Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  She shrugged philosophically, turning the chair to gaze out the study’s windows. Obviously, she still hadn’t scaled that wall Tris had built, and she’d probably doubled the height with her own actions.

  The study was in the back of the house, and through the windows the gardens beckoned—colorful formal gardens nearby, and then, behind them, an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that seemed to enclose smaller, private gardens. It was a glorious day, and she’d yet to explore them.

  She decided she’d take her luncheon out there. And bring along some paper and her family’s cookbook, so she could copy her favorite recipes while enjoying the sunshine.

  A few minutes later, having grabbed a bonnet and arranged for luncheon, she made her way out the front door and down the steps, following the cobbled path that curved around the back of the mansion. A flash of motion by the river made her pause.

  Tris.

  She watched him toss a stick and Rex jump into the river to retrieve it. Mere moments later, the big, wet mastiff scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying Tris with water that left splotches on his buff pantaloons.

  Thinking she’d be tempted to laugh if she wasn’t so uncertain of his feelings, she hurried toward him. “What are you doing?” she called.

  To her relief, Tris looked over and smiled. “Playing with the poor beast. He’s been dreadfully neglected of late.” He eyed the book and paper in her hands. “What are you doing?”

  “I was going to take luncheon in the gardens and copy some of my favorite recipes. Would you care to join me?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot.” Rex was panting at his feet. He bent to grab the stick and tossed it arcing out over the water, watching as the mastiff gleefully splashed in to fetch it. “I have business in Windsor.”

  She wondered vaguely what he needed to do. She knew Windsor was the nearest sizable town, but did he have his bank there? His solicitor? She’d expect those would be in London. She needed to learn these things if he wanted her to assist with the household finances as she had for Griffin, but they had yet to discuss anything like that.

  And now was not the time. “When I couldn’t find you,” she said, “I thought you’d gone already.”

  “Without telling you? I’m hurt you’d presume me so thoughtless.” Obviously reading her face, he reached to pull her close. “And you were hurt thinking I had. I’m sorry.” He tilted her bonnet back and bent to place a soft kiss on her mouth.

  Emerging from the water, Rex barked. “He hates me,” she said.

  “He doesn’t.” Tris took the stick from the dog’s teeth and tossed it once more, farther out this time. “If he hated you, he’d have taken a bite out of you by now.”

  While Rex bounded back into the river, Tris took the book and papers from her and set them on the grass, then wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips to hers again. “I missed you last night,” he murmured against her mouth. She slipped her hands under his coat, mindless of his damp, dog-splashed clothes. Her heart began to race, the blood rushing through her veins.

  And she knew it was the same for him.

  She was confused and unsure of his feelings from one moment to the next, but one thing she knew for certain: the spark between them would never go out.

  Rex barked until they stopped kissing, then shook and sprayed them both. Alexandra laughed. Tris brushed ruefully at his damp coat. “I really must be going, and I fear Vincent won’t let me off the property without a bath and a change of clothing. I promise to be home in time for dinner.” He gave her another quick kiss, eliciting another bark, then started toward the house, the dog following at his heels. “Enjoy your afternoon,” he called back.

  Feeling warmed and reassured, Alexandra picked up her things and ambled around the house and through the formal gardens. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she followed the paths bordering beds planted with brilliantly colored flowers. Finally she reached the area of grass walks that she’d seen, lined with hedges that enclosed many small, private compartments.

  She smiled as she peeked into them, glimpsing not only a variety of rather wild-growing plants, but also a surprise in each area. Some hid copies of famous statuary, one a sundial, another a cozy bench for two. Choosing one with a tiny round white gazebo, she slid inside.

  The structure’s roof offered welcome shade, so she removed her bonnet and set it, along with her book, paper, and pencil, on the bench that curved against the back edge. No sooner had she taken a seat than a warm, motherly voice carried through the still summer air. “Lady Hawkridge?”

  Alexandra rose and went to the opening. “Here, Mrs. Oliver!” she called, surprised that the housekeeper was bringing her luncheon personally. “In the gazebo!”

  A moment later, Mrs. Oliver entered the tiny garden. But she didn’t bring food. Instead she carried a small stack of letters. “I thought you might want these right away, my lady.”

  Alexandra took them and flipped through the pile. There were six, one from each of her siblings and female cousins. Thrilled, she smiled at Mrs. Oliver. “Thank you so very much.”

  “Enjoy them, dear,” the housekeeper said and walked away.

  With a happy sigh, Alexandra went back to the bench. She opened the two letters from her sisters first. Juliana and Corinna had both written cheerful notes, wishing her well and relating several amusing anecdotes as well as telling her all about a lovely picnic they’d shared with their cousins. Griffin’s letter was shorter, mostly saying he missed her very much and threatening bodily harm to her husband should he fail to take good care of her. Rachael told her all about the goings-on at Greystone and her preparations for her brother Noah’s return. Claire’s letter mentioned the picnic again. And then Alexandra opened the letter from her youngest cousin, Elizabeth.

  We all miss you very much. It was Rachael’s idea we should have the picnic, and also her idea that we should all write to you so you won’t feel lonely in your new home. Wasn’t that so very nice?

  Alexandra had been wondering how it was that six letters had arrived the same day. Grinning, she read on.

  I suppose you’ve heard that Juliana and Corinna were DISinvited to Lady Cunnington’s country garden party. I vow and swear, that made me so livid I wrote to Lady C posthaste with my regrets—and a piece of my mind. Worry not, dear cousin, your sisters have much support. Rachael and Claire have said they will not attend, either.

  The letter fluttered from her fingers to the grass. Good heavens, it was happening already. And not only affecting her sisters, but her cousins, too.

  Her throat tightened like it did when she ate strawberries, her breaths growing rapid and shallow.

  A high-pitched voice snapped her to attention. “Lady Hawkridge?”

  She quickly gathered the letters. “Here, Peggy! In the gazebo!”

  Peggy hurried into the little garden, tray in hand. “Your luncheon, my lady.” She squeezed into the tiny structure and set the tray on the bench, then pulled a folded paper out of her bodice. “And the list you asked for, completed.”

  “Oh!” Alexandra’s breathing calmed as she took it. Once she cleared Tris’s name, her sisters would be just fine. But she was disappointed to see only four entries. “Is this all?”

  “Most prefer to remain at Hawkridge, my lady. Kinder employers are difficult to find.”

  “I know.” And she knew she should be happy about that. She was happy. Just seeing the list was a huge relief. “Thank you. And for writing down everyone’s direction as well. They all live close by.”

  Peggy shrugged. “Not many travel too far from the place of their birth.”

  People usually seemed more comfortable with the familiar. Which was a lucky thing, Alexandra thought, because she should be able to pay calls on these four in short order. Her spirits rose as she realized that, very soon, she might have the information she needed.

  Her appetite had evaporated, but since Peggy went to the trouble of fetching luncheon, she thoug
ht she’d better eat something. “Let me just have a few bites, and then we’ll be off. I want to ride today. It will be much faster than the carriage. Would you ask a groom to saddle three horses? And see if Ernest is free to accompany us again, if you will. Oh, and ask Mrs. Pawley to put some of my sugar cakes in a basket. Then meet me upstairs—I’ll need to change into a riding habit, and so will you.”

  Peggy shuffled her feet. “I cannot ride, my lady.”

  “Pardon? I’ll be pleased to give you a habit if you have none. I’ve one or two I’d like to retire. I plan to order some that aren’t blue,” she added with a soft laugh at herself.

  But Peggy showed no signs of humor. “I cannot ride. I don’t know how. As a housemaid I never had reason to learn, and the last Lady Hawkridge never rode anywhere. She was very proper and always took a carriage.”

  “Is that so?” Perhaps riding to pay calls wasn’t strictly ladylike—A Lady of Distinction would probably cluck her tongue—but Alexandra had no time to waste. “Make it two horses, then. Ernest and I shall do fine on our own.”

  “Are you certain, my lady?” Peggy didn’t look at all happy. “I believe his lordship would prefer you to take a carriage.”

  “Nonsense—he said that only because he was afraid breathing the gas had weakened me. I’m perfectly recovered by now.” And the sooner she finished this investigation, the happier Tris would be—no matter what the outcome.

  “I’d prefer to go with you,” her maid said quite peevishly.

  Alexandra couldn’t figure why the woman would be so testy, but she decided to ignore it. “That’s very thoughtful, Peggy, but there’s no need. Two horses, please. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Delicate notes from the harpsichord greeted Tristan when he arrived home that evening. Carrying the large, plain box he’d brought from Windsor, he made his way upstairs and paused in the north drawing room’s doorway.

  Alexandra sat with her back to him, focused on some sheet music, her graceful fingers moving over the antique instrument’s keys. Watching her, he clutched the box tighter. He hoped she would like what was in it.

  Despite the promising intimacy of their wedding night, lately everything between them seemed to be going so very wrong. He wanted to give her a perfect night. Just one perfect night.

  And, all right, it wouldn’t be so bad if the perfection extended into tomorrow and the next day, too.

  As he watched, she raised a hand from the lower keyboard to the upper and hit a sour note. “Drat,” she said softly and resumed. More notes tinkled through the air, sounding lovely for a few bars until she switched keyboards again and made another mistake. “Drat!”

  “Good evening, sweetheart.”

  She startled and snatched her fingers from the keys, turning on the stool to face him. “You’re home,” she said, sounding surprised.

  “I said I would be.”

  Her cheeks turned a delicate pink. “I hope you didn’t hear too much of that. I’m sure I’ll get better with practice.”

  “There’s no need to practice,” he said cryptically, knowing she’d understand tomorrow. Already dressed for dinner, she looked beautiful in a pale green frock with a scooped neckline and his cameo on a matching green ribbon. She glanced curiously at the box in his hands, making him smile to himself. “Give me ten minutes to allow Vincent to fuss over me before dinner. Will you meet me in the dining room?”

  “All right,” she said, her gaze lingering on the box before she turned back to attack the keyboard with renewed vigor.

  A quarter of an hour later, having instructed Vincent as to the box, he strolled into the dining room and bent to give Alexandra a thorough kiss. As he seated himself beside her, she blushed, her gaze going to the two footmen in the room.

  “They didn’t see or hear anything,” he assured her in a whisper, and then louder, “How was your afternoon?”

  “Peggy gave me the list of former servants,” she said rather breathlessly. One of the footmen put a bowl of soup before her, and she lifted her spoon, the simple motion seeming to calm her. “Four names. I visited three of them and learned nothing.”

  He spooned some soup, wondering how he would get it into his mouth between his clenched teeth. But he wanted this to be a perfect night, so all he said was, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “I know.” Somehow she managed to look both sorry and determined at the same time. “If it’s any consolation, there’s only one name left. A woman in Swangate. Unless she astounds me by being the only one to have seen suspicious dealings, I’ll be finished after I talk to her.”

  Although she sounded mournful, he couldn’t help celebrating privately. And he certainly didn’t want to argue and ruin the night ahead. Instead, he made light conversation through the next two courses, his blood humming with anticipation.

  At last the table was cleared. Hastings brought in and opened a bottle of port. A footman presented a platter of fruit and biscuits. No sooner had they departed when Mrs. Oliver walked in, placed the box—now gaily wrapped and ribboned—at the far end of the table, and promptly left.

  Tristan poured Alexandra a very tiny glass of port—he didn’t want her falling asleep tonight. He poured himself a larger one.

  Alexandra glanced at the box, then lifted his empty dessert plate. “Grapes? Biscuits?”

  “Surprise me,” he said, impatient to surprise her. He sipped, savoring the heady flavor of the fine, sweet wine and enjoying the poorly concealed curiosity on his wife’s face.

  She filled his plate and took a single biscuit for herself. “How was your afternoon?” she asked, her gaze drifting again to the box.

  “Extremely successful.”

  She took a small sip of the deep red port. “Your business in Windsor went well?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  She hadn’t touched her biscuit. “Would you mind if I asked what you did there?”

  “Not at all.” He popped a grape into his mouth, enjoying this exchange immensely. “I visited the shops.” Seeing her startled gaze fly toward the box once more, he smiled to himself again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. “Would you like to open it?”

  “Is it for me?” A tinge of excitement threaded her voice. “This was your business?”

  He loved seeing her transparent joy. He hadn’t given her enough since he’d brought her home. “Part of my business. Another parcel will arrive tomorrow.” He moved the platter to make more room near her on the table, then rose, fetched the box, and placed it in the space he’d created. “Open it,” he said, lifting his glass as he sat again.

  The box was so large she couldn’t see into it while seated. Slowly she pushed back her chair, stood, and untied the ribbon. The paper fell open, and she raised the lid, set it aside, and reached inside with both hands to part the tissue that protected the contents.

  “Ooooh,” she breathed.

  “Take it out.”

  She did, lifting it by its handle. Polished silver gleamed in the gaslight. “A basket,” she said reverently. “A…basket of silver?”

  “Pure sterling,” he confirmed. “For your sweets. The Marchioness of Hawkridge’s specialties deserve much better than wicker.” He sipped, watching her marvel at the gift. “It won’t be too heavy to carry with you when you go visiting, will it?”

  “No.” She clutched it like she might never let it go. “It has a glass liner,” she informed him as though he might not know.

  “You wouldn’t want to be trailing crumbs.”

  She still stood there, slowly turning it this way and that, watching the light bounce off. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said, although glad seemed a very tame word. Thrilled would be more accurate. He’d wanted so much to find the perfect gift. He hated visiting shops—Vincent ordered all his clothes—but he’d walked round dozens of them all afternoon, being fussed over by every shopkeeper in Windsor.
It had been his worst nightmare come true.

  But her reaction made it worth it.

  She was looking a bit overcome, so he rose and moved behind her to scoot her chair toward the back of her knees. “Sit!”

  She lowered herself gingerly, holding the basket on her lap, her fingers tracing the chased and pierced embellishments, the floral swags and raised ribbons and bows all fashioned out of fine, delicate silver.

  He moved the box from the table to the floor by her chair, where she could reach into it. “There are more gifts inside,” he announced gleefully.

  She was testing the basket’s fancy handle, folding it down and back up. “There’s more?“ She looked up, dewy-eyed. “Why…when you have so much to do, why would you spend your day doing this for me?”

  Because he wanted to give her a perfect night.

  Perhaps that was an oversimplification.

  Because he’d do whatever he could to make her happy, but he couldn’t say the words she needed to hear. Because he’d do anything to make her stay, but his own deficiencies were the reason she should go. Because some foolish part of him was hoping against hope that a silly little trinket and and one nice evening would be enough to make up for everything else.

  But he couldn’t say any of that. Not tonight.

  “Because you deserve it,” he said instead.

  “I do not,” she said, her voice thick. “I defy you at every turn.”

  “Every other turn,” he disagreed agreeably. “At the alternate turns, you delight me.”

  She sighed and reached into the box, pulling out a book bound in fine leather dyed robin’s-egg blue. The cover was embossed with gold designs, the pages edged with gold leaf. “This is lovely,” she said through an obviously tight throat.

  “It’s blank inside. For your recipes. After you copy the ones you like, I thought you could start your own tradition. Our family could add to it every year.”