by Lauren Royal
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Griffin replied.
Alexandra stood blinking. Next to the familiarity of their old relationship, Tris’s dismissal felt rather frosty. Paradoxically, its effect was to heat her insides even further, past melting and on to simmering.
Lord Shelton stepped closer. “Lady Alexandra.” His tone was syrupy sweet. Alexandra supposed he was trying to sound intimate and romantic. She probably would have reacted positively to that yesterday, but today she found it aggravating. She feared steam might begin pouring from her ears.
He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back. “Darling, you look exquisite.”
She didn’t feel exquisite. Right now she felt about as appealing as a puddle of steaming, boiling human-entrail soup.
Juliana elbowed her discreetly. “Perhaps Lord Shelton would like to taste one of your ratafia puffs.”
Alexandra looked down to the silver tray, forgotten in her other hand. “Oh, not quite yet.” Her laughter sounded forced to her own ears. “Don’t you think we should pour the tea first?”
Ignoring her sisters’ puzzled frowns, she walked clear across the room and put the tray on a gilt-legged table that sat against the wall.
Juliana began pouring. “The puffs can hardly work their magic from over there.”
“Magic?” Lord Shelton inquired.
“Please do sit,” Alexandra told him, leaving the tray safely distant while she made her way back across the room. She seated herself on one of the light blue velvet sofas instead of a chair; a tactical error, since Lord Shelton immediately took the place beside her.
That definitely wouldn’t have bothered her yesterday. But his scent—a flowery Oriental mix—seemed suddenly cloying.
When Juliana handed her a teacup, she rose and went to Lord Hawkridge where he was talking with her brother. He smelled of clean soap and starch and that something else that was just him. “Tea, my lord?”
“Thank you.” He took it while barely sparing her a glance. “Not every variety is suited to our climate,” he said to Griffin.
“You’re welcome,” Alexandra murmured.
“Alexandra,” Corinna called conspicuously, “since you’re up, why don’t you get the ratafia puffs and bring them over here?”
“Not just yet.” Alexandra marched to the sofa and plopped back down, giving her sister a pointed look. “I’ve decided I’m not certain I wish to serve the ratafia puffs at all.”
Lord Shelton glanced between them, clearly confused. “And why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Corinna pressed. “They’re supposed to be magical.”
“Precisely.” Alexandra accepted another teacup from Juliana and sipped. “I’ve no wish to employ magic.”
“Magic?” Lord Shelton repeated.
Juliana stood. “May I speak with you in private?” Before Alexandra could disagree, she pulled her up by the arm and drew her out into the picture gallery, Corinna in their wake.
Juliana’s hazel eyes radiated concern. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Alexandra glanced away, her gaze landing on a solemn ancestor who glared from a canvas on the stone wall, looking exceedingly disapproving.
“Nothing?” Corinna, if possible, appeared even more disapproving. “Why won’t you give Lord Shelton one of the magical ratafia puffs?”
“Magical?” Putting scorn into her voice, Alexandra focused on each of her sisters in turn. “Do you truly believe that eggs and sugar can be magical?”
“Of course not,” Corinna said. “But don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
Juliana laid a gloved hand on Alexandra’s arm. “If they did work,” she said gently, “you could add a notation to Eleanor Cainewood’s entry in the recipe book, verifying her allegation. It’s a tradition.”
“I don’t care,” Alexandra said blithely.
At least, she hoped she sounded blithe.
Her sisters stared at her with wide eyes.
“You don’t care?” Juliana breathed. “About tradition?” She pulled off a glove and reached to touch Alexandra’s forehead. “Are you ill?”
“No.” Alexandra drew away. “I just don’t care about this silly tradition.”
“But, Alexandra…” Juliana hugged herself. “You’re the most traditional girl I’ve ever met.”
It was true. Juliana was known for her wild ideas—always meant to help, of course—and Corinna was a bit of a rebel. But Alexandra always did exactly as she ought. She ran her brother’s enormous household like clockwork; she kept up with her correspondence; she visited the villagers and tenants, both healthy and ailing, always with some famous Chase sweets in hand. She could sing, play the pianoforte, make lovely profile portraits, and embroider—and if she wasn’t exactly renowned for any of those talents, at least she was competent.
Alexandra was a perfect lady. The best single word to describe her was traditional. But right at the moment, tradition could hang for all she cared.
She set her jaw. “I don’t want Lord Shelton to eat any ratafia puffs.”
Her sisters exchanged matching looks of astonishment. “Why?” Juliana asked carefully.
Corinna cocked her head. “Are you that certain he’ll propose without them?”
“I’m not certain I wish him to propose at all.”
Juliana dropped her glove. “What?”
“You heard me.” Alexandra drew a deep breath, relieved the truth was out. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Juliana blinked. “But Griffin expects you to marry Lord Shelton.”
When Alexandra only shrugged, Corinna frowned. “You always do what’s expected.”
“How very tedious. It’s about time I broadened my horizons, don’t you think?”
“Girls?” Alexandra’s flabbergasted sisters were saved from answering when Griffin stepped into the gallery. “What are you all doing out here?”
“Talking.” Juliana bent to retrieve her glove.
Griffin looked toward the stone-vaulted ceiling as though praying for heaven-sent strength. “Lord Shelton is inquiring after your presence.” He lowered his gaze to Alexandra and smiled. “He likes your sweets very much.”
“Oh!” she said, when she wanted to say “Drat!” Not that she believed in magic, but…what if the ratafia puffs worked? She didn’t want to actually turn down Lord Shelton’s proposal. Griffin would never forgive her.
“I’m not feeling well,” she told him—and suddenly, it wasn’t a fib. The thought of marrying Lord Shelton made nausea rise in her throat. “Please give Lord Shelton my apologies,” she said. “I must go lie down.”
FOUR
ALEXANDRA SAT at her gold-and-white Chippendale dressing table, gazing at the oval cameo she’d dug out of the bottom of her jewelry box. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful, my lady.” Mary, the Chase sisters’ maid, deftly pinned one of Alexandra’s curls. “I’ve never seen you wear it before.”
“It’s been put away.”
Alexandra hadn’t been able to find the note that had come with the cameo that exciting day it arrived, about six months after Tris left for the West Indies. But she’d read it so many times, she knew it by heart. My dear Lady Alexandra, it said in a bold scrawl so distinct she could picture it even now,
Here is the gift I promised you from Jamaica. I expect it will arrive a year or two before myself, but I saw it in a shop and knew it for the perfect choice. The cameo reminded me of your profile portraits, and its subject reminded me of you. It is my wish that you’ll wear it in the best of health and happiness.
Yours,
Tristan Nesbitt
The cameo, set in a beautiful white gold bezel with three tiny diamonds, featured a girl carved of mother-of-pearl in profile on an oval of black jet. She’d cherished it and been thrilled to think the pretty, curly-haired young miss on it reminded Tris of her. She must have read the words My dear and Yours a million times. But after a year of wearing the cameo, she’d given up those ch
ildish dreams and put both it and the note away.
That same year, the year of her first and only season, she’d taken Tris’s profile portrait from her wall and put that away, too.
And now, he wasn’t even Tris anymore. He was Lord Hawkridge, a strange and distant figure—and a rude one! But after fuming in her bed all afternoon, vexation had subsided, letting hope rise to the surface. She couldn’t help thinking that, now that he was a marquess, he was no longer unsuitable. Perhaps—
“Are you ready yet?” Corinna called from the doorway.
“Almost. Come in for a moment.” As her sisters entered, she threaded a delicate chain through the cameo’s bale and quickly fastened it around her neck. Then she lifted a little pot of clear gloss. Watching in the mirror, she slicked it on her mouth.
“A Lady of Distinction doesn’t approve of lip salve,” Corinna informed her. “In The Mirror of the Graces, she says—”
“A Lady of Distinction can go hang,” Alexandra interrupted. “Do you expect Lord Hawkridge might have stayed for dinner?”
“Oh, yes.” Juliana straightened Corinna’s pink satin sash. “Griffin has asked him to stay the night, so he can assist him with some sort of problem at the vineyard tomorrow morning.”
So that was what the gentlemen had been so busy discussing while Alexandra was trying to keep the ratafia puffs from Lord Shelton. If Lord Hawkridge would be here through tomorrow, she thought with a little frisson of excitement, perhaps she might have time to make him notice her.
“And has Lord Shelton departed?” she asked with not a little trepidation.
His presence could ruin everything.
“Of course. He was invited only to take tea, after all.” Corinna sat carefully on Alexandra’s blue damask bedcovering. “He said he hopes you’ll feel better soon.”
“I’m absolutely recovered,” Alexandra assured her. Even more so now that she knew she’d escaped the dreaded proposal. She handed her maid a blue ribbon. “Lord Hawkridge didn’t seem to mind staying?”
“Not at all.” Juliana smiled at her in the mirror. “I don’t mind him staying, either. He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? In a rugged way, I mean.”
“He’s gorgeous.” Corinna flung herself back on the bed. “I want to paint him.”
“He’s mine,” Alexandra said quietly.
The room fell silent. Alexandra’s reflection had flaming cheeks, but she didn’t take back her declaration.
“You cannot be serious,” Juliana finally said. “You’re marrying Lord Shelton.”
“I am not. I thought I made that clear this afternoon.” Alexandra nodded up at the maid. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”
As the woman slipped from the room, Alexandra took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I mean to marry Lord Hawkridge if he will have me.” Juliana gasped, but Alexandra rushed on. “I hope you two will support me in this. I’m aware it seems rash, but the truth is, I’ve loved him since practically the day I met him.” Too mortified to hold her sisters’ gazes, she trained her own on the floor.
Corinna recovered first this time. “Does he know?”
“Of course not,” Alexandra said to her lap. “Last I saw him, he was a full-grown man of twenty and I was still in the schoolroom. He didn’t even notice me.”
“He noticed us,” Corinna disagreed. The bed creaked, and Alexandra pictured her rising on her elbows indignantly. “He played with us quite often, and he used to tease us mercilessly.”
Alexandra sighed. “That wasn’t the sort of noticing I was hoping for.”
“In any case, he was just a mister then,” Juliana pointed out, “with no prospects.”
“I never cared.”
Juliana’s skirts rustled. “Father would have cared.”
Alexandra finally looked up. “I know. And I accepted that. But now everything’s changed—”
“Father would have cared about what?” Griffin said as he appeared in the doorway.
Juliana gave her brother an innocent smile. “Father would have cared to see one of us wed to Lord Hawkridge.”
Alexandra could have yanked her sister’s hair out.
Griffin blinked. “Let us hear none of that. I didn’t invite Tristan here as a potential suitor.”
“Why not?” Corinna asked. “You’ve invited every other unmarried gentleman in all of Britain.”
“Not quite yet, but I’m working on it.” He flashed his crooked grin, then nodded toward a book on Alexandra’s bedside table. “Have you been reading The Mirror of the Graces?”
“Oh, yes. Every night,” she assured him, ignoring her sisters’ muffled giggles.
Griffin had given them each a copy of the etiquette manual, authored by “A Lady of Distinction,” in the hope that they’d learn to deport themselves in a manner conducive to winning fine husbands.
He was leaving no stone unturned in his quest to see the three of them married off.
“Excellent,” he said. “I trust you’re feeling better now?”
“Much better, thank you. Shall we go downstairs to dinner?”
Downstairs, she thought as she trailed her siblings out of the room, Lord Hawkridge was waiting. A jittery mix of anticipation and apprehension nearly made her knees buckle.
In this state, it’d be a wonder if she managed to negotiate the staircase, let alone a romantic intrigue.
FIVE
THE EVENING began pleasantly enough.
An efficient dresser, Tristan was first to the drawing room. He had a moment to appreciate the view from its large, south-facing windows before the four Chases entered together, Alexandra bringing up the rear in a fetching blue dinner dress.
I always knew she’d turn out to be something special, he thought.
The notion took him by surprise, though she certainly was spectacular. He’d scarcely been able to recognize her this afternoon. The rather gangly girl of his recollections was gone, replaced by a young woman with gentle curves softening her slender frame and long, sooty lashes accentuating her lovely brown eyes. Her chestnut hair was the only bit of her that remained exactly the same—so springy it seemed alive, refusing to stay pinned demurely atop her head. He couldn’t help admiring her.
Truth be told, any man with eyes in his head would admire a girl like Alexandra.
But it wouldn’t do to let her brother get the wrong idea. Griffin had made his feelings very clear regarding Tristan courting any of his sisters: Perish the thought, he’d said. Keen as Tristan suddenly was to renew his acquaintance with Alexandra, he knew he’d better keep his distance.
Accordingly, when she caught his eye on entering the drawing room and gave him a furtive little smile, he merely inclined his head. She looked away.
He felt a little pang of regret.
Boniface arrived to announce dinner, and the party went through to the dining room. Tristan was dismayed to find himself stationed immediately across from Alexandra—who, as the lady of the house, had undoubtedly chosen the seating arrangement. Though her gaze seemed to linger on him through much of the first course, he resolutely kept their interaction to a minimum and his eyes directed elsewhere.
By the second course, he was beginning to suspect their proximity was no coincidence. Attending to Griffin’s talk was growing steadily more challenging with Alexandra in his peripheral vision. From her coy looks to her peals of feminine laughter, every action seemed calculated to attract his attention. Even her habit of fiddling with the necklace that dangled enticingly near the swell of her—
He froze with a forkful halfway to his lips. She was wearing the cameo he’d sent her from Jamaica.
And he felt entirely too pleased to see it on her. Candlelight glinted off the three little diamonds and the planes of the pearly face.
He couldn’t fathom what game Alexandra was playing with him. But he felt sure she was winning.
The meal stretched on for two more courses and an eternity. Tristan ate everything on his plate without a clue what he’d been served.
When their little party finally removed themselves to the music room to be entertained by the ladies, he found himself sipping port at an impolite pace.
Corinna had a pretty voice, and the music Juliana coaxed from her harp was nothing less than exquisite. But Tristan had ears only for Alexandra. She’d removed her gloves, and her bare fingers, long and elegant, flew gracefully over the keys of the pianoforte. Though the resulting tune was proficient rather than masterful, her playing had him enthralled.
Watching her, he realized that he had always known she was special.
As an adolescent, he’d never paused to consider the source of his particular affinity for Alexandra. She always talked to him more than Griffin’s other sisters, and although she’d been so much younger, he’d found something delightful about the mature, sensible-minded intellect living behind her china-doll face. But now that he was a bit older and wiser, he could see the connection between them plain as day. He saw it in the open, eager way she looked at him—the same way she’d always looked at him. The same way he himself used to look at girls he believed he was in love with, as if they were the answer to everything.
He couldn’t bear the thought of dashing that look from her eyes.
“Would you care for more?”
Tristan looked up to find Griffin standing over him with the bottle of port. “My thanks,” he murmured, raising his glass.
Griffin settled beside him on the small gold brocade sofa. “Civilized, aren’t they?” He gestured toward his sisters, all seated primly on dainty chairs with brocade seats and gilt backs. His chuckle was low enough not to carry across the room. “Whoever would have thought they’d actually grow up?”
Tristan smiled to cover his misgivings.
Alexandra glanced over at him again, a shy smile of her own curving her lips. He looked away and sipped. He would have to have a talk with her. At the very least, he owed her an explanation.
“What is life like at Hawkridge?” Griffin asked quietly.