absolutely motionless.
His eyes actually widened.
She’d managed to shock him.
Then again, she’d also shocked herself. Why on earth had she said that?
“Have you . . . had a child, Lady Derring?”
But he was certain he knew the answer—Derring had no heir—and for some reason Tristan regretted asking it instantly, because her eyes were briefly stricken.
“No,” she said softly. Sounding ever-so-slightly defeated.
He hadn’t the faintest idea what to say next. Absolutely none. And this seldom happened to him. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t about to presume her childlessness was a source of regret for her. Or imply that she had somehow failed. He supposed the information was useful.
And he knew Derring had no heirs.
He did not enjoy her obvious discomfiture, however, even though she’d quite brought it on herself.
Bloody hell. No good could come from aimless social occasions, he thought grimly.
“I have never felt as though . . . sometimes I wonder at the point of having a body,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did that sound odd? I’m sorry. I have had too much sherry, I fear.”
He looked at her glass, which was full, minus perhaps three sips.
“If we’re to discuss bodies, I’m going to need another brandy. Perhaps you must have another sherry, too.”
She gave a little laugh. “I think not. No, that is, I will not. You see, one of the luxuries of being a widow is that I can now say no when I want to. Until now, there has never seemed to be a point to me, other than as a commodity for someone. And now I can do as I please.”
She’d said it lightly and with some satisfaction.
And yet it was perhaps the most devastating thing someone had said aloud to him.
He wasn’t quite certain why. But he felt the weight of it land on his chest. Along with a peculiar irritation. Something not quite anger, but more like helplessness, as though he ought to be able to save her from that. Not something he’d had occasion to feel before.
“I’m not certain I understand what you mean,” he said carefully.
“You see, I went from my parents’ home straight to my husband’s. I was the savior of the family. Or rather, the Earl of Derring was, and I was the means by which he rescued us from poverty. After my husband died, there were a few moments where I couldn’t quite feel my limbs, as though nothing about myself had ever actually belonged to me. Perhaps it was shock. It wasn’t because of sherry or laudanum, certainly, for I’d had none. I’m rather new to sherry. Angelique’s influence. The earl liked a brandy. I liked chocolate in the morning. I am rambling now, you see, you must stop me—you’ve quite a bemused expression.”
He’d been listening, his stomach contracting in what he recognized as a response to something like injustice. As if he ought to have been there to prevent her from feeling that way, which made no sense at all.
But also, strangely, he listened because he liked hearing the lilt of her voice, and how she was flustered now, when everything about her was usually so brisk and competent.
“My expression, I hope, is thoughtful, and forgive me if it seems bemused,” he said carefully. “I was a soldier, you see. As an enlisted man, I was primarily cannon fodder. Cannon fodder is necessary and expendable, so I suppose I felt useful in that regard. And part of something. And yet. And so . . . I think I understand to a small degree.”
He’d never expressed such a thought to anyone before. Let alone a woman.
“Expendable,” she repeated on an exhale. “What a horrible word.”
She was watching him as though the idea of his being slaughtered in battle was distressing. Perhaps it was simply in the way of hospitality here at The Palace of Rogues. Limpid-eyed sympathy dispensed with the after-dinner brandy and the smuggled cigars.
But it was admittedly not unpleasant to be looked at in that fashion by those soft eyes of hers.
“I was there to kill or be killed. I understood that. I had orders and I obeyed them. But there are moments in the mass of men in battle where you forget you are a separate being . . . and so . . . I do believe I know what you mean. It’s humbling to realize that one’s importance in the scheme of things is, in fact, quite small. While it can be devastating, in some ways it becomes a source of