by Lauren Royal
The stone entrance hall felt cold this evening; the carved beasts that topped the newel posts looked fierce and forbidding. Although it was still light out, the sun had shifted, throwing shadows through the open oak doors.
They both paused on the threshold. “I don’t know when next I’ll see you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t count on it being soon. I don’t go about in society.”
“You could visit again. You and Griffin are still friends.”
Tris’s gaze flicked to that friend, who stood on the staircase watching them like a hawk, his fingers gripping the marble handrail. “I won’t be visiting for a while, I expect.”
“Not until I’m married,” she said to the floor.
In spite of Griffin’s vigilance, Tris reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “I wish you a happy life, Lady Alexandra.”
Captured in his intense gray gaze, she remembered him saying the same words years before.
And as then, she had no reply.
FIFTEEN
THE NEXT MONTH passed in a whirl of preparations for the ball. Though she wasn’t usually given to moping, Alexandra was grateful for the frenzy of activity that kept her from sinking into a fog of melancholy.
A mere four days from now, the great hall would be filled with the most eligible young men in all of England. Surely one of them would sweep her off her feet and make her forget Lord Hawkridge.
In fact, she’d dare say he was half forgotten already! She hardly thought of him at all these days. Bent over the household bills and attending with admirable diligence to her monthly preparations for Griffin’s solicitor, she congratulated herself on successfully banishing the troublesome gentleman from her mind.
Oh, drat! Did thinking about not thinking about him count as thinking about him?
Shaking her head, she refocused on her neat columns of numbers. ”Mrs. Webster is overpaying for meat again,” she muttered, referring to their housekeeper.
Corinna mixed two colors of paint on her palette. “Griffin can afford it.”
“That’s not the point.” Pushing back from her mother’s rosewood desk, Alexandra wandered pensively to one of the drawing room’s windows. Outside, the morning was gray and dreary. Her reflection in the glass looked rather dreary, too. “I shall have to have a talk with her and set her straight.”
Juliana looked up from her copy of La Belle Assemblée. “You should be paying attention to other matters now, Alexandra.”
“Everything for the ball is in place.”
“I meant personal matters.”
She turned from the window. “Like what?”
“You’ll want to present yourself—”
“Your skin, yes,” Corinna interrupted. “A Lady of Distinction says a flawless complexion is key.” Adding a dab of white to the hue she was creating, she nodded toward Juliana’s magazine. “I read in there that if you hang a sprig of tansy at the head of your bed, a few inches above the pillow, you won’t be bitten by any bugs as you sleep.”
“Not her skin. Her skin is beautiful.” Juliana shook her head. “Her deportment. She needs to practice enticing gentlemen.”
“Practice?” Alexandra scoffed. “I’ve never had trouble enticing gentlemen—I simply haven’t been afforded the chance.” She certainly hadn’t had any trouble enticing Tris—that is, Lord Hawkridge—into that kiss. But since Juliana seemed to draw young men like moths to a flame, she couldn’t help being curious. “What sort of practice?”
“For example, smiling in the mirror. You should have many smiles, you know, for many different occasions. And if you wish to make gentlemen fall at your feet, you need to practice the look.”
“The look?” Alexandra and Corinna asked together.
“The look.” Setting down her magazine, Juliana rose and faced them. “First you locate the young man you wish to entice. Then you command his gaze.”
Her sensual, blatant stare had both her sisters swallowing hard. “And then?” Alexandra prompted.
“Look down, bowing your head slightly to display your lashes against your cheeks—lashes you will have darkened, no matter what that twit lady says—and then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at him full on again, and curve your lips in a slowly emerging smile.”
When she demonstrated, both her sisters sighed.
“Where did you learn that?” Corinna asked.
“I was born knowing it.” Juliana plopped back on the sofa and picked up the magazine, idly flipping pages. “But I have no doubt you can master it with enough practice.”
Corinna stared hard at Alexandra, shut her lids, opened them again, and grinned.
“Not like that!” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “She’s right—you need practice.”
Likely they both needed practice. There were no mirrors in the drawing room, so while Corinna gave up and frowned critically at her unfinished painting, Alexandra turned back to the window to use her reflection.
Command his gaze, look down, then sweep your eyelids up—
She blinked at the scene beyond the glass. Astride a black horse, a figure was galloping toward the castle. A figure she’d have recognized at any distance.
Juliana heard her soft gasp. “What is it?”
As he rode around the side of the castle out of view, Alexandra turned from the window, apprehension twisting her insides. “He’s come back.”
SIXTEEN
“DID YOU BRING the new pump?”
Tristan smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I’m sorry.” Griffin had the good grace to look chagrined. “I’m a mite distracted these days.” He ushered Tristan inside, letting Boniface shut the door behind them. “I appreciate your response,” he said, then waited a beat before repeating, “So, did you bring the pump?”
“I haven’t started building it yet,” Tristan said, following his friend up the staircase.
Griffin glanced openmouthed over his shoulder. “I sent the note to you a full week ago.”
“As I wasn’t at Hawkridge, I received it only yesterday. I do have other properties.” As they approached the first floor, something drew Tristan’s gaze over the marble handrail.
Alexandra, watching from the picture gallery.
Suddenly he remembered why he shouldn’t have come back here.
In the month since he’d last seen her, she had often visited his dreams. But these weren’t the sort of dreams he’d occasionally struggled with in his adolescence; far from lustful, these dreams were oddly…sweet. He and Alexandra would dance together, pressed close. Or he’d release the pins from her mass of curls and comb his fingers through her hair. He had kissed her again, but only once, on her soft cheek. Mostly, they just talked and laughed together, but still it felt more intimate than anything. He’d no idea what to make of it.
And now, here in the flesh, she was even more lovely than the girl haunting his dreams.
And every bit as unattainable, he reminded himself.
Her sisters were with her. “Good morning, ladies,” he called from the landing.
“Good morning,” they replied in chorus, looking shocked to see him.
Griffin wasn’t allowing time for pleasantries. “Come on up to the study.”
Demonstrating a deplorable lack of resolve, Tristan’s gaze lingered on Alexandra before he resumed his climb. “Didn’t you tell them I was expected?”
“I hadn’t the foggiest idea when you’d arrive,” Griffin hedged. “Particularly when I failed to hear from you. I figured it would take you at least a week to build the pump—”
“Quite a bit longer to do it from home. The foundry here has the molds from my newest design.” In the study, Tristan claimed his favorite chair. “Were your sisters unaware you contacted me?” he pressed.
“The ball is only four days from now,” Griffin said in an apparent non sequitur.
But Tristan understood. “Ah,” he murmured. Obviously Griffin was hoping that, in only four days, Alexandra would be betrothed and ther
efore safe.
Safe from him.
Well, she was safe from him already. He’d spent a month apart from her and had survived just fine. Perhaps he’d dreamed of her sometimes, but otherwise his life was tranquil and productive, and he had no intention of upsetting hers by fostering anything more than friendship.
He accepted the glass of brandy Griffin offered. “I’m not here to seduce your sister.”
Griffin busied himself pouring another glass. “No. You’re here, once again, to help me solve a problem.” He sat and met Tristan’s gaze. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Tristan took a sip. “Why do you need a second pump? Your note was more than vague as to your requirements. Ram water pumps are known to be very reliable, but if the first one malfunctioned, most likely I can repair it. And instruct you—or one of your men—so you can fix it yourself next time. I should have demonstrated the workings before I assembled it. I won’t make that error again.”
“The first pump is working fine. Read this.” Griffin rose momentarily to swipe a letter off his desktop. “It’s from my cousin upriver.”
Tristan set down his glass and took the paper. Judging from the careful, fancy script, Griffin’s cousin was decidedly female. Dear Lord Cainewood, Tristan read silently,
I write on behalf of my brother, Lord Greystone, who finds himself in London and unable to communicate. In his absence, his estate manager approached me concerning flooding in our southernmost fields. Upon investigating the matter, I have discovered this is a result of water runoff from your property, apparently due to an irrigation program you have initiated. I must insist that this irrigation cease, as the resulting marshland is detrimental to our crops.
My thanks for your immediate attention to this matter.
Yours Sincerely,
Lady Rachael Chase
Tristan remembered Griffin’s cousin Rachael; she was a quite distant cousin, if he recalled correctly, her family several generations removed from where their line intersected with Griffin’s. But as they shared the same surname and lived close by, Rachael and her younger sisters had been great friends with Griffin’s sisters and spent many a day here at Cainewood.
“So formal,” he murmured. “Couldn’t she come to you directly?”
“I haven’t seen her in more than three years.”
Tristan looked up in surprise. “Have you not paid calls since returning from the Peninsula?”
“The Greystone Chases were in London for the season; they’ve returned only recently.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. “Upon receiving Rachael’s letter last week, I rode out to assess the problem. Her conclusion was not in error. The way the land is contoured, all the runoff from my vineyard is creating a stream that drains onto Greystone’s estate. Twenty-four hours a day, I’m essentially pumping water onto his land. The only solution I could see—short of ceasing the irrigation—is to direct all that water into another pipeline and pump it back to the River Caine.”
“It’s downhill. You should be able to dig a simple canal to direct it back to the river.”
“Unfortunately, from where it’s collecting, the only way to avoid running it through Greystone property is to direct it uphill before it can go down. Hence the need for the second pump.”
“Sounds as though you’ve investigated this fairly thoroughly. But before I invest time in building another pump, I’d like to ride over and inspect it myself.”
“Naturally. How quickly do you think you can build the pump and have it delivered?”
“Are you suggesting I build it at home? That could easily take a month.” Perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but though Tristan realized Griffin wanted him gone well before the ball, building the pump at Hawkridge wasn’t the best solution. “The foundry there is infernally slow compared to yours, plus they would have to start from scratch to cast my newer design. As I said earlier, the foundry here has the latest molds. Assuming they haven’t destroyed them, that is—we shall have to check on that.”
“How long if they saved them?”
“Depends more on their schedule than mine. But given the correct parts, I can build and adjust the thing in a day, two at the outside. I know this design inside out now. How fast can your men construct another pipeline?”
“Depends on how much I pay them,” Griffin said dryly. “If you think the pump can be ready and installed by Thursday, I will see that the pipeline is finished then as well.”
“The ball is Friday?” At Griffin’s nod, Tristan stood and began to leave. “Sounds like there’s no time to waste. Let’s go look at the site and have a word with the foundry,” he said, opening the study’s door.
Three startled faces were on the other side. The sight of one of them—Alexandra’s, to be precise—all but knocked the wind out of him.
He couldn’t quite call it a friendly reaction.
Griffin snorted. “You’d hear better, ladies, if you put an empty glass to the door.”
“We weren’t listening,” Corinna protested in entirely too innocent a tone. “We were just…on our way to change our dresses.”
“Yes,” Juliana said. “We’re wearing morning dresses, and we need our walking dresses now.”
Tristan couldn’t help but notice Alexandra wasn’t saying anything. With her mouth, at least. Her eyes, focused on him, spoke volumes. Clearly she found his unexpected presence unsettling in the extreme. He prayed that his own similar feelings weren’t written on his face.
What was wrong with him? Was he losing his wits? Never before had the mere sight of Alexandra—or anyone else, come to think of it—provoked in him this sort of response. He couldn’t even say if it was a positive response or a negative one. But it certainly didn’t feel pleasant.
“Where are you planning to walk?” Griffin asked.
“To the village,” Corinna said.
“We baked lemon cakes earlier this morning,” Juliana added, “planning to make some calls.”
“Go on, then.” Griffin waved a hand. “As I expect you heard, Tristan and I are likely to be gone for the next few hours.”
Tristan watched Alexandra accompany her sisters through the high gallery, her skirts swaying gracefully to match her gait. When she disappeared into the corridor that led to their bedrooms, he released a silent sigh.
Or maybe it hadn’t been silent. “What?” Griffin asked, looking at him sharply.
“Nothing.” He shouldn’t be here. “What’s the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress?”
“How should I know?” Griffin started down the stairs. “You think I understand anything to do with girls?”
SEVENTEEN
SMALL LEMON CAKES
Take half a pint of milk and heat to boiling then pour over a like amount of bread crumbs and leave until heat has abated. Melt 8 spoons of butter and to this add grated rind of lemons, a fair measure of sugar and three eggs well beaten. Mix all together and pour into buttered cake-cups and bake until browned.
Medicine for the heart. These cakes will brighten the most melancholy of days.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1811
TRISTAN’S assessment of the drainage problem had proved in concert with Griffin’s, and they were both relieved to find the foundry had saved the molds. If all went to plan, the pump would be installed by Thursday, and Tristan would be well gone before the first guests arrived for Friday evening’s ball.
They rode home in high spirits, despite the gloomy gray skies. For once, everything seemed to be going right.
But no sooner had they passed beneath the barbican than Cainewood’s big double doors opened to reveal an agitated Boniface, hailing them as he hurried across the quadrangle. “You’ve a caller, my lord. Lady Rachael Chase.”
Griffin swung down from his mount. “She must have come to see my sisters. Have they not returned yet?”
“No, my lord, they’ve not. But she asked to see you. Something about an unanswered letter?” The stern frown didn’t sit
quite right on the butler’s pretty face. “She’s been waiting for well over an hour.”
As Boniface returned to his post, Griffin swore under his breath. Tristan dismounted and followed him toward the doors. “You must have received Lady Rachael’s letter a week ago or more. Did you never reply?”
“I wanted to make certain my solution would work before I explained it.”
Tristan had to take the steps two at a time in order to keep up. “So you simply ignored her?”
“Her brother, the true owner of the affected land, is currently away in Lon—” Griffin stopped short as they stepped inside. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“Lord Cainewood?” Perched on one of the entrance hall’s carved walnut chairs, Lady Rachael peered at Griffin with her mouth open in a little “o” of surprise, as though he were quite different from what she’d expected.
Or much better.
Intrigued, Tristan turned to peer at Griffin, too—attempting to appraise him from the female perspective. His dark-haired, green-eyed friend had never wanted for admirers, he recalled. And the fellow had grown a few inches and honed some muscles during his time in the military. Still, Tristan couldn’t see what the girl found so shocking.
At last Rachael closed her mouth, then rose abruptly to her feet. “I trust you received my letter?” She licked her lower lip.
“I did, indeed.” Griffin blinked at her, staring rather indecently himself. His reaction was no mystery. Though Lady Rachael wasn’t Tristan’s type, she was stunningly…well…
He’d never say it aloud, but the only word he could think of for her was sultry.
“Did Boniface not fetch you refreshment?” Griffin asked. He gave an elaborate sigh, as though the butler’s neglect of their visitor far outweighed his own. “It’s so difficult to get good help these days. Don’t you agree, Tristan?”