Less than two minutes later, Juliana returned. “I think you’d best fetch it yourself, Alexandra. It’s up too high for me to reach.”
Alexandra was busy adding yet another name to the list. “Use the ladder.”
“The ladder is at the far end of the room.” Juliana sat on the sofa and picked up her menu. “And it’s dreadfully heavy.”
“It has wheels.” Corinna set aside her paintbrush. “Was there ever anyone more lazy? I shall fetch the book. Where in the library is it located?”
“Lower level, at the top of the third bank of shelves on the right. The middle bookcase.” Juliana scratched something out on the menu. “But I think Alexandra should go. She’s taller.”
“Only by an inch.”
“I think,” Juliana repeated meaningfully, “that Alexandra should go.”
“Ohhh,” Corinna said. “Is it up that high, then? Alexandra, perhaps you should go.”
“We could have written a dozen invitations by now.” Alexandra pushed back from the desk. “Third bank of shelves on the right? I shall return directly.”
With a long stride that A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove of, she hurried through the picture gallery, past the music room and the billiard room. Her sisters, she thought as she entered the two-level library, wasted entirely too much time on petty disagreements.
She strode down the red-and-gold striped carpet, then stopped short. Precisely in front of the third bank of shelves on the right, at a round mosaic table, sat Tris.
She mentally revised her last thought: Her sisters wasted entirely too much time on conniving plots.
An inch taller, indeed!
Pencil in hand, Tris was engrossed and hadn’t noticed her. While he erased a line and carefully sketched another, she watched. Even drawing a picture, he looked like a man of action. Lean, wide shouldered, his skin kissed by the sun. The same lock of hair flopped over his forehead.
She wished she could push it back.
It was pointless, she reminded herself—any wishing for him was pointless. But she so vividly remembered the intimacy of their kiss. The delicious warmth of his body. Herself melting against that delicious warmth.
He looked up, then bolted to his feet. “Lady Alexandra.”
Lady. So they were back on formal terms. It was for the better, she decided, hoping he couldn’t divine her earlier thoughts by the heat that had crept, once again, into her cheeks. “Sit, please. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just came in to get a book.”
He didn’t sit. “May I help you?”
“It’s right behind you.” Walking over, she slid between him and the shelves. The books were covered by doors of brass mesh in mahogany frames. In order to open them, she had to step back. “Pardon me,” she murmured, wishing he would move.
Then, when he did, wishing he hadn’t.
“It’s right here,” she said, rising to her toes to reach the top shelf.
“Let me help you.” The words were soft by her ear. He reached around her and up, leaning outrageously close, his chest grazing her back. He was as warm as she remembered, and his scent seemed to surround her. Her breath caught in her throat.
“This green one?” he asked.
“Yes.” The single syllable came out as a breathy sigh.
“Here you go,” he said, sliding it free.
She whirled around, almost in his arms. Almost.
But if she expected to see her own feelings mirrored in his eyes, she was doomed to disappointment. With a polite smile, he handed her the book. Then he returned to his chair and lifted his pencil.
Apparently, while her knees had been threatening to give out, he’d only been getting her a book.
“Thank you,” she said from behind him, feeling schoolgirlish and silly.
“You’re quite welcome.” He erased another line.
She clutched the book to her chest as though it could protect her from unwelcome emotions. “What are you drawing?”
“A water ram pump. I’ll be giving these sketches to the foundry so they can cast the pieces. When I’ve built it, it will pump water from the river to Griffin’s vineyard.”
Peering over his shoulder, she saw two versions of the metal contraption: a view of the outside, and, below that, a cutaway view showing the inner workings. “That’s very clever,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’ve tampered with the design some, but I didn’t conceive it. A gentleman in France came up with the idea.”
“Well, it’s still clever of you to be able to draw it—and build it.” She waited for a response, watching him shade a portion of the sketch. “I must get back to my sisters,” she said when it became clear he was going to remain quiet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Of course.”
Of course. It was as simple as that. She sidled out from behind him and began walking away.
“Alexandra,” he called softly.
No lady this time. She stopped and turned to find he’d risen again. “Yes?”
“I want to apologize for last night. I should have explained.”
“I understand. And I know you tried. It was as much my fault as yours—”
“Regardless, I had no right to…to make an advance. I beg you to accept my apology. It won’t happen again.”
A heaviness settled in her chest. That was the last thing she’d wanted to hear. Without a doubt it was the only prudent course, but that didn’t stop her from wishing things were different. From wishing the rest of society had the faith in him that she did.
“I don’t believe the rumors,” she told him. “You don’t have it in you to commit murder.”
“I appreciate your confidence.” His gaze remained steady, cool. He was very good at masking his feelings. Either that, or she’d only imagined those feelings last night.
She’d never considered herself an especially imaginative sort of girl.
He sat again, a silent dismissal. Suppressing a sigh, she turned to leave—and saw Griffin striding toward her.
He glanced at Tris, grabbed her by the arm, then marched her into the picture gallery, and, for good measure, through the door to the billiard room.
“I don’t want to see you alone with him. Ever.”
In her current state of emotional anguish, her brother’s overprotectiveness was more than vexing. She wrenched her arm free. “I was only getting a book.”
“Just keep clear of him, will you? With any luck, we’ll complete this project in a week or so, and then he can leave.”
“And in the meantime, am I supposed to avoid entire rooms in my own home?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You could trust me a little.” In a huff, she leaned against the oak billiard table.
“Stand up straight,” Griffin said. “You’ll throw the table off balance.”
She snapped upright, her composure threatening to snap, too. When her eldest brother Charles had become the marquess, he’d enjoyed lording it over his younger sisters. And now Griffin. “Stop telling me what to do.”
“I’m only trying to protect you—one of my many responsibilities, in case you’ve forgotten. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“We don’t need you to watch over us. We had three months on our own before your arrival. We did just fine without you then, and we can do without you now.”
Matching temper lit his eyes. “You want me gone? How convenient, since I’d just as soon not be here, either.” With an angry twist of his wrist, he sent an ivory billiard ball across the table’s green cloth surface. “My friends just defeated Napoleon without me.” The ball bounced off a cushion and hit another ball with a crack. “Perhaps I should rejoin them.”
“As you said, you have responsibilities now. Beyond me, beyond Juliana and Corinna.”
“I had responsibilities then, too,” he said, referring to his time as an officer. Time when, she supposed, he’d become used to everyone following his orders.
But if he was hoping for an apol
ogy, he was hoping in vain. She’d had enough of other people deciding what was right for her. “Sadly, you cannot leave.”
“You want me to leave?” He raised his gaze from the table and watched her, waited for her to answer.
“No,” she said at last on a sigh. Suddenly, she felt beyond weary. All the fight drained out of her. The truth was, although Griffin might be a less than ideal guardian, she couldn’t imagine her life without him. She’d missed him dreadfully the years he was gone. “I don’t know what I want,” she said.
He sighed, too. “I don’t know what I want, either.” Producing a handkerchief, he brushed the chalk dust off his fingertips. “Life hasn’t been kind to us these past few years, has it?”
“Perhaps not, but I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself.” She gave him a shaky smile. “As concerns Lord Hawkridge, you’ve nothing to fear, I promise you. Your friend has become a proper gentleman overnight.”
If part of her regretted that fact, a larger part knew it was for the best.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Griffin smiled back, a relieved smile, then took himself from the room.
Alexandra sent another ball across the table with a force that outdid her brother’s. It bounced off two cushions and rolled neatly into a pocket.
If only her life would roll into place that perfectly.
Chapter Twelve
Two days later, Griffin woke on the wrong side of the bed. Or at least that was what Tristan surmised, given his friend hadn’t strung more than three words together during their ride out to the vineyard.
Leading their horses by the reins, they walked along the riverbank, discussing their final plans prior to setting them in motion. “We’ll site the pump here,” Tristan said, “belowground with a grating over the opening. Ten feet in depth. That will give us the drop we need to start the water flow through the mechanism.” The day before, he’d staked off an area roughly six feet square. “Four straight walls. You’ll want to line them with brick to prevent erosion, but that can wait.”
Griffin nodded. “I’ll instruct my men to start digging the pit immediately. Is that your drawing of the pipeline?”
Tristan handed him the sketch. “It’s a fairly straight shot from here to the top of the rise.”
“And these dotted lines are where you’ve divided the vineyard into seven areas for irrigation?”
“Each serviced by a section of the pipe that runs along the ridge.”
“Capping and uncapping each section as needed.” Griffin traced a finger along the path. “The water will run straight down the slope. It should work.”
Tristan swung up onto his gelding. “Of course it will work. I planned it perfectly,” he quipped, hoping to brighten the mood of the exchange.
Squinting up at him in the morning sun, Griffin didn’t look convinced.
When he held out the drawing, Tristan leaned from the saddle to retrieve it. “We’ll make it work,” he added.
“We?” Griffin asked.
“Think of me as your schoolmaster. Your first assignment…” Grinning, Tristan folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. “Race me back,” he challenged, taking off before his pupil was mounted.
Long minutes later when their horses tired, they slowed to a walk. Their friendly competition had served to cut the time of their journey. Tristan had hoped the invigorating ride would also serve to end Griffin’s brooding, but as they continued on in silence, it seemed instead that his low spirits might be contagious.
As the crenelated walls of the ancient castle came into view across the downs, Griffin’s fists clenched on his reins. “Impressive, isn’t it?” he said in a bitter tone that contradicted his words.
“Magnificent.” Tristan slanted him a glance. “But you don’t feel like it’s yours, do you?”
“No,” Griffin said flatly. “It was never meant to be.”
“Hmm.” Tristan debated whether to sympathize or knock some sense into his friend. The latter was tempting. “Is that why you hesitate to learn how to manage it?”
“I’m learning,” Griffin protested in an ill-tempered manner. They rode a while longer in silence before he added, “Very well, hang it, I’ve been hesitating.”
The first step was acknowledging the truth, which Tristan knew because he’d climbed all the steps. Dragged himself up them, one at a time. “You haven’t been home long. I hesitated, too, when I first inherited Hawkridge.”
“Two years, now. Tell me, do you feel like it’s yours?”
“I do.” He hadn’t felt that way at first, but he’d made Hawkridge his, put his own brains and sweat into its improvement. “Cainewood will feel like yours, too, someday. You’ll have a family here—”
“Whoa.” Griffin held up a hand. “I need to find husbands for my sisters before I even think about myself.”
“Why?”
“Why? A gentleman doesn’t put himself first. Besides, I’ve no interest at present—”
“I meant, why are you set on marrying them off so quickly?”
Griffin shifted in his saddle, staring straight ahead. “The older two should be wed already, never mind their lack of offers being no fault of their own.”
Tristan just looked at Griffin until he turned to meet his gaze.
“Very well,” Griffin finally admitted. “I want my old life back. And while I continue to be responsible for the three of them—”
“You’ll never have it,” Tristan interrupted.
“Have what?”
“Your old life back. Your sisters have nothing to do with it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the happier you’ll be. If you would find a lady—”
Griffin’s laugh was so harsh it was nearly a bark. “I’m too occupied figuring out how to run this hulk of a place to entertain any thoughts of marrying.” As their horses clip-clopped over the wooden drawbridge and into Cainewood’s quadrangle, Griffin shot Tristan a speculative glance. “I shall look for a lady for you instead. One who isn’t my sister.”
“No ladies.” Since scandal had tarnished his name, Tristan hadn’t courted any girls at all. “I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to share my circumstances, let alone someone I cared for.”
“Whatever happened to that girl you left behind in Oxford?”
“We were talking about your love life, not mine.” When his friend remained closemouthed, Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Doubtless she’s married with several brats. She made it clear she had no interest in waiting while I gallivanted around the globe.”
How nonchalantly he could say that now. At the time, he’d thought he’d never get over her. He’d sailed for Jamaica with an empty cavity where his heart should have been.
“And the girl you wrote of from Jamaica?”
“What is this, an inquisition?” They dismounted, Griffin once more expectantly silent. “She decided against leaving the islands for England,” Tristan explained in an offhand manner.
The truth was, she’d agreed to marry him, then left him at the altar the day before he sailed.
The women he loved always left him.
After a while, he mused as a groom took his horse and he and Griffin crossed the lawn toward the door, a fellow grew up and realized that love was nothing more than an illusion. It wasn’t solid, binding, and secure, as Tristan had once believed. It was neither truth nor fact, but merely a fancy in one’s own mind.
An image of Alexandra, her warm, round eyes aglow with that look of love, flashed across his vision. She was just as naive, just as vulnerable as he had been. She would blame her first broken heart on circumstances, he knew, but someday she, too, would see through the illusion.
He could only be thankful he wouldn’t be there to witness it.
Chapter Thirteen
“What’s going on here?” Griffin asked a few days later, poking his head into the drawing room.
“We’re choosing new evening dresses.” Alexandra held up a swatch of fabric. “Would you care to help?”
“No!” Juliana cried. “We must see the fabrics by candlelight.”
“Whose bacon-brained idea was that?” Griffin turned to the mantua-maker.
Madame Rodale laid a plump hand on her ample bosom. “Not mine, my lord, I assure you,” she said in her fake French accent.
“It was A Lady of Distinction’s idea,” Corinna informed him.
“A lady of what?”
“A Lady of Distinction. The author of The Mirror of the Graces.”
“The book you bought for all of us,” Juliana reminded him as she pawed through a box of lace. “To help us catch husbands. A Lady of Distinction says we must choose our dress fabrics by candlelight, because otherwise we might select a pale yellow in daylight that appears black by night.”
“Yellow appearing black? What swill is this? It appears I’ve bought a manual authored by a complete—”
Griffin broke off, apparently unable to come up with a word to describe her that was acceptable in mixed company.
“Twit?” Corinna suggested.
“A twit, yes. Perhaps you girls shouldn’t read that book, after all.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Alexandra breathed.
Juliana nodded. “That twittish Lady of Distinction also says we should never paint our faces, and we should wear only modest clothing no matter the current fashions.”
“Does she?” Griffin smiled. “Keep reading, then.”
All three sisters groaned.
“What do you think of this yellow?” Corinna held a square of fabric to Juliana’s cheek.
“Pretty, but bright,” Alexandra said. “Didn’t you tell us A Lady of Distinction favors pastels?”
“It’s called jonquille,” the mantua-maker put in. “And it’s très fashionable.”
Juliana gave a happy sigh. “I shall have it, then.”
“How can you even see it?” Griffin complained loudly.
“Griffin?” Tris barged into the drawing room. “We must leave soon, if I’m to—” Locking gazes with Alexandra, he cut off. “Pardon me,” he said quickly and turned to leave, much to her relief.
Love Regency Style Page 30