Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Depends on how much I pay them,” Griffin said dryly. “If you think the pump can be ready and installed by Thursday, I will see that the pipeline is finished then as well.”

  “The ball is Friday?” At Griffin’s nod, Tristan stood and began to leave. “Sounds like there’s no time to waste. Let’s go look at the site and have a word with the foundry,” he said, opening the study’s door.

  Three startled faces were on the other side. The sight of one of them—Alexandra’s, to be precise—all but knocked the wind out of him.

  He couldn’t quite call it a friendly reaction.

  Griffin snorted. “You’d hear better, ladies, if you put an empty glass to the door.”

  “We weren’t listening,” Corinna protested in entirely too innocent a tone. “We were just…on our way to change our dresses.”

  “Yes,” Juliana said. “We’re wearing morning dresses, and we need our walking dresses now.”

  Tristan couldn’t help but notice Alexandra wasn’t saying anything. With her mouth, at least. Her eyes, focused on him, spoke volumes. Clearly she found his unexpected presence unsettling in the extreme. He prayed that his own similar feelings weren’t written on his face.

  What was wrong with him? Was he losing his wits? Never before had the mere sight of Alexandra—or anyone else, come to think of it—provoked in him this sort of response. He couldn’t even say if it was a positive response or a negative one. But it certainly didn’t feel pleasant.

  “Where are you planning to walk?” Griffin asked.

  “To the village,” Corinna said.

  “We baked lemon cakes earlier this morning,” Juliana added, “planning to make some calls.”

  “Go on, then.” Griffin waved a hand. “As I expect you heard, Tristan and I are likely to be gone for the next few hours.”

  Tristan watched Alexandra accompany her sisters through the high gallery, her skirts swaying gracefully to match her gait. When she disappeared into the corridor that led to their bedrooms, he released a silent sigh.

  Or maybe it hadn’t been silent. “What?” Griffin asked, looking at him sharply.

  “Nothing.” He shouldn’t be here. “What’s the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress?”

  “How should I know?” Griffin started down the stairs. “You think I understand anything to do with girls?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  SMALL LEMON CAKES

  Take half a pint of milk and heat to boiling then pour over a like amount of bread crumbs and leave until heat has abated. Melt 8 spoons of butter and to this add grated rind of lemons, a fair measure of sugar and three eggs well beaten. Mix all together and pour into buttered cake-cups and bake until browned.

  Medicine for the heart. These cakes will brighten the most melancholy of days.

  —Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1811

  Tristan’s assessment of the drainage problem had proved in concert with Griffin’s, and they were both relieved to find the foundry had saved the molds. If all went to plan, the pump would be installed by Thursday, and Tristan would be well gone before the first guests arrived for Friday evening’s ball.

  They rode home in high spirits, despite the gloomy gray skies. For once, everything seemed to be going right.

  But no sooner had they passed beneath the barbican than Cainewood’s big double doors opened to reveal an agitated Boniface, hailing them as he hurried across the quadrangle. “You’ve a caller, my lord. Lady Rachael Chase.”

  Griffin swung down from his mount. “She must have come to see my sisters. Have they not returned yet?”

  “No, my lord, they’ve not. But she asked to see you. Something about an unanswered letter?” The stern frown didn’t sit quite right on the butler’s pretty face. “She’s been waiting for well over an hour.”

  As Boniface returned to his post, Griffin swore under his breath. Tristan dismounted and followed him toward the doors. “You must have received Lady Rachael’s letter a week ago or more. Did you never reply?”

  “I wanted to make certain my solution would work before I explained it.”

  Tristan had to take the steps two at a time in order to keep up. “So you simply ignored her?”

  “Her brother, the true owner of the affected land, is currently away in Lon—” Griffin stopped short as they stepped inside. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Lord Cainewood?” Perched on one of the entrance hall’s carved walnut chairs, Lady Rachael peered at Griffin with her mouth open in a little “o” of surprise, as though he were quite different from what she’d expected.

  Or much better.

  Intrigued, Tristan turned to peer at Griffin, too—attempting to appraise him from the female perspective. His dark-haired, green-eyed friend had never wanted for admirers, he recalled. And the fellow had grown a few inches and honed some muscles during his time in the military. Still, Tristan couldn’t see what the girl found so shocking.

  At last Rachael closed her mouth, then rose abruptly to her feet. “I trust you received my letter?” She licked her lower lip.

  “I did, indeed.” Griffin blinked at her, staring rather indecently himself. His reaction was no mystery. Though Lady Rachael wasn’t Tristan’s type, she was stunningly…well…

  He’d never say it aloud, but the only word he could think of for her was sultry.

  “Did Boniface not fetch you refreshment?” Griffin asked. He gave an elaborate sigh, as though the butler’s neglect of their visitor far outweighed his own. “It’s so difficult to get good help these days. Don’t you agree, Tristan?”

  “Mr. Nesbitt.” Lady Rachael nodded graciously, though her eyes remained on Griffin. ”It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Tristan executed a small bow, hiding his amusement. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

  “Mr. Nesbitt is Lord Hawkridge now,” Griffin informed her. “The Marquess of Hawkridge.”

  “Of course.” She finally turned to Tristan, her expression a mixture of apology with curiosity and a touch of alarm. “How could I have forgotten?”

  Clearly she’d remembered the scandal. Tristan wished she’d go back to staring at Griffin.

  “Let me escort you to my sisters, Lady Rachael,” Griffin interjected. “You came to visit them, didn’t you?”

  “I came to see you, as your butler has informed you.” She lifted her reticule off one of the ornate iron treasure chests. “Shall we discuss this somewhere private?”

  “Very well,” Griffin said and guided her up the staircase, his feet obviously dragging.

  Tristan had a quiet laugh at his friend’s expense. “I shall arrange for refreshment to be brought to you in the study!” he called after them lightly. And with that, he took himself off, leaving Griffin to the mercy of his sultry cousin.

  There were no servants hovering about, so Tristan made his way toward the side door that led to the household offices and kitchen, hoping to find Boniface, or perhaps the housekeeper or cook. Then, hearing footsteps and feminine voices drifting from the quadrangle, he turned back.

  Boniface reappeared from nowhere and opened the door to admit Alexandra, Juliana, and Corinna. “Welcome home, my ladies.”

  “Good afternoon, Boniface,” they chimed in chorus, belying the gray day in cheerful straw bonnets and pale pastel dresses. Walking dresses, Tristan presumed, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what made them such. They were high-waisted and slim-skirted, like all the other dresses he’d seen them wear this summer.

  “Lord Hawkridge,” Juliana said in surprise. “Have you and Griffin returned already?”

  “No, he’s a mirage,” Corinna quipped.

  Juliana laughed. Alexandra didn’t.

  “What have you there?” Tristan asked, indicating the baskets they all carried.

  “Lemon cakes,” Juliana said. “Or what’s left of them.”

  “We’ve just come from the village,” Corinna elaborated. “We were visiting with the infirm.”

>   “All of the tenants and villagers look forward to our sweets,” Juliana boasted. “Would you care for one?” Her gaze flicked from him to Alexandra and back as she reached into her basket and handed him a cake. “They’re reputed to cure melancholy.”

  Did he look distressed? “How kind of you, then, to bring some to the ill.” He bit into the confection and smiled, wishing Alexandra would say something. “I was just on my way to procure some refreshment for your cousin, Lady Rachael. Perhaps she’d enjoy some of these.”

  “Rachael is here?” Corinna squealed. “Where is she? Did Claire and Elizabeth come along as well?”

  “I don’t believe she brought her sisters with her. She’s with Griffin, in his—”

  “Griffin?” She frowned. “Whatever does she want with him?”

  “Oh, it has to do with some flooding on her land. I think.” He laughed, remembering the way they’d interacted. “Has Lady Rachael previously shown an interest in your brother? Or he in her?”

  “A romantic sort of interest?” Juliana looked intrigued. “She was little more than a child when he left for Spain.”

  “She’s not a child now.”

  “Of course she isn’t.” Juliana handed Alexandra her basket. “Take this, will you? We’ll see that refreshments are brought to the drawing room for when Rachael is finished with Griffin.”

  After a silent moment, she nudged Corinna with her elbow.

  “Oh, yes,” Corinna said. “Do take mine as well.” After shoving her basket at Alexandra, she followed Juliana upstairs.

  Alexandra shifted the three baskets awkwardly. “Well,” she said as her sisters disappeared.

  One word, Tristan thought. It was a start. “They do have a habit of leaving the two of us alone together, don’t they?” Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he polished off the rest of the cake.

  She crossed to one of the iron treasure chests, set down the baskets, and turned away to busy herself combining the remaining sweets into one of them. “They mean well.”

  Moving closer, he watched her in the large, rectangular looking glass that hung above the treasure chest. “What do you expect they’re hoping will happen?” He kept his hands clasped behind his back.

  Though her cheeks went pink, she met his eyes in the silvery surface and answered in her forthright way. “I expect they think you might kiss me again.”

  “I won’t,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said and lowered her gaze.

  Since spotting him riding to their door earlier that morning, she’d endured a riot of emotions: surprise, happiness, annoyance, confusion. Confusion reigned supreme. She’d been looking forward to the ball, to meeting new—eligible—young men. In the past month, she’d thought she’d succeeded in relegating Lord Hawkridge to that role in her life labeled friend.

  But seeing him this morning had cured her of that illusion.

  Youthful stupidity could be her only excuse. And perhaps madness. Yes, that would cover it. She whirled round, knowing he stood close behind her. Their height difference meant his lips were at her eye level, and she remembered they had been softer than she’d expected. A lock of his hair had flopped over his forehead as usual, and she reached to sweep it away.

  He caught her gloved hand. “That won’t work this time.”

  “I know,” she repeated.

  Their hands dropped together. Slowly his fingers moved up her arm until he was touching bare skin. “You don’t want me to kiss you, do you?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I cannot be with you, Alexandra. I cannot be with anyone.”

  She couldn’t be with him, either—not and live with herself. But surely there were ladies who didn’t have families to consider. “Do you mean to never have children? Not even an heir for Hawkridge?”

  He wrapped his fingers lightly around her elbow. “I don’t believe that to be my fate.”

  “Fate.” She narrowed her eyes. “You believe God’s plan for you involves spending the rest of your life alone?”

  “That appears to be the trajectory I’m on. I’ve accepted it. One cannot be happy without accepting one’s fate.”

  He certainly didn’t look happy. “Perhaps He needs you to pull your own weight. Is it so wrong to hope for more? To work for more?”

  “Of course not.” He seemed to realize he’d been holding her arm, and let go. Stepped back. “But it’s wrong to expect more as your due.”

  She remembered how, after completing university, he’d felt he had no choice but to work for his uncle. And now, it seemed, he felt he had no choice but to accept loneliness as his lot in life.

  Thinking about that made a lump rise in her throat.

  “I don’t believe in accepting,” she told him. “Or settling. I believe in striving for the things you want.” He looked startled when she moved closer and grasped one of his hands in both of hers.

  But he didn’t pull away.

  “Promise me,” she said, “as your friend, that you won’t stop trying to be happy.”

  “I am—”

  “Promise me.”

  He didn’t. Instead, following a tense silence, he leaned closer and kissed her on the forehead. Then he withdrew his hand and quit the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rachael was more businesslike than he remembered, Griffin thought, standing behind the safety of his heavy desk. She stood opposite with one hand planted on a cocked hip, her silly little reticule dangling from her wrist.

  Why on earth didn’t girls wear pockets?

  He picked up her letter and stared at it, then looked back to her. “When I got this, I was picturing you as a schoolgirl with a plait hanging down your back.”

  She raised one arched brow. “I never wore plaits.”

  He certainly couldn’t picture her wearing plaits now.

  The lavender dress she wore was made of some light fabric that clung to her figure. Her eyes were large and the color of a cloudless sky—a hue Corinna would describe as cerulean—and beneath that startling blue gaze, she had full lips. Her chestnut hair was done up in a ladylike style, but the loose tendrils around her face weren’t tightly curled as was fashionable, instead falling in soft waves that hinted at thick, luxuriant tresses.

  He had never seen a girl in a day dress manage to look so…he couldn’t think of the right word.

  “Did you bother reading that letter?” she asked in a voice much huskier than Griffin remembered.

  He swallowed. “Of course I read the letter. I invited Lord Hawkridge here as a result. He’s assisting me in rectifying the problem.”

  “In what way?”

  “We’re diverting the water back to the river by means of pipes and a pump. The new system should be in place by Thursday.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I’m flooding your brother’s land.”

  “I meant, why did you begin irrigating in the first place? Have we not enough rain on this all-fired island?”

  “I’m attempting to save my brother’s vines.”

  When her forehead crinkled, even that looked intimidating. “Vines?”

  “Grapevines. I’m raising grapes to start a winery. Or perhaps I should say Charles was raising grapes, and as his successor, I’m doing my best not to kill them.”

  “Oh.” She sobered. “I was sorry to learn of Charles’s passing.”

  “So was I,” he said dryly.

  She licked her upper lip, watching him speculatively. “You don’t fancy being the marquess?”

  “Given the trouble I have sustaining the lives of mere grapes, you may pity the unfortunate tenants who rely on me for their keeping. Sit, please,” he added, indicating one of the leather wing chairs.

  She did, setting her reticule on the small table beside it. He sat, too, with some relief, as he’d begun wondering if his knees might give out.

  He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers, watching he
r over them, his jaw tense. He found himself idly wondering if she’d lick her lips again.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” he said.

  “It’s been two years.”

  “That doesn’t mean it cannot hurt.”

  Rachael turned her face to the window. “I haven’t cried in forever,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Thank you for making me start now.”

  Even though she’d turned away, Rachael could tell that Griffin kept looking at her—no, she decided, staring at her. Whyever was he doing that? As far as she was concerned, he was an irresponsible scapegrace, and she very much would have liked to be offended by his staring.

  But somehow, she didn’t mind.

  Three years in the military had changed her cousin. The rowdy, ungainly youth she remembered had grown taller and sturdier. His eyes were still a pure leaf green, but the face around them had gained a weathered, authoritative quality that fascinated her.

  In a cousinly way, of course.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean to bring up old feelings.”

  “It’s time I dealt with them,” she admitted, still gazing out the window. “None of us have, if you want to know the truth. We lost Mama and Papa so quickly—a road accident is such an unexpected shock. Even the staff seems loath to believe they’re gone. A chambermaid cleans their rooms every day just the same as if they still lived there. Nothing of theirs has been touched.”

  “If keeping part of them with you makes you feel better—”

  “It doesn’t, not really. It just keeps us from moving on with our lives.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve decided to empty their suite before Noah comes home in September. He was still living at school at the time, and it never occurred to us to move him into their rooms. He was too young at sixteen to take on an earl’s responsibilities.”

  “You were only seventeen,” Griffin pointed out.

  “But I felt much older than Noah, being the first child. And I knew the care of the estate better than he did, so it made sense for me to take over for him while he finished growing up.” She finally turned back to her cousin. “Now, though, he’s eighteen, and it’s time for him to come into his own. The master suite should rightfully be his. It’s time to let go. They’re only things, anyway, right? Not so significant.”