Alexandra
Page 16
“I’m dizzy,” she breathed as he spun her faster. “Dizzy and in lo—”
“Don’t say it.” Exasperation surpassed horror—though over both fell a flurry of what he could only call lust. “Just dance with me.”
She leaned away from him, far enough to meet his eyes. “Why?” Even as she asked, her grip tightened on his hand, her other arm tugging him closer. “What made you ask me to dance?”
Abject horror, of course. He’d have done anything to stop her from continuing her line of questioning. The only thing more frightening than her talk of love was the murky uncertainty surrounding his uncle’s mysterious death.
But he couldn’t tell her that. “It was our last chance,” he said instead, not wanting to encourage her but unable to come up with another explanation.
“And Griffin isn’t watching.”
“No,” he agreed, “he’s not.”
When the music stopped, he twirled her once more before reluctantly releasing her.
“Will you kiss me?” she whispered in the hush that followed. “It’s our last chance for that, too.”
He shook his head. “I cannot.” His reputation might be in shreds, but he still had his honor.
“You kissed me before.”
He couldn’t tell her he’d been sleepwalking. That would be humiliating for them both. “I cannot trust myself to only kiss you. I thought I explained—”
“Never mind.” She began pulling off one of her gloves.
Below, the musicians struck up a jolly country dance. Tristan stared at her busy hands. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to touch you.” She dropped the glove to the floor and started on the other one. “Do you remember when I made your profile portrait? Years ago, before you left for Jamaica?”
“Yes, but—”
“I wanted to touch you then. I pretended I was touching you while I traced your face. I’ve loved you for all that time, Tris. Maybe longer.”
“You cannot have.” As her second glove met the ground, he backed away toward the rail. “Young girls often have crushes on their older brothers’ friends. You never let go of that. Now I understand.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Following him, she raised a hand to his forehead and swept the hair from his brow. Her fingers were gentle, and she smelled sweet, and it took everything he had not to pull her back into his arms.
“That won’t work,” he said unsteadily.
She only shrugged and reached for one of his hands, tugging to loosen the glove, slowly and deliberately, fingertip by fingertip. As she slid the silk free and dropped it to join hers on the floor, a tremor ran through him, leaving a queasy ache in his belly.
Blast if she wasn’t seducing him—and successfully, at that. His body was sending him all sorts of messages his brain couldn’t accept. He should leave. Now.
The door was right there in front of him, but instead of leaving, he backed away some more. A smile curving her lips, she followed again, giving his second glove the same rapt attention as the first. When it dropped to the floor, she linked her fingers with his—both hands—and sighed prettily.
“I just wanted to touch you,” she repeated.
He just wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t. As she leaned into him, he took one more step toward the rail—
And knocked the silver tray clear off of it.
“Drat!” Alexandra cried, twisting sideways to lean over the rail. They both watched in horror as the tray hit the ground below with a resounding metallic crash, scattering miniature colored marzipan fruits all over the polished wood. A few guests screamed, scattering along with them, while everyone else froze. The musicians stopped playing mid-note.
Alexandra wrenched her hands from his and pushed hard against his chest. “Run!”
She turned and fled, clattering down the stairs before he could even reach the door.
TWENTY-NINE
BEFORE ANY servants could arrive to help, Alexandra skidded into the great hall and dropped to her knees on the floor, scrabbling for the miniature marzipan fruits. A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment.
“We’ll have this set to rights in a minute,” she announced to anyone who would listen, “and the dancing can resume. No need to panic.”
Never mind that she was panicking herself. Her stomach was in a knot. Her breathing was quick and unsteady. Her pulse was racing even faster than it had when she’d been trying to get Tris to kiss her.
Tris! Good heavens, if anyone had glanced up and seen them there together…
Rachael knelt beside her, adding a tiny apple, orange, and strawberry to the dented tray. “What happened?” she whispered.
“Later,” Alexandra muttered out of the side of her mouth. She stood, holding the tray with one hand while smoothing her skirts with the other. With a deliberate smile, she addressed the little crowd that had gathered around them. “Pray, continue.” She waved a hand at the musicians. “If you will?”
The music resumed, and the guests began dispersing. A few ladies whispered behind their fans, but it seemed the worst was over. Alexandra’s heart began to calm; her breathing began to slow; the knot in her stomach began to unravel.
Someone tapped her on the arm with a folded fan. “Lady Alexandra.”
She turned to see Lady St. Quentin. “Yes?”
“Where are your gloves?”
She forced a light laugh. “Oh, silly me. I must have left them up in the minstrel’s gallery.”
“Well, then,” Lady St. Quentin said, a keen glitter in her eyes, “shall we go recover them?”
“I’d be pleased to do that,” Rachael offered quickly.
But Lady St. Quentin was already heading for the corridor, as unstoppable as a battleship under sail. A very narrow one. Alexandra shoved the tray at her cousin and ran to follow.
“I wonder what we’ll find up there?” Lady St. Quentin asked.
“Nothing much,” Alexandra said, knowing exactly what the woman would find: two pairs of gloves, one of them quite obviously a gentleman’s. But she seemed helpless to deflect the meddlesome harridan. “I was overly warm,” she babbled at the woman’s bony behind as they climbed the stairs. “I was…yes, I was overly warm, so I went up to the minstrel’s gallery and removed my gloves, and I was watching the ball from up there—so beautiful, it was—just resting a bit and cooling off, when I very unfortunately dropped—”
Alexandra broke off, fearing her heart might stop as the harridan marched through the gallery’s door.
But there were no gloves. None at all. The floor was as bare as when she and Tris had danced on it.
Her knees weakened with relief.
“What happened to your gloves?” Lady St. Quentin turned on her, a predatory look in her eyes. “Do you suppose your lover took them as a souvenir?”
“Wh-what?” Alexandra stammered. Her knees weakened still more, but now it was with fear. “I have no lover.”
“You were up here with a man,” the woman accused in a low voice. “I saw you, so don’t try to deny it.” She smiled, the mean smile of an undeserving victor. “You’re ruined, my girl.”
“Ruined?” Alexandra breathed, raising a hand to cover her gasp. That was that. She’d undone her family. Disgraced herself, sullied their good name, tainted her poor sisters…and all for what? One dance with Tris?
The harridan was still talking. “Fortunately, my son is willing—”
“Your son is willing to do what?” Griffin interrupted from the doorway.
Rachael arrived behind him; perhaps she’d alerted him to the trouble. Alexandra didn’t know whether to be comforted or petrified by their presence. How would they react? Would Rachael and her sisters share in their cousin’s disgrace, too?
Lady St. Quentin lifted her pointy chin. “My son is willing to marry your sister.”
“Would her sizable dowry have anything to do with that?”
“Does it matter? She shou
ld consider herself lucky. She was seen up here with a man.”
“Was she?” He looked to Alexandra. “Were you up here with a man?”
“No, of course I wasn’t.” Alexandra said quickly. “That would be very improper.”
“She wasn’t up here with a man,” Griffin calmly told Lady St. Quentin.
Two bright pink spots appeared on the woman’s cheeks. “She was.”
“She was not. Now, would you care to return to the ball? Or shall I have a footman escort you to your carriage?”
“I saw them,” the woman insisted.
Griffin gave a long-suffering sigh and crossed his arms. “Let me put this another way, Lady St. Quentin. Should you spread the falsehood that my sister was seen with a man, neither you nor your son will ever receive another invitation to Cainewood…or anywhere else south of London. Do I make myself clear?”
All the color drained from her face, which looked even more pinched than usual as she sucked in her cheeks. The widow of a baronet was no match for the Marquess of Cainewood. “Indeed,” she said stiffly.
“Excellent.” His smile failed to reach his eyes. “I trust you know your way back to the great hall?”
Dumbfounded, Alexandra watched Lady St. Quentin make her muttering way down the stairs. What in heaven’s name had just occurred? She felt like applauding. Or crying. Perhaps both at once. She could have kissed Griffin—in fact, she did just that, startling and embarrassing him in the process. He looked so awkward that she nearly dissolved in laughter, but for the sake of his pride she reined in her hysterics.
Rachael did applaud. “Bravo!” she said softly, her eyes shining as she turned to Griffin. “You were magnificent.”
He gave a little bow.
“You were magnificent,” Alexandra echoed fervently. “I thought we were ruined. I hope she’ll keep her mouth shut.”
“She will,” Griffin said, sounding very sure. “Whom were you up here with, Alexandra?”
She swallowed hard. “Tris. Juliana noticed him watching the ball, and she and Corinna suggested I come up and keep him company for a short while.” That was close enough to the truth. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “There are six more gentlemen waiting to dance with you. We’d best go downstairs.” He flipped open his pocket watch, looked at it, and closed it again with a snap. “You have two hours left to see if anyone catches your fancy.”
“And if no one does?”
He shrugged. “We’ll have to plan another ball.”
A different brother might have said that in a threatening tone, Alexandra thought as she preceded him downstairs. But from Griffin, the statement had sounded matter-of-fact and good-natured. So good-natured, in fact, that she felt even more guilty for defying him. To think how narrowly they’d escaped, how close she’d come to damaging those she loved most in all the world…
Well, one thing was certain: the time for selfish, childish dreams had ended. She would never let herself see Lord Hawkridge alone again.
Though she still reeled from the night’s highs and lows, the resolution gave her a sense of dull satisfaction. She squared her shoulders, determined to enter the great hall with aplomb.
She didn’t want to disappoint her suitors.
THIRTY
ALEXANDRA WAS having the most extraordinary, most incredible, most marvelous dream. Tris was kissing her. Long, slow kisses that made her senses spin.
Even in her dream, she was shocked, but as it was only a dream, she decided to let it continue. To just lie back and imagine this was real, that they could truly be this close to each other. Just lie back…
Indeed, she realized, she was lying back…on a bed. Her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew it was her bed regardless, perhaps because it was her dream. Tris was lying beside her. She’d never kissed Tris while lying down. It felt glorious, being sandwiched snugly between his body and the mattress.
Perhaps also because it was her dream, she didn’t wonder if she was doing it right. The kissing, that is. This was nothing like any kiss they’d ever shared before. Their lips were parted, and their tongues were touching. It felt wonderfully bizarre. She didn’t know if other people kissed in this fashion, but if they didn’t, she felt sorry for them.
She sighed happily and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer. She could barely conceive of acting so forward in real life, but this was a dream, so she could do as she pleased. She slid her hands over his back, feeling his muscles through his dressing gown. He felt so warm and solid, and so very, very real—
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“Tris!” she cried.
“What?”
Her lids flew open. In the dim light from the dying fire, his eyes looked wide. “Where am I?” he asked, and she felt foggy, confused. He struggled to rise to an elbow, his gray gaze sweeping the room. “How on earth did I come to be here—”
He broke off as he focused on her beside him, then gasped.
“Oh, blast it,” he ground out.
THIRTY-ONE
ALEXANDRA snatched the counterpane up to her chin, but not before Tristan could observe that she wore nothing but a prim white nightgown. In the pale, flickering light, her eyes were pools of brandy mist. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing sharp. Her hair was wild. She looked irresistibly beautiful.
His sluggish, sleep-addled mind refused to absorb the implications. He was in Alexandra’s room…in the middle of the night…in her bed…wearing naught but a gaping dressing gown…
What on earth had he done?
“Blast it,” he repeated hoarsely.
Abject horror had just returned in full force. He’d committed an unthinkable trespass—and having done the unthinkable, now he couldn’t think. His faculties were overwhelmed.
Blast his traitorous body, or brain, or whatever it was that took charge in his sleep. His life might be in tatters, but—in his waking hours, at least—he still had his honor. Perhaps it was hanging by a thread, but he was determined to maintain it.
Somehow, he had to make amends.
”We shall have to marry,” he said stiffly, forcing himself to look her in the eye.
She stared back at him, still clutching the counterpane like a barricade between them. Maneuvering under the cover, she propped herself up against the headboard. ”I’d love nothing more,” she finally said in a measured tone, looking infinitely more composed than Tristan felt. “But we cannot. Nothing has changed. My sisters—”
“Everything has changed,” he snapped. “You could even now be carrying my child!”
“Carrying your child?” Her brow crinkled. “I might be a bit hazy on the details, but I’ve been given to understand it takes more than kissing to make a child.”
“What?” He shook his head in an effort to clear it. “You mean to say we did naught but kiss?”
“Did you think we did something more?”
“I don’t know,” he said simply.
The words hung in the air. She waited, just looking at him, expecting an explanation.
Blast it.
There was nothing for it—he’d have to confess.
“I have no memory of our encounter,” he said at last. “I don’t even know how I got to this room.”
“How can that be?”
“I was sleeping. Or rather, sleepwalking.” He braced for her reaction. “The last thing I remember before waking here in your bed was going to sleep in my own. I realize that’s difficult to believe—”
“Were you really sleepwalking?” she interrupted, confusion replaced by curiosity. She wasn’t jeering him out of the room, at least. “I thought that only happened in books.”
“It’s happened to me all my life, on occasion. I’m sorry. I know it’s a feeble excuse for ruining you—”
“You didn’t,” she said in her straightforward way. “I promise you I am not ruined.”
“Are you certain?” he asked again.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling more relieved, both by her assurances and her reaction to his explanation. She really was the loveliest, most understanding person he’d ever known—especially since he’d caused her nothing but trouble and heartache since the day he’d returned to Cainewood.
A tiny part of him wished he had ruined her, so they would be forced to marry.
He cleared his throat and swung his legs out of bed. ”I thank you,” he said formally, ”for your forbearance. This won’t happen again. As far as I know, I’ve never sleepwalked twice in a night.” Gaining his feet, he busied himself securing his dressing gown.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please, stay for a while.” Her eyes were wide, examining what she could see of his bare chest. “I know it’s frightfully improper, but what’s a few more minutes? I want to hear more about the sleepwalking. And you’re leaving tomorrow.”
He’d never spoken candidly to anyone about his affliction. The thought was appealing—but even more alarming. ”I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” he dithered as he finished belting the dressing gown.
She jerked the covers back up to her chin. “I promise I won’t attack you.”
That earned a chuckle, though it didn’t erase his qualms. But the plea in her eyes had him sitting down on the edge of the bed. Blast those warm brandy eyes.
Brandy...he could use a spot of brandy just now.
The fire was dying, and with it the light. He briefly considered rebuilding it, but then thought the darkness might make talking easier. And he wasn’t cold. Being alone with Alexandra in her bedroom—and the both of them in night clothes—made him feel very warm indeed.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Everything. When did you first sleepwalk?”
“As a small child. I used to do it quite often, but as I became older, I seemed to outgrow it. The episodes tapered off. Now it seems to happen only when I’m under stress of some sort. The occurrences have become quite infrequent. In fact, I was hoping they had stopped altogether. Until this week, I hadn’t sleepwalked in more than a year.”