by Lauren Royal
And Tristan had not the slightest intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“It’s forgotten.” Griffin raised his face to the sun. “I’m certain it won’t happen again.”
They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his muscles unclench and the stiffness ease from his neck.
“Why did your brother plant this vineyard so far from the house?” he finally asked.
“You think I understood Charles? Ever?”
“He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn’t he?”
“Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did.” They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren’t in sight. “What made you decide to restore Hawkridge’s vineyard?” Griffin asked. “I understand the vines had long been unproductive. It must’ve been an arduous task.”
Tristan shrugged. “It wasn’t so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part.”
“Not mine, apparently.”
“We shall see. In any case, I viewed the vineyard as a chapter of family history. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s.”
“By whom? Do you know?”
“Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his father-in-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines.”
“And they survived all this time.”
“Under the brambles, yes. I’ll do my best to make sure yours survive, too.”
At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. “It’s large.”
“Charles never did anything halfway.”
“He did his research. They’re spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal.”
“But they’re not thriving.”
“Let’s see why that may be.”
As they rode closer, Tristan could see his friend was right: The vines’ tendrils were drooping, the young leaves were wilted, and there was no fruit in sight. He swung off his mount and crouched by a particularly pathetic example, digging his fingers into the soil.
“You’re getting dirty,” Griffin said.
“You never got dirty fighting a war?”
“I wasn’t a marquess then.”
“For pity’s sake, you’re turning into your brother.”
“That didn’t come out right,” Griffin protested. “I only meant that I didn’t ask you here to do manual labor.”
Tristan scraped away at the roots. “You want to grow crops, you have to expect to get a little dirty.” He stood, pulling the whole vine up with him.
They both stared at the scrawny thing.
“The roots are stunted,” Tristan finally said, stating the obvious.
“Do you expect Charles planted them the wrong time of year?”
“We’ll never know. You say these are three years old?” Tristan thought back. “There may have been drought conditions the season they were planted.”
“Drought? Here in England?” Griffin gestured to the blue sky, where seemingly ever-present rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.
“If you’re unaware of the reality of drought, you clearly weren’t trained to farming.”
“You can say that again,” Griffin muttered dryly.
“Those clouds?” Tristan flung a hand in their direction. “They may dump several inches on the next village yet leave the ground here bone-dry. English weather is nothing if not random and unpredictable. And drought or not, it seems Charles neglected to see his new vines received enough water.”
Griffin looked skeptical. “I’ve never heard of irrigating vineyards.”
“Established ones, no. It’s commonly held that some water stress is optimal for producing fine wine. Irrigation affects both the size and the quantity of the fruit, but wine grapes shouldn’t be allowed to grow as large as table grapes—the sugar concentration is more important than overall yield.”
“Well, then it seems to me—”
“That has nothing to do with cultivating young vines. The soil surrounding new roots should be kept damp until they’re deep and established. I’d guess Charles neglected to do that here.”
“Is it too late to save them?”
“Perhaps.” Tristan considered. “But maybe not. Deep watering may cure the shallow roots even now. The vines are still young—it’s worth an attempt.” He scanned the landscape, focusing on a glistening ribbon in the distance. “We can pipe water from the River Caine.”
Griffin shook his head. “The river is lower than this hill. Even I know that water runs down. Short of carting it by hand, there’s no way to get it up here.”
“Have faith, my friend.” Tristan grinned. “You’ve summoned the right fellow.”
“Come again?”
“I’ve just built a hydraulic pump to supply my new gasworks direct from the Thames. A water ram pump. You’ve heard of them, I presume?”
Griffin rolled his eyes. “Naturally. My sisters talk of little else.”
Tristan ignored him, already deep in thought. “We’ll need a drop,” he mused, embracing the challenge. “If there’s no waterfall nearby—a few feet is all that’s required—we’ll have to situate the pump in a pit and pipe the river water down to it.”
“And the pump will force the water back up?”
“An amazing distance—thirty feet or more in height. It’s a brilliant design; wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“Will the force be sufficient to propel the water this far overland?”
He gauged the span to the river. Half a mile or so, no more. “That won’t be a problem. You’ll want to water very heavily, an entire day so the flow penetrates the soil to a goodly depth. Then repeat when the ground begins to dry. A week between sessions,” he decided, his brain racing as he formulated the plan. “We’ll run a pipeline along the top of the slope with caps every few feet. You—or your people,” he amended, watching Griffin’s face, “will cap and uncap different sections every day, so by the end of the week the entire vineyard has been deeply watered. Then begin again where you started.”
“Where was this intellectual capacity when we were trying to figure a way out of our third floor rooms at Eton?” Griffin shook his head in undisguised awe. “For how long must the irrigation continue?”
“I’m not sure. A few months, if you’re asking me to guess. You’ll have to keep checking. When the taproots have reached three feet or so, you’ll shut off the pump.” Pleased with the plan, Tristan nodded to himself. “I’ll stay until it’s all in place.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Griffin rushed to assure him. “If you explain how to build the pump—”
“I don’t believe I can. It looks like a simple enough design, but the parts must be adjusted perfectly. The first pump I built was a colossal headache. I’ve thought of a better design since then, so I believe this one will be easier, but for someone unfamiliar with the basic concept—”
“How long will it take to set this up?” Griffin didn’t sound happy. “Run the pipeline? Build the pump?”
Tristan hesitated, knowing Griffin’s real question was the one left unstated: How long will you be here tormenting my sister?
Old friends or not, Griffin didn’t really want him around.
But Tristan wanted to stay and help. He wanted to make up for last night’s folly. He wanted Griffin to have the satisfaction of making a success of his brother’s failure. And he wanted to prove he was worthy of Griffin’s extraordinary loyalty.
“It depends,” he answered slowly. “Have you a foundry nearby to cast the pump’s parts from my drawings?”
“Yes.”
/> “A cooperative foundry, willing to drop everything at your request to take on this project?”
“I’m the marquess,” Griffin said dryly.
“There is that.” Tristan had learned he had power as a marquess as well, regardless of his state of disgrace. “Will you hire a goodly sized crew to construct the pipeline?”
“Of course.”
“A week, then. We can have this in place in a week.”
“I suspect it will take longer, but even a week isn’t insubstantial.” Griffin measured him a moment. “You’d take a week out of your life to build a pump and run pipeline that will be used a scant few months? Knowing it may not even achieve the desired results?”
“Do you want to save your brother’s grapevines or not?”
Griffin hesitated only a beat. “I want to save them.”
“Then we’ll do what needs to be done.” Tristan knelt to reseat the vine and pat the soil into place around the roots. “I’ll draw up the pump design today, then return here tomorrow to take measurements.” He climbed back up on his black horse, holding the reins with muddy fingers. “And choose a spot to site the pump.”
“Thank you,” Griffin said.
Tristan gave a deceptively casual shrug. “This is what friends are for.”
ELEVEN
“LADY ST. Quentin,” Alexandra said that afternoon in the drawing room, adding the name to their guest list in her careful, tutored script. “We cannot forget her.”
“I’d like to forget her.” Corinna stood and stretched and, leaving her easel, wandered over to where Alexandra sat at their mother’s pretty rosewood writing desk. “She’s a busybody.”
Seated on one of the blue sofas, Juliana looked up from the menu she was creating. “Do you think we should serve beef or lamb?”
“Both.” Corinna peered over Alexandra’s shoulder. “Holy Hannah, how did this list get so long? I was unaware we even knew so many people.”
“How many?” Juliana asked.
Alexandra pulled out a third sheet of vellum. “A hundred and thirty-eight, so far.”
Juliana’s eyes widened. “Griffin has hardly had time to become reacquainted with anyone these past months. Where did he come up with all these names?”
“He’s always been friendly,” Corinna said in a tone that made the statement more like a complaint than a compliment. “Consider all the young men he’s managed to bring around to meet us already. My hand is hurting just thinking about writing all these invitations.”
“Think about the new evening dress you’re going to make him pay for instead,” Juliana suggested.
Corinna grinned. “It’s going to be pink. With embroidery and seed pearls.”
“I sent a note to the mantua-maker this morning,” Alexandra said. “She should be here in a week.”
“Excellent. I can scarcely wait!” Corinna plopped onto a coral velvet chair. “What shall we say on the invitations?”
“There’s proper, accepted wording, I’m certain.” Alexandra pointed her quill at her youngest sister. “You’ve finished reading The Mirror of the Graces. What does A Lady of Distinction have to say?”
“Nothing. She is distinctly opinionless concerning invitations. She discusses dress and deportment only. We’re supposed to choose the colors of our new evening apparel by candlelight, you know. For otherwise, she says, ‘If in the morning, forgetful of the influence of different lights on these things, you purchase a robe of pale yellow, lilac, or rose color, you will be greatly disappointed when at night it is observed to you that your dress is either dingy, foxy, or black.’”
“Black!” Juliana laughed heartily at that. “Perhaps A Lady of Distinction is colorblind.”
“A Lady of Distinction is a twit,” Corinna said.
“None of this is helping with the invitations.” Alexandra frowned. “Mama always knew what to write.”
“She had a book with examples of correspondence,” Corinna reminded her. “Remember that slim volume with the dark green cover?”
“Oh, yes!” Juliana exclaimed. “I think I saw it in the library last week.”
“Will you fetch it, then, please?” Alexandra asked. “We’d best get busy writing if we’re to give everyone proper notice.”
“Proper,” Corinna muttered as Juliana rose and left the room. She went back to her easel and dabbed a brush in blue paint. “Everything must be proper.”
Less than two minutes later, Juliana returned. “I think you’d best fetch it yourself, Alexandra. It’s up too high for me to reach.”
Alexandra was busy adding yet another name to the list. “Use the ladder.”
“The ladder is at the far end of the room.” Juliana sat on the sofa and picked up her menu. “And it’s dreadfully heavy.”
“It has wheels.” Corinna set aside her paintbrush. “Was there ever anyone more lazy? I shall fetch the book. Where in the library is it located?”
“Lower level, at the top of the third bank of shelves on the right. The middle bookcase.” Juliana scratched something out on the menu. “But I think Alexandra should go. She’s taller.”
“Only by an inch.”
“I think,” Juliana repeated meaningfully, “that Alexandra should go.”
“Ohhh,” Corinna said. “Is it up that high, then? Alexandra, perhaps you should go.”
“We could have written a dozen invitations by now.” Alexandra pushed back from the desk. “Third bank of shelves on the right? I shall return directly.”
With a long stride that A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove of, she hurried through the picture gallery, past the music room and the billiard room. Her sisters, she thought as she entered the two-level library, wasted entirely too much time on petty disagreements.
She strode down the red-and-gold striped carpet, then stopped short. Precisely in front of the third bank of shelves on the right, at a round mosaic table, sat Tris.
She mentally revised her last thought: Her sisters wasted entirely too much time on conniving plots.
An inch taller, indeed!
Pencil in hand, Tris was engrossed and hadn’t noticed her. While he erased a line and carefully sketched another, she watched. Even drawing a picture, he looked like a man of action. Lean, wide shouldered, his skin kissed by the sun. The same lock of hair flopped over his forehead.
She wished she could push it back.
It was pointless, she reminded herself—any wishing for him was pointless. But she so vividly remembered the intimacy of their kiss. The delicious warmth of his body. Herself melting against that delicious warmth.
He looked up, then bolted to his feet. “Lady Alexandra.”
Lady. So they were back on formal terms. It was for the better, she decided, hoping he couldn’t divine her earlier thoughts by the heat that had crept, once again, into her cheeks. “Sit, please. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just came in to get a book.”
He didn’t sit. “May I help you?”
“It’s right behind you.” Walking over, she slid between him and the shelves. The books were covered by doors of brass mesh in mahogany frames. In order to open them, she had to step back. “Pardon me,” she murmured, wishing he would move.
Then, when he did, wishing he hadn’t.
“It’s right here,” she said, rising to her toes to reach the top shelf.
“Let me help you.” The words were soft by her ear. He reached around her and up, leaning outrageously close, his chest grazing her back. He was as warm as she remembered, and his scent seemed to surround her. Her breath caught in her throat.
“This green one?” he asked.
“Yes.” The single syllable came out as a breathy sigh.
“Here you go,” he said, sliding it free.
She whirled around, almost in his arms. Almost.
But if she expected to see her own feelings mirrored in his eyes, she was doomed to disappointment. With a polite smile, he handed her the book. Then he returned to his chair and lifted his pencil.
“Thank you,” she said from behind him, feeling schoolgirlish and silly.
“You’re quite welcome.” He erased another line.
She clutched the book to her chest as though it could protect her from unwelcome emotions. “What are you drawing?”
“A water ram pump. I’ll be giving these sketches to the foundry so they can cast the pieces. When I’ve built it, it will pump water from the river to Griffin’s vineyard.”
Peering over his shoulder, she saw two versions of the metal contraption: a view of the outside, and, below that, a cutaway view showing the inner workings. “That’s very clever,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’ve tampered with the design some, but I didn’t conceive it. A gentleman in France came up with the idea.”
“Well, it’s still clever of you to be able to draw it—and build it.” She waited for a response, watching him shade a portion of the sketch. “I must get back to my sisters,” she said when it became clear he was going to remain quiet. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Of course.”
Of course. It was as simple as that. She sidled out from behind him and began walking away.
“Alexandra,” he called softly.
No lady this time. She stopped and turned to find he’d risen again. “Yes?”
“I want to apologize for last night. I should have explained.”
“I understand. And I know you tried. It was as much my fault as yours—”
“Regardless, I had no right to…to make an advance. I beg you to accept my apology. It won’t happen again.”
A heaviness settled in her chest. That was the last thing she’d wanted to hear. Without a doubt it was the only prudent course, but that didn’t stop her from wishing things were different. From wishing the rest of society had the faith in him that she did.
“I don’t believe the rumors,” she told him. “You don’t have it in you to commit murder.”
“I appreciate your confidence.” His gaze remained steady, cool. He was very good at masking his feelings. Either that, or she’d only imagined those feelings last night.