Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  —Lady Elspeth Caldwell, 1691

  “What are you doing up so late? It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Is it?” Startled, Alexandra turned to see her brother standing in the shadowed entrance to the kitchen. “I’m making coriander biscuits to bring along to Hawkridge.” She beat Madeira into a bowl of eggs, sugar, and rose water. “I cannot arrive there with nothing.”

  “You don’t have to bribe Tristan’s people to accept you. You’ll be their marchioness.”

  She added flour to the mixture, dumping half of it onto her shaky hands in the process. “Chase ladies always bring sweets.”

  “Tomorrow will be a big day for you. Go to bed, for goodness sake. If you truly feel a need to bring something, you can ask François to make it in the morning.”

  Sound advice, except she was too excited—and nervous—to sleep. “We missed you at dinner,” she said, changing the subject. “And afterwards.” As he walked closer, she blinked and set down the bowl. “What on earth happened to your face?”

  He touched it gingerly. “Your soon-to-be-husband happened to it,” he informed her dryly.

  “Tris? Whyever would he hit you?”

  “Perhaps because I hit him first?” He looked around the cavernous kitchen. “Is there anything to eat in here besides raw biscuit dough? We just finished installing the pump. It works beautifully, but I’m about to expire from starvation.”

  “And Tris?”

  “Said he’s not hungry. Went straight to bed.”

  “I meant, does he look like you?”

  “Not much.” He crossed to where François had left out some bowls covered with cloths. “His hair is lighter, and his eyes—”

  “Griffin!” Walking over, she playfully punched him on the shoulder with a flour-coated fist.

  “Ouch!” He waved at the white powder flying in the air. “I hurt everywhere, so keep your hands off.”

  “How much did you hurt him? Will I have to keep my hands off my husband as well?”

  Her brother’s face flushed red beneath the bruises. “I’d prefer to avoid the topic of you touching…that man. Or any man.” He rooted in a bowl of fruit and came out with an apple. “You know,” he added, polishing it on his grimy shirt, “there is one advantage to your being ruined. Saves me from having to explain about the wedding night.”

  Now it was Alexandra’s turn to blush. ”I wasn’t ruined, Griffin.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He bit into the apple with a juicy crunch. “Of course you were! Why else would I marry you to someone wholly unsuitable?”

  “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.” She moved toward the pantry. “In society’s eyes, yes, I was ruined. But not in truth.”

  He swallowed this time before responding. “What do you mean?”

  She busied herself rifling through a drawer. ”Nothing really happened last night. With Tris, I mean. We…we kissed is all. Then he woke up and we just talked. And then we fell asleep.” She located the cloth she’d been seeking.

  “You just talked,” he said. “In your bed.”

  Mortification sparked her temper. “Yes, we just talked!” She flung the cloth in her brother’s face. “Wipe your chin.” Turning away, she started putting dollops of batter on one of the two pans she’d prepared.

  After a long silence, she said in a small voice, “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I suppose. Though it does boggle the mind.” She heard the crunch of another bite. “I cannot imagine just talking to a girl in bed!”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she said to the biscuits.

  “Hear me say what?”

  “That you’ve done more than talk to a girl in bed.”

  He made a strangled sound. “Whyever would you—”

  ”Because, being unmarried as you are, I wasn’t precisely sure you had knowledge of…of matters pertaining to the bedroom. But I’m glad that you do, because that means you’ll be able to explain everything to me.” Hearing a great deal of coughing, she turned to him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded wildly. Between the coughing, the bruising, and the embarrassment, he’d turned red as a beet. She waited patiently while he regained his breath.

  “You will explain, won’t you?” Part of her wished Tris had finished what he’d started last night. At least then she’d know.

  He pounded on his chest with a fist. ”Can I have some of that Madeira first?” He gestured toward the open bottle.

  She handed it to him, looking around for a glass.

  “Don’t bother,” he said and drank directly from the bottle.

  She watched him take several gulps. “Madeira should be sipped.”

  “Oh?” He chugged another swallow and wiped his mouth with the cloth. Studying the floor, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Then closed it again. He took another deep breath. “You see, there are birds, and then there are bees, and—”

  She giggled. “You don’t have to start there. Mama told me all of that. Didn’t she explain it to you?”

  “Father did.” He raised the bottle again, taking a more normal sip this time. “And if Mother told you all of that, what on earth do you need from me?”

  “I want to know what will happen on my wedding night. How it will happen.”

  He hesitated. “Do I have to spell out everything?”

  She nodded. “I shall bake all night if you don’t. Please, Griffin.”

  Sighing, her brother held the bottle up to a candle. Only a swallow or two remained. He drained it. “We’re going to need another bottle,” he said dryly.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tristan could scarcely believe he was married.

  The wedding had been a simple affair, held in the old family chapel, witnessed not only by Alexandra’s siblings and three female cousins, but the effigies of her ancestors dating back to the fourteenth century. When the minister asked if anyone present could show just cause why he and Alexandra should not be lawfully joined together, Tristan had half expected a five-hundred-year-old marble statue to pop up, sword in hand, and take exception.

  After all, it took a lot of nerve for a disgraced man to wed a lovely, proper Chase daughter.

  He’d practically held his breath until the ceremony was over, until they’d shared a kiss that was decorous and chaste but sweet nonetheless. And then he still didn’t quite believe she was his wife.

  He couldn’t have a wife!

  The wedding breakfast—which was actually a luncheon—had been a haze of delicious food mixed with feminine chatter and laughter. Alexandra, he’d been unable to help noticing, had spent a lot of time looking at him and very little time eating her meal. The latter wasn’t all that surprising. His own stomach felt a bit out of sorts from shock paired with exhaustion.

  And anticipation.

  That truth didn’t quite hit him until they were in the barouche he’d borrowed from Griffin, making their way toward Hawkridge and hoping to arrive before dark.

  It was a warm day with no threat of rain, so they’d left the top down to enjoy the setting sun. It was fortunate there were only two of them traveling, since Alexandra’s luggage took up all the remaining room. In fact, Tristan couldn’t even stretch his legs out. But with her seated beside him, snuggled against him, that seemed but a minor inconvenience.

  She yawned, daintily covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

  He took it to draw off the glove. “You’re sleepy,” he said, keeping his voice low so Griffin’s coachman couldn’t hear.

  She swallowed nervously as he slipped the silk from her fingers. “I was up most of the night.” With her free hand, she motioned toward a covered basket perched carefully on top of her other belongings. “I made coriander biscuits for your staff.”

  Removing her second glove, he stifled a smile. Such a gesture was all but unheard of, but so very Alexandra. “They’re certain to be surprised.”

  “Pleasantly surprised, I hope.”

  “I have no do
ubt.” He pressed a kiss to her bare palm. Carefully, because his bottom lip was still tender where Griffin had bashed him in the teeth. But he’d have endured any pain to hear the little gasp that escaped her.

  Smiling into her palm, he kissed it again. “I wish I’d known you were baking. I would have kept you company.”

  “Griffin did, instead,” she told him, obviously struggling to appear unaffected. “He was rather cheerful despite the blood and bruises.”

  Tristan shrugged. “In an odd way, it felt good to fight.”

  She shook her head. “Heaven help me, I’ve married a lunatic.”

  Chuckling, he kissed her palm once more and felt her shiver.

  After composing herself, she slanted him a curious glance. “He said he hit you first.”

  His smile spread into a grin. “But I got the better of him, didn’t I?”

  “You look rather the worse for wear yourself.” She ran gentle fingers over his bruised jaw and across his sore lip, then blinked and snatched her hand away, apparently surprised to find herself touching him so boldly in public. “But the black eye Griffin woke up with this morning was more colorful.”

  “He was suffering from the headache this morning, too, I do believe.”

  “That was because he drank most of a bottle of Madeira.” Her smile was the fond smile of a sister. “Why did he hit you?”

  “Because I told him to.”

  She blinked up at him. “Whyever would you do that?”

  “More evidence of my lunacy.”

  Shaking her head, she looked back toward the road. Her hair, which had been covered by a lace veil for the ceremony, was very simply dressed. Several strands had blown loose. Sweeping the baby hairs off her neck, he leaned closer to kiss her nape.

  She shivered again, not hiding it this time. He laid a hand on her cheek to turn her face toward him and brushed his lips across hers.

  “The coachman,” she whispered.

  “He’s not watching.”

  “He has only to turn his head.”

  “We’re allowed to kiss. We’re married.”

  She blushed and looked down. “Yes, we are,” she said, twisting the wide gold band on her finger. “I didn’t expect you’d have a ring on such short notice.”

  “On the way back from London, I stopped at Hawkridge to pick it up.”

  “It fits me perfectly.” She rubbed the plain surface, burnished from years of wear. “Is it old?”

  “Very. A family heirloom,” he said, reaching to gently pull it off. “There are names and dates inside.” He handed it to her so she could see.

  “So many!” She held it up to the setting sun, squinting at the tiny, engraved letters. “Henry and Elizabeth, 1579. James and Sarah, 1615. William and Anne, 1645. Randal and Lily, 1677.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “And more. So many generations.”

  Such a long, noble line whose reputation he’d destroyed. And now, Alexandra’s and her family’s, too.

  He wouldn’t think about that, he decided as he watched her admire the ring. Maybe tomorrow he would think about those things, but not tonight.

  Their wedding night.

  He smiled. ”I’ll have our names and year added the next time we’re in London. You don’t mind that it’s old?”

  “Heavens above, no.” She slipped it back on her finger possessively. “I cannot imagine a more perfect ring.”

  Knowing how she valued tradition, he’d hoped she’d feel that way. But he hadn’t been sure. “I’m glad,” he told her.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you suppose all the other wearers were happy?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I think they were,” she said decisively. “And we will be, too,” she added through a yawn.

  He wished he could be so confident.

  He wasn’t at all sure that she’d adjust well to his isolated life. That she wouldn’t come to resent him. That she’d retain her calm assurance without society’s stamp of approval.

  That he wouldn’t unknowingly do her harm.

  That, in the long run, he wouldn’t lose her.

  Her family would always be there for her, and she could at any time decide to run back into their comforting arms. There she could make a different life for herself. Husbands and wives who lived apart were all too common among the aristocracy.

  Her head felt heavy against his sore shoulder. He reached up to stroke her hair, welcoming the dull ache, because it reminded him that she was his, at least for now. Because, anxious as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry they’d married. Not now—not with the sun sinking quickly and their wedding night just over the horizon.

  “Tris?” she murmured sleepily.

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you.”

  His stomach clenched. His fingers tangled in her tresses and stilled. Not I think I’m in love with you, but I love you. Three simple words said with a quiet conviction he could never, ever return. Such was beyond him.

  She fell asleep waiting for the response he couldn’t give.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “We’re almost home,” Alexandra heard softly in her ear.

  She startled awake, lifting her head to look around. The road they were on followed the Thames, and as they turned off it and started up a wide drive, Hawkridge Hall came into view. Although it wasn’t a castle like Cainewood, the symmetrical H-shaped building looked large and imposing, three stories of red brick.

  The sight of it brought her crashing down to earth. She’d spent the past day in a haze of disbelief, but now her new home loomed before her. A new place. A new life…one that had cost her family dearly.

  Tris squeezed her hand as they approached. “What do you think?”

  Sweet heaven, she loved him. She swallowed hard, resolving to tuck the negative thoughts away—at least for today. It was her wedding day. How long had she dreamed of this day with Tris, never daring to hope it might actually happen?

  Besides, she was going to prove he was innocent—so her family’s reputation would be saved.

  “Very impressive,” she replied with a smile. She was not taking her happiness at the expense of her family. Not in the long run, anyway. She just needed a week or two to set everything to rights. “Is the house very old?”

  “Seventeenth century, down to the furniture.” He smiled at her bemused expression. “You’ll see when we get inside.”

  As they skirted the old stone statue in the center of the circular drive, the arched front door opened. Servants poured out onto the two sets of stone steps, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and welcome.

  Alexandra watched as they arranged themselves carefully, men along the left and women on the right. “They knew we were coming?”

  “I told them yesterday, when I stopped by to get your ring and my wedding clothes. I suspect they’ve been in a frenzy since then, getting the house all ready for a new mistress.”

  She disengaged her hand to reach forward and grab her basket. “I hope they’ll like me.”

  “They’ll love you.” He turned her face toward him and pressed a kiss to her lips, quick but heartfelt. “They won’t be able to help themselves.”

  Seeing grins spread on several of the staff’s faces, she blushed wildly. And wished he’d said he wouldn’t be able to help loving her. She’d have to give him time. Though she was determined to knock down that wall around him, it was looking like she’d have to do it brick by brick.

  Another project for the coming weeks.

  Directly in front of the door and all those smiling faces, the carriage rolled to a halt. A footman rushed to help Alexandra down. “Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady.”

  “Thank you,…?”

  “John,” Tris provided as he climbed out behind her. “Uncle Harold called all the footmen John.”

  “Well, that’s just plain silly.” Here, finally, she felt in her element. With two years’ experience running Cainewood Castle,
she knew how to handle a household staff. She reached into her basket. “Would you care for a coriander biscuit? And pray, what is your given name?”

  “Ernest,” the man said, looking at the biscuit in his gloved hand as though he’d never seen one before. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Ernest.” She started up the wide stone steps, where the butler waited, looking very stiff and serious.

  Tris came up beside her, taking her arm. “This is Hastings,” he said by way of introduction. “I couldn’t run this place without him.”

  Gray-haired Hastings was older than Boniface and not nearly as pretty. But hearing Tris’s praise, his stern features relaxed, revealing a pleasant face with brown eyes. “Welcome, my lady.”

  “Why, thank you, Hastings.” She smiled, handing him a biscuit before heading for the first of a half-dozen footmen lined up beside him, all dressed in blue livery. “And your name is?”

  “Will. Welcome, my lady.”

  “I’m so pleased to be here, Will.” She handed him a biscuit and moved on. “And you are…?”

  “Ted. Welcome to Hawkridge Hall.”

  She reached for another biscuit. “Thank you, Ted.”

  “John,” the next man said. When she gave him a dubious glance along with his biscuit, he added, “It truly is John, my lady. My father was John, and his father before him.”

  “A fine name,” she assured him. “So long as it belongs to you.”

  It turned out there were two Johns among the footmen. After Alexandra met the rest of the butler’s staff and an array of outdoor servants, another man stepped out of the house. Dressed like a perfect gentleman, he was tall and big boned. He had a wide nose, full lips, and skin the color of a moonless night.

  “My valet,” Tris said quietly, obviously noting her surprise.

  Though she’d never spoken with a black man before, she went up to him unhesitatingly. “Would you care for a coriander biscuit, Mr….?”

  “Vincent. Just Vincent. I have no second name.” His deep voice and musical accent made her think of palm trees swaying on a beach. “Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady. My master is bound to be in better spirits with you here.”