought she’d be able to relax like this in Tristan’s company?
His gaze settled on her face and her self-consciousness returned in a rush. She put her hand up to her hair, grimly certain the birds had mussed it beyond repair, and sure enough, the ribbon that had fastened it fell free.
Thank you, Muninn, you wretch.
Her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders and her heart started to pound as Tristan’s gaze flicked from her hair to her lips. He looked as if he wanted to kiss her, but she must be misreading the signs. He was probably just disgusted at her state of deshabille.
She glanced away, more unsure than she’d ever been in her life, and could have kissed Geoffrey for choosing that moment to reappear from behind the bushes, tail fanned majestically as he tried to impress one of the peahens farther along the walk.
I will never let anyone turn you into peacock pie, she promised him silently.
She glanced back over at Tristan and allowed herself to admire the perfect cut of his jacket and waistcoat. They fitted him like a second skin, and it was clear that he was in no need of cheap tricks like padding or sawdust to improve his form. If one of the Greek heroes like Achilles or Hector has been born in this century, in England, he’d have looked exactly like Tristan in those clothes. Power and grace constrained beneath the flimsiest of layers.
To distract herself, Carys lifted her brows and adopted the wry, amused expression she used in the ballrooms of the ton. “Isn’t it funny that in the animal kingdom it always seems to be the men who have the bright, exotic plumage.”
She gestured at Geoffrey’s magnificent blues and greens. “Look at the peacock, or the cockerel. The females are all brown and nondescript. Yet for us humans, it’s the opposite. We women are expected to be the ones smothered in jewels and frills to attract a mate.” She forced a laugh. “Sometimes I wish we lived in the last century, when you men dressed as gaudily as us women. Gentlemen’s dress today is so dull.”
Tristan’s lips quirked at the implied insult. “You’d prefer me in powder and patch, milady?”
No, she wouldn’t. Those dark colors suited him perfectly: strict and severe, like the man. “I can’t quite imagine you in pink silk and feathers.”
How about in nothing at all?
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the unbidden thought—one of far too many she’d had in the past week.
She hastened to cover her confusion. “The most decorative male always seems to win the female. Imagine if other things were decided that way; instead of battles, wars could be won by whichever side had the best uniforms. Duels would go to the gentleman with the most attractive waistcoat. It would prevent a great deal of senseless bloodshed.”
She was talking nonsense, but Tristan seemed to be entertained. “I’ll be sure to mention it to Bonaparte, when next we meet.”
The reminder that he might be called back to battle was a sobering thought. A world without Tristan in it, being superior and annoying, would be … dissatisfying.