"And why is that?"
"I asked the same question, but Uncle Harold didn't know. That didn't stop him from naming this one Rex, though. The Nesbitts are big on tradition."
Looking around the room, she could see what he meant by that as well as his earlier comment that the house was seventeenth century down to the furniture. Indeed, although the various tables and chairs were lovingly cared for—beautifully carved, polished to a high sheen, and reupholstered in rich fabrics—they were heavy pieces compared to modern furniture. And the gorgeous paneling on the walls, though recently refinished, obviously dated from earlier times as well. "Goodness. Is everything just the same as when the house was built?"
"Tradition," he repeated with a smile. "But if you look carefully, you'll see some recent improvements."
Alexandra's gaze followed his gesture to a lamp attached to the wall, containing a yellowish open flame protected from drafts by a glass chimney. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Gas lighting? Indoors?" Although gas was increasingly being used to illuminate London's streets, she'd never seen it in a house.
"Yes," Tris said proudly. "Installed it myself. With help from two of the Johns." He shook his head. "Make that one John and Ted."
She smiled, appreciating his willingness to adapt—not just his attitude toward the servants, but to the latest advancements. She supposed she shouldn't find it surprising that a man who employed progressive farming techniques, a man who built things like pumps, would also implement gas lighting. "Did you design the lamps yourself, too?"
"No, but I believe I've improved on the original design some." He showed her the key mechanism by which she could turn the gas on and off or adjust the height of the flame, and he watched her practice until he was satisfied she understood. "You catch on quickly."
"It's not difficult. Where does the gas come from?"
"I'm burning coal in a closed iron vessel outdoors, a safe distance from the house. The resulting gas is piped inside."
"How very clever."
He shrugged. "This is a small system, conceived as an experiment. Now that it's proved successful, I'm currently building a large gasworks that will be used to supply the entire village. When it's finished, all the streets and businesses—and homes, should people like—will be lit by gas. And once that's complete, I hope to form a group to pursue an enterprise wherein we approach larger towns and cities to build gasworks and supply them via gas mains."
He was so different from the other men she knew. "A gentleman doesn't aspire to enterprise," she teased. "Such an undertaking would limit his time for amusements."
Too late she realized he wouldn't be welcome in any gentlemen's clubs or the other places men frequented to amuse themselves. But he seemed as determined as she was to avoid thinking of such unpleasantness tonight, because he just shrugged again in a genial manner. "I'm afraid I'm tainted by my common roots."
Though she loved his dry humor, her smile was mostly one of relief. "You do like having the newest, don't you?"
"Tradition is fine, but progress can also be good. And progress will march on regardless, so we may as well make ourselves part of it." He took her hand again. "Let me show you the rest of the house."
While Rex followed at their heels, Tris led her through the ground-floor rooms, teasing her palm with his thumb all the while so she could hardly pay any attention. She gleaned little more than general impressions, and even those were muddled. The main parlor looked pretty and comfortable, the dining room had a beautiful two-toned parquet floor, and the study—which, oddly enough, was accessed through the dining room—had a heavy, ancient-looking desk. There were also some lovely guest rooms and Tris's uncle's rooms—which Tris seemed reluctant to go into.
"I can see them later," she told him. "Where am I going to sleep?"
For truly, beautiful as the house was, having blanked her mind of worrisome concerns she could think of little else besides sharing one of these rooms with him tonight.
Finally he led her up the massive oak staircase, a feature clearly built to impress. Rex bounded up ahead, his huge body taking the wooden steps with amazing ease. Alexandra skimmed her free hand along the polished wood handrail, the panels beneath composed of boldly carved cannons, muskets, lances, and other trophies of war, all highlighted by sparkling gold leaf.
"Goodness," she asked Tris, "were your ancestors very savage?"
"Not that I'm aware," he said with a laugh as they reached the landing. He rubbed the dog's giant head. "Although I understand this house was used as a base of operations to plot against Cromwell in the Civil War."
The next room looked to be a gallery of sorts. "The round gallery," Tris clarified.
It wasn't really round, but a long oval. It was a room mainly used to access others, sort of a very wide corridor with a hole in the middle of the floor—a large, railed octagonal opening where one could see down to the great hall below. But she didn't take time to look, as she was gaping at the paintings on the walls.
"Corinna is going to die when she sees these," she said.
He brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. "Hmm?"
"You know she paints. I cannot believe what you have here." She gestured to the many gilt-framed canvases. "Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Rubens—"
"That one was painted by one of Rubens's students."
"Regardless. She'll sit here and study these for hours. She'll forget to eat."
"Like you at our wedding breakfast?" he asked with a tender smile. "What were you studying, sweetheart?"
You. But she wouldn't say that, even though he'd just melted her heart by calling her sweetheart. "I simply have a ladylike appetite," she informed a staid Dutch woman in one of the paintings.
Laughing, he took her elbow to guide her into a corridor, Rex following close behind.
Peggy was in the next room, already unpacking Alexandra's things. "Enjoying your tour, my lady?"
"Very much." Alexandra blinked at the sumptuous furnishings. Behind a balustrade in the French style, an enormous state bed sat on a raised parquet dais. Hangings of rich turquoise were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and great poufs of matching ostrich feathers crowned the bed's four corner posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the walls hung with heavy, old tapestries.
"It looks fit for a queen," she breathed.
"Queen Catharine of Braganza, Charles II's wife," Tris confirmed. "It was decorated for her visit."
That was easy to believe. The streaked marble fireplace was adorned with gold crowns. "Is this to be my room?"
"Hell, no," Tris said.
Peggy didn't even hesitate, let alone cease unpacking. "My lord, Mrs. Oliver wanted your new lady to have the best Hawkridge has to offer. The last Lady Hawkridge enjoyed this room very much."
What a saucebox, Alexandra thought, although she supposed that if Peggy were a shy one, she wouldn't have so boldly asked for the position of lady's maid. But although the chamber was gorgeous, she couldn't imagine being comfortable here. Goodness, what if she spilled something on Queen Catharine's antique counterpane? "It's lovely," she said tactfully, "but—"
"Lady Hawkridge will be sharing my rooms," Tris interrupted. "While we dine, please move her things."
Peggy blinked. "But—"
"You may ask two footmen to assist you with the trunks. While you're downstairs, please inform Mrs. Pawley that we'd like a light supper in half an hour." He took Alexandra's hand to draw her from the room.
"That was a bit harsh," she said once they were out of earshot. "I know she defied you, but—"
"I've never liked that one."
"Why have you kept her on, then?"
"She came here as a young girl. What kind of man would I be if I turned her out?" He drew her down the corridor, Rex trotting by his other side. "Are you certain you want her for your maid?"
"Since I've already given her the position, I'll wait and see how we get along. As long as you don't mind."
"Whatever makes you ha
ppy," he said, squeezing her hand. "Stay, Rex." As they entered another chamber, he closed the door behind them. "My rooms," he announced. "And yours, too, as soon as Peggy moves you in here."
A huge bed dominated the space—an old-style four-poster hung with dark blue velvet bordered in yellow silk. The walls were hung with blue velvet panels on a yellow background, and, set before the fireplace, two cushioned armchairs were upholstered in blue-and-yellow striped fabric. "It's beautiful," she said. "And much cozier than the Queen's Bedchamber."
"I didn't want you in separate room," he said low, making butterflies flutter in her middle. Then he grinned. "Although I was half tempted to leave you there as revenge for putting me in your Gold Chamber."
"Thank you for resisting." She heard the heavy thumps of Rex padding away down the corridor. "If you don't allow him in here, where does he sleep?"
"Given his size, I'd say anywhere he wants. But a man is entitled to a bit of privacy, don't you think?" He pulled her closer. "Besides, he snores something terrible."
She began to laugh, but stopped when he gathered her against him. Heat erupted inside her, spreading through her body as his lips descended on hers. He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness before settling into place like he belonged there.
Clearly he did.
He'd kissed her before, of course—several times. But until today, they'd been stolen, forbidden kisses. And the two today—during their wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been barely more than a whisper of lips.
This time there was no one watching. This time there were no nagging feelings telling her it was wrong. This time there was blessed solitude, the sanctity of marriage, and the thrilling, compelling pressure of Tris's mouth claiming hers.
She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossibly wonderful truth that he was hers.
He kissed her lower lip, her upper, then traced a line with his tongue between them. She sighed and opened her mouth, inviting him in. His hands wandered down her back and settled on her bottom, feeling oh so scandalously warm as he drew her more snugly against him.
A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.
"In here," Peggy directed.
Her head swimming with desire, Alexandra struggled to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.
"Through the sitting room to the dressing room," Peggy added briskly.
Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn't even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She gazed at him now, breathless, her body still yearning for something she couldn't put a name to.
Her new husband's eyes reflected her own frustration. He sighed and took her arm. "Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?"
THIRTY-TWO
LIGHT SUPPER at Hawkridge turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. She was still reeling from the hasty events, and hunger seemed the last thing on her mind.
Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate's surprisingly fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfish soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room's long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn't snap off her fingers along with the food.
While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn't the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver's mother had held the housekeeper's keys before her; and the groundskeeper's great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants' families had served Hawkridge for years.
"Tradition," Alexandra said with a smile.
"Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge's first female cook in generations, however." Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a man's appetite. "Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that."
So Mrs. Pawley wasn't married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father's name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. "Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?"
"During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became evident her father's retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under an acknowledged master." Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. "Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender."
"Her food is delicious."
"I'm sure Rex thinks so," he teased with a grin.
The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.
"I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries," Tris said.
"It doesn't matter. I'm not hungry, in any case." He was almost finished, and she still hadn't brought up the servant she found most curious. "Tell me about Vincent."
He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass's rim. "Do I strike you as a man who would own a slave?"
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. "You cannot blame me for wondering." Though new slave trade had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to prevent one man from owning another. Many in England still did, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.
With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. "Vincent served me well during the years I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left."
She released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That was a wonderful thing to do."
"Merely decent. He was the best valet I'd ever had, and I cannot countenance one man owning another."
"But your uncle could."
He shrugged, clearly ambivalent. "Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife's dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn't particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation was enacted that would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point."
"There has been no legislation."
"There will be. Soon." He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. "Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves' plight, but he feared they'd be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace."
"And you agreed."
"In theory, perhaps. In practice, no." He paused for a long swallow of the rich wine. "The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica. I wished the ship carrying the missive strong winds and smooth seas. I couldn't stand the thought of owning men—regardless of the consequences."
She'd known he was a good man. Feeling a tightness in her chest, she reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. "And what have those consequences been?"
"Making a profit has proven difficult," he admitted quietly. "But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income. My honor and integrity come first." He squeezed her fingers. "A man has to live with himself if he's to sleep at night."
Sleep. She'd wager he hadn't noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, wasn't a man who would murder his uncle. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.
&nbs
p; He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. "Are you finished?"
She nodded, wondering why she felt so unsettled. She knew she'd made the right choice in marrying this man. She'd firmly put off any thoughts of the repercussions it would have on her family. And she couldn't be worrying about the evening. Griffin had made what would happen sound very simple and straightforward.
But she found herself unaccountably relieved when Tris stood and asked, "Would you like to see more of the house?"
"That would be lovely," she said with a grateful smile.
As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.
"The north drawing room," Tris said.
"It's beautiful." She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. "Johannes Ruckers," she read out loud from where the maker's name was painted above the keyboard.
"Has he a good reputation?" Tris asked from behind her.
"I haven't the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don't expect his company is making instruments anymore."
"Can you play it?"
"Probably." Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. "I shall enjoy trying it, but is there no pianoforte?"
He shook his head. "I'll get one for you."
"There's no need—"
"I want you to be happy here." He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.
Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.
"I don't think he likes me kissing you," Tris observed.
"He's jealous. Until now you were all his."
"He's not mine. I told you—"
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 20