Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  But it was too late. The crowd rushed to see, forming a loose semicircle in front of the door.

  Alexandra was ruined.

  “I sleepwalked in here,” Tristan explained quietly, as though he and Griffin were the only ones there. A nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. “Unaware of my own actions.”

  “Balderdash!” Lady St. Quentin exclaimed. “I’ve never heard such a pathetic excuse. It won’t save her reputation; that I can promise.”

  “Hang it,” Griffin said dangerously. All the whispering behind him wasn’t helping him think straight. He glared at Tristan. It was some consolation to learn Alexandra hadn’t invited the son of a gun into her bed, but of all the accursed, unexpected… “You still sleepwalk?”

  “Infrequently, but yes.”

  “You didn’t have to stay once you got here,” he bit out.

  “You’re right. My sincerest apologies. I’ll leave now.” Tristan started from the room.

  “No, you won’t.” Griffin stopped him with an outstretched hand flat against his chest. “You stayed the night, you’ll stay now. You’ll marry my sister. By special license. Tomorrow.”

  Gasps rose from the onlookers. Tristan glanced down at Griffin’s hand, then stepped back. “If that’s what you wish.”

  Griffin’s arm dropped to his side. “It’s not what I wish, but it’s what must be done.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady St. Quentin cut in. “You cannot marry your sister to a murderer.” Reaching back into the cluster of spectators, she pulled her son stumbling through to the front. “My Roger will be happy to marry her.”

  Her Roger looked mortified.

  “For her dowry?” Griffin asked Roger’s mother pointedly.

  “Does it matter?” she returned.

  Griffin’s gaze flicked to where his white-faced sister sat motionless on the bed, her blue covers clutched beneath her chin. “Do you wish to marry Sir Rog—”

  “You cannot let the chit decide this for herself,” Lady St. Quentin scoffed.

  Was there another woman in England as maddening? “As a matter of fact, I can should I choose to do so. And I can certainly solicit her opinion.” Drawing a calming breath, Griffin turned back to Alexandra. “Do you wish to marry Sir Roger St. Quentin?”

  She shook her head infinitesimally.

  “No,” Juliana said for her. “She most certainly does not.”

  Griffin and Lady St. Quentin sent her matching glares.

  “I’ll marry her,” came another voice. Lord Shelton stepped out of the clutch of gawkers.

  Despite his own distress, Griffin felt sympathy for the gentleman. If he knew Alexandra’s mind, Shelton was about to be publicly refused. He looked back to her. “Do you wish to marry Lord Shelton?”

  “No,” Juliana started at the same time Alexandra said, “I’m sorry.”

  Thin and shaky, her voice barely carried from the room to the corridor. “My apologies, Lord Shelton. I’m honored by your offer, but I don’t think we would be happy together.” Suddenly, her eyes flashed—Griffin would swear he saw red in the medium brown. “And Lord Hawkridge is no murderer,” she added loudly and perfectly clearly.

  Griffin stood silent, cursing the fates that had put him in charge of his siblings. Two perfectly acceptable gentlemen had offered for his disgraced sister. If he forced one of them on her, this scandal would eventually blow over. She’d be miserable all her days, but their sisters would be able to marry well. If he allowed her to wed Tristan…

  He felt everyone’s eyes on him while his own vision swam. Never in his life had he found it so hard to make a decision. Not even on a battlefield with the enemy bearing down…although, given the antagonistic mood of some of those around him, that analogy wasn’t so far off.

  Rachael stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away and down the corridor. The guests all turned to watch as she walked him to the end so they wouldn’t be able to overhear.

  “Your first instinct was good,” she said quietly. “Let her marry the man she loves.”

  His gaze flicked to the curious onlookers. “But—”

  “I, too, once thought this union inadvisable. But now that I’ve seen them together—”

  “What they feel for each other has little bearing on the repercussions of this match.”

  “Have faith. She has faith in him.”

  Griffin had faith in Tristan, too—but that wasn’t the point. “The ton doesn’t mirror that faith.”

  “Will you allow that to influence your decision? That isn’t the Griffin I remember. The one I imagined riding into battle with his principles held before him like a shield.”

  He stared at her. “You never thought of me that way. You thought I was a reckless rascal.”

  “Perhaps. I do recall you once telling me to ask for forgiveness, not for permission. But you were also stubborn as anything. You never let anyone else’s opinions stand in the way of your goals.”

  His gaze swept the assembled guests, landing on the odious Lady St. Quentin. He could see her straining to hear.

  Hang it. Rachael was right. He wasn’t going to let that despicable, fortune-hunting woman decide his sister’s fate. He couldn’t consign Alexandra to a life of utter misery, even to save the rest of them from infamy. Not and live with himself, anyway.

  With a sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable, marching back to face his old friend in his sister’s doorway.

  “Get dressed,” he said tightly. “The Archbishop of Canterbury is half a day’s ride, and you’re in need of a special license.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Alexandra felt queasy as she watched the last of their guests’ carriages roll out of the quadrangle. “Why do I think they’re all going to gather at the end of the road and have a good gossip?”

  “Because they will,” Juliana said.

  “The repercussions have begun already.” Alexandra turned to follow her siblings back inside. “They didn’t even stay long enough to finish breakfast.”

  “That’s only because it was stone-cold,” Corinna said, sitting on an old, ornate treasure chest.

  “No, it wasn’t.” Tired and shaky, Alexandra lowered herself to one of the walnut hall chairs. “No one wants to associate with us. Dear heavens. What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to marry Tristan tomorrow.” Griffin sat on the third step of the staircase, leaning forward with his elbows on his spread knees, his hands dangling between them. “And you’re going to be happy. I demand it.”

  “How can I be happy when the rest of you will be miserable?” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  An expression of outrage stole over his face. He sat up straighter. “You’re marrying the man you claim to love. There’s no crying allowed. You hear me?”

  “She’s not crying for herself,” Juliana said, moving to pat Alexandra on the shoulder. “She’s crying for us.”

  “I’m not crying,” Alexandra said, swiping at the rogue tear with a frustrated motion.

  In truth, she wasn’t sure why she was crying. She was a quivering bundle of emotions. One moment she was elated to be marrying Tris, the next racked with guilt that it meant making pariahs out of her siblings. She was more than disgusted with her failure to keep her resolution for even a single night. And she was humiliated beyond belief—absolutely mortified that half of society had seen a man come out of her bedroom.

  “Why did I let him stay in my room?” Why had she asked him to stay in her room? “I’m muttonheaded.”

  “You’re seventeen!” Juliana returned loyally. “And you’re human.”

  “I’m sorry.” Alexandra gave a long, wretched sniff. “I’ve ruined all your lives.”

  “Good gracious,” Griffin said. “Cheer up, will you? You don’t see any of us crying.”

  “We’re thrilled for you,” Juliana put in.

  Alexandra looked around at all the grim faces. “Indeed.”

  “We are,” Corinna insisted. “We’re just a little…s
hocked. You’ve always been the good sister.”

  “Well, I’ve been changing, in case you haven’t noticed. It seems my transformation is now complete. From a paragon of traditional femininity to an utter tart, and all inside of a single summer.”

  “No one thinks you’re a tart,” Juliana said.

  Corinna nodded. “A little fast, perhaps, but—”

  “She’s about to be a married matron,” Juliana interrupted, glaring at her younger sister. “There’s nothing fast about that. Griffin, you did exactly the right thing.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  Alexandra sighed. “There was no right thing.”

  “Does Tristan really sleepwalk?” Corinna asked her brother.

  He nodded. “All of his life.” His jaw clenched. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Alexandra jumped up. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Sit down. I was fooling.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he added, “I’d like to kill him, but I’ll restrain myself. For your sake.”

  “Thank you.” She plopped back down.

  “Just be happy. That’s all the thanks I require.”

  But she couldn’t be happy—not when she’d ruined her family’s reputation. She wouldn’t be happy until she fixed that. Until her sisters could win any young men they wanted. Until Griffin didn’t have to defend his fallen sister or his decision to allow her to marry Tris.

  Until, she realized, the seeds of an idea taking root in her brain, she found the evidence that would clear her husband’s name.

  Her husband. It suddenly struck her as uncanny that by this time tomorrow, she would be a wife. She put that from her mind for the moment.

  “Just give me a week or two,” she told her siblings. “Then we’ll all be happy.”

  Corinna’s blue eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to find whoever murdered Tris’s uncle.” She could do it. She had to do it. “Then Tris won’t be shunned anymore, and you’ll be able to make a brilliant match. After all, your older sister will be married to a handsome, popular marquess who is well known for his expertise in machinery, animal husbandry, and land management.” Alexandra tried for a brave grin.

  “You’re going to find his uncle’s murderer,” Griffin said flatly. Disbelievingly.

  She raised her chin. “Yes. I am.”

  “How?” Juliana asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll need to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall.”

  “Tristan doesn’t think there is a murderer,” Griffin reminded her. “He thinks his uncle died in his sleep.”

  “Well, we’d best all pray he’s wrong, because a natural death will be much harder to prove. But if that’s the case, I’ll find a way, because it’s the only hope for us all.”

  “Surely it’s not as dire as all that,” Juliana said.

  But no one spoke up to agree with her, because it was as dire as all that.

  Alexandra sighed into the silence.

  “Holy Hannah!” Corinna exclaimed after a long moment.

  Juliana turned to her. “What?”

  “She’s going to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall. She’s going to move to Hawkridge Hall.”

  “Tomorrow,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. “I expect Tristan will want to leave directly after the wedding.”

  “She cannot leave tomorrow!” Juliana shook her head. “She’s made no preparations, she has no trousseau, she—”

  “She has no choice.” Griffin stood, one hand on the staircase’s marble rail. “I’m going to change my clothes and head out to the vineyard. Since Tristan has abandoned me, I’ll need to install his pump.” He started upstairs, looking over his shoulder at them as he went. “You’d better pack your things, Alexandra. And choose a wedding dress. With any luck, I’ll be finished and back for dinner.”

  “A wedding dress,” Alexandra breathed.

  Corinna nodded. “A Lady of Distinction suggests white.”

  “I don’t even own a white dress.”

  “You can borrow one of ours,” Juliana said. “We’d best get busy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The sun was sinking in the sky by the time Tristan returned, special license in hand, to learn that Griffin was at the vineyard. A change of horses and a brisk gallop got him there just before dark. Griffin’s crew was completing the pipeline, lighting lanterns to provide illumination while they finished. As Tristan rode up, one of the men approached him, holding two of the lamps.

  “I was just taking these to Lord Cainewood, my lord.” He nodded in the direction of the newly dug pit.

  “I’ll take them for you,” Tristan offered, sliding off his mount. He tethered the horse and headed toward the pit, both lanterns in one hand. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he toyed with the ring he’d detoured to Hawkridge to pick up. A simple gold band, wide but worn thin from centuries of use. A family heirloom for traditional Alexandra. Though it was plain, he hoped she would like it.

  Curses were coming from the square pit. Colorful ones. Still holding the lanterns in one hand, he started down the ladder, his eyes widening as he saw what was going on inside. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he said as he reached the bottom.

  “Installing your accursed pump.” Griffin’s wrench slipped, eliciting another burst of strong language.

  Tristan set the lanterns in a corner on the dirt floor. “I would have done it if you’d waited.”

  “When? In the middle of my sister’s wedding night?” Griffin mopped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. “I think she’d have my head. Besides, it’s time I learned how to do this myself. Given the way my luck has been running, I’m likely to need another pump or a dozen soon.”

  “Let me give you a hand.” Tristan took the wrench.

  “One of the hands you couldn’t keep off my sister?” Griffin snatched it back. “No thanks.”

  Heedless of the dirt, Tristan leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms across his chest. The pit exuded the pungent scent of recently turned earth. As fresh and sharp as his friend’s mood. “You’re angry with me.”

  “Give the man a prize.”

  “I didn’t compromise your sister on purpose.”

  “No, you were sleeping. Just waltzed in there unaware. Or so you said—”

  “Hey—”

  “All right, I believe you.” Griffin banged the wrench against a pipe, wincing at the sharp clang. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He whacked the pipe again.

  “You want to hit me?”

  He looked all too intrigued by that idea. “No.”

  “Go on. Hit me. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “It’ll make you feel worse.”

  Tristan just shrugged. “You cannot but admit I deserve it.”

  Tapping the wrench against his palm, Griffin stared at Tristan for a few long, tense moments. Then he dropped the tool to the dirt, drew back a fist, and rammed it into his friend’s shoulder.

  Though pain exploded, Tristan didn’t flinch. “You can do better than that.”

  “You’re right.” Griffin hauled off and punched him in the mouth.

  Tristan saw stars. His friend looked wavery through his watering eyes. Tasting blood, he flexed his jaw. “Feel better?”

  “Not yet.” Gritting his teeth, Griffin took half a step forward and drove his fist full force into Tristan’s gut.

  The wind rushed out of him as he doubled over in pain and surprise. When he came up, gasping for air, he returned the favor with a blow to Griffin’s face that sent him careening into the wall.

  “Hey!” Griffin said.

  “That’s enough.”

  “I think not,” he ground out, coming back swinging. “You compromised my sister. It will never be enough.”

  Tristan took two punches but ducked the third, straightening to throw a left-handed jab that landed solidly in his friend’s midsection. Griffin retaliated with a right-handed hit that
was even harder. From there, Tristan lost track. The blows flew fast and furious until finally they both stood there, panting and exhausted, neither of them possessing the energy to continue.

  Griffin dropped to sit on the dirt floor, his legs sprawled out before him, his face cradled in both hands. “I think you broke my nose.”

  “No, I didn’t. You’re such a widgeon.” Leaning against the wall above him, Tristan spit out blood. “I think you loosened my teeth.”

  “I hope so.” Griffin grinned up at him, then winced. “You feel worse now, don’t you? Just as I predicted.”

  Tristan slid down to sit beside him, groaning at new assorted aches. “Nothing you do could make me feel worse. Believe it or not, I’m more upset at this turn of events than you are.”

  “I don’t believe it. You didn’t just ruin two of your sisters’ lives.”

  “No, I ruined three of your sisters’ lives instead.”

  “Three? Alexandra was dying to marry you.”

  But the way Tristan saw it, she could die because she married him. Who knew what he might do the next time he sleepwalked? He was scared stiff.

  “Besides,” Griffin added, “she’s going to clear your name, and then no one’s lives will be ruined.”

  “She’s going to what?”

  “She’s determined to find your uncle’s killer.”

  “My uncle didn’t have a killer. He died in his sleep.”

  Griffin began to shake his head, then apparently thought better of it. “I told her you’d say that.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  CORIANDER BISCUITS

  Take eight eggs, a little Rose water, some Madeira, and a pound of fine Sugar; beat them together for an Hour; then put in a Pound of Flour and half an Ounce of Coriander seeds; then beat them well together, butter your Pans and put in your batter, and set it into the Oven for half an Hour; then turn them, brush them over the Top with a little of the Eggs and Sugar that you must leave out at first for the Purpose, and set them in again for a quarter of an Hour.

  These biscuits are perfect to take visiting.

  My mother always brings some when we’re to meet someone new.