He glanced at her, and then back at the fire. ‘I take the view that being born into the nobility is about being a custodian of history. All this is grand and awe-inspiring, but it’s not mine and it never will be. I’m fortunate enough to look after it, yes, but this house is a part of something much bigger and it belongs to everyone, really.’
‘Is that why you open your home to the public?’
‘Partly. People are naturally curious about the country’s history, and my ancestors have accumulated a lot of important artefacts that deserve to be viewed by more than just a privileged few. Especially if those privileged few don’t understand the importance of what they have.’
‘Do you mean people who don’t care about their heritage?’
Her softly voiced question brought his attention back to her, and he wondered at the looseness of his tongue and the need he suddenly felt to unburden himself of the weight of the less salubrious aspects of his history. He suspected, given Lily’s dislike of the press, that she wouldn’t run off and disclose his secrets—and really they weren’t all that secret anyway.
‘My grandfather was a heavy drinker and gambler, and he ran the property into quite a severe state of disrepair. My father had to work two jobs for a while to try and rebuild it, and while he was off working my mother thought a good little money-earner might be to sell off some of my father’s most prized heirlooms.’ He couldn’t stop the note of bitterness from creeping into his voice.
‘Oh, how terrible!’ Lily cried. ‘She must have been so unhappy to try and reach out that way.’
Tristan cut her a hard glance. ‘Reach out?’
‘Yes. My mother did terrible things to get my father’s attention, and—’
‘My mother wasn’t trying to get my father’s attention,’ he bit out. ‘She was trying to get more money to fund her lifestyle.’
Something she’d talked about endlessly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Lily touched his arm and then drew her hand back when he looked at her sharply. ‘And was your father able to recover them? The heirlooms?’
‘No.’ His tone was brittle even to his own ears. ‘But I did.’
Lily paused and then said softly. ‘You don’t like her very much, do you?’
Tristan put another log on the fire and ran an agitated hand through his hair, realising too late that he’d said too much. How should he respond to that? Tell her that he would probably have forgiven his mother anything if she’d shown him a modicum of genuine affection as he’d been growing up? But she had, hadn’t she? Sometimes.
‘My mother wasn’t the most maternal creature in the world, and as I matured I lost a lot of respect for her.’ He spied the bound folio next to the stone hearth and realised it was the play Lily had been carrying around with her. ‘What are you reading?’ he asked, reaching for it.
Lily made a scoffing noise. ‘Not a very subtle conversation change, My Lord. And not a very good one either. It’s a play about my parents.’
‘The one that slimeball reporter asked you about?’
She shifted uncomfortably and he wondered about that.
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t want to do it?’
‘No.’
He watched the way the firelight warmed her angelic features and wondered what was behind her reticence to do the play. ‘Tell me about your life,’ he surprised them both by saying.
She shook her head. ‘Quid pro quo, you mean.’
‘Why do you call yourself Lily instead of Honey?’ he queried, warming to the new topic but sensing her cool at the same time.
For a minute he didn’t think she was going to answer and then she threw him one of those enigmatic smiles that told him she was avoiding something. ‘My stepfather thought it would be a good idea for me to change it. You know—reinvent myself. Make a fresh start.’ She laughed, as if it was funny, but the lightness in her tone was undermined by the sudden tautness of her shoulders.
‘How old were you?’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven!’
‘I was a bit traumatised at the time—wouldn’t speak to anyone for six months after my parents died. Plus my parents weren’t the most conventional creatures, so it was a good idea, really.’