The letter fluttered from her fingers to the grass. Dear God in heaven, it was happening already. And not only affecting her sisters, but her cousins, too.
Her throat tightened like it did when she ate strawberries. She couldn't seem to breathe.
A high-pitched voice snapped her to attention. "Lady Hawkridge?"
She quickly gathered the letters. "Here, Peggy! In the gazebo!"
Peggy hurried into the little garden, tray in hand. "Your luncheon, my lady." She squeezed into the tiny structure and set the tray on the bench, then pulled a folded paper out of her bodice. "And the list you asked for, completed."
"Oh!" Alexandra started breathing again as she took it. Once she cleared Tris's name, her sisters would be just fine. But she was disappointed to see only four entries. "Is this all?"
"Not many people leave Hawkridge, my lady. Kinder employers are difficult to find."
"I know." And she knew she should be happy about that. She was happy. Just seeing the list was a huge relief. "Thank you. And for writing down everyone's direction as well. They all live close by."
Peggy shrugged. "Not many travel too far from the place of their birth."
People, common people especially, usually seemed more comfortable with the familiar. Which was a lucky thing, Alexandra thought, because she should be able to pay calls on these four in short order. Her spirits rose as she realized that, very soon, she might have the information she needed.
She'd lost her appetite, but since Peggy had gone to the trouble to fetch luncheon, she thought she'd better eat something. "Let me just have a few bites, and then we'll be off. I want to ride today. It will be much faster than taking a carriage. Would you ask a groom to saddle three horses? And see if Ernest is free to accompany us again, if you will. Oh, and ask Mrs. Pawley to put some of my sugar cakes in a basket. Then meet me upstairs—I'll need to change into a riding habit, and so will you."
Peggy shuffled her feet. "I cannot ride, my lady."
"Pardon? If you don't have a habit, I'll be pleased to give you one. I have several, including one or two I'd like to retire. I plan to order some that aren't blue," she added with a soft laugh at herself.
But Peggy showed no signs of humor. "I cannot ride. I don't know how. As a housemaid I never had reason to learn, and the last Lady Hawkridge never rode anywhere. She was very proper and always took a carriage."
"Is that so?" Perhaps riding to pay calls wasn't quite so ladylike—A Lady of Distinction might not approve—but Alexandra didn't want to waste time. "Make it two horses, then. Ernest and I shall do fine on our own."
"Are you certain, my lady?" Peggy didn't look at all happy. "I believe his lordship would prefer you to take a carriage."
"Nonsense—he said that only because he was afraid breathing the gas had weakened me. I'm perfectly healthy today." And the sooner she finished this investigation, the happier Tris would be—no matter what the outcome.
"I'd prefer to go with you," her maid said quite peevishly.
Alexandra couldn't figure why the woman would be so testy, but she decided to ignore it. "That's very thoughtful, Peggy, but there's no need. Two horses, please. I'll meet you upstairs in ten minutes."
FORTY-TWO
DELICATE NOTES from the harpsichord greeted Tristan when he arrived home that evening. Carrying the large, plain box he'd brought from Windsor, he made his way upstairs and paused in the north drawing room's doorway.
Alexandra sat with her back to him, focused on some sheet music, her graceful fingers moving over the antique instrument's keys. Watching her, he clutched the box tighter. He hoped she would like what was in it. He wanted to give her a nice night. Just one nice night. And, all right, it wouldn't be so bad if the niceness extended into tomorrow and the next day, too.
Their first night had been so wonderful, but since then, everything between them seemed to be going so very wrong.
As he watched, she raised a hand from the lower keyboard to the upper and hit a sour note. "Drat," she said softly and resumed. More notes tinkled through the air, sounding lovely for a few bars until she switched keyboards again and made another mistake. "Drat!"
"Good evening, sweetheart."
She startled and snatched her fingers from the keys, turning on the stool to face him. "You're home," she said, sounding surprised.
"I said I would be."
Her cheeks turned a delicate pink. "I hope you didn't hear too much of that. I'm sure I'll get better with practice."
"There's no need to practice," he said cryptically, knowing she'd understand tomorrow. Already dressed for dinner, she looked beautiful in a pale green frock with a scooped neckline and his cameo on a matching green ribbon. She glanced curiously at the box in his hands, making him smile to himself. "Give me ten minutes to allow Vincent to fuss over me before dinner. Will you meet me in the dining room?"
"All right," she said, her gaze lingering on the box before she turned back to attack the keyboard with renewed vigor.
A quarter of an hour later, having instructed Vincent as to the box, he strolled into the dining room and bent to give Alexandra a long, thorough kiss. "Hmm," he murmured low, his hand wandering between her body and the back of the chair down to her bottom. "Still no drawers."
As he seated himself beside her, she blushed, her gaze going to the two footmen in the room.
"They didn't see or hear anything," he assured her in a whisper, and then louder, "How was your afternoon?"
"Peggy gave me the list of former servants," she said rather breathlessly. One of the footmen put a bowl of soup before her, and she lifted her spoon, the simple motion seeming to calm her. "Four names. I visited three of them and learned nothing."
He spooned some soup, wondering how he would get it into his mouth between his clenched teeth. But he wanted this to be a nice night, so all he said was, "I wish you hadn't done that."
"I know." Somehow she managed to look both sorry and determined at the same time. "If it's any consolation, there's only one name left. A woman in Swangate. Unless she astounds me by being the only one to have seen suspicious dealings, I'll be finished after I talk to her."
Although she sounded mournful, he couldn't help celebrating privately. And he certainly didn't want to argue and ruin this night. Instead, he made light conversation through the next two courses, his blood humming with anticipation.
At last the table was cleared. Hastings brought in and opened a bottle of port. A footman presented a platter of fruit and biscuits. No sooner had they departed when Mrs. Oliver walked in, placed the box—now gaily wrapped and ribboned—at the far end of the table, and promptly left.
Tristan poured Alexandra a very tiny glass of port—he didn't want her falling asleep tonight. He poured himself a larger one.
Alexandra glanced at the box, then lifted his empty dessert plate. "Grapes? Biscuits?"
"Surprise me," he said, thinking he couldn't wait to surprise her. He sipped, savoring the heady flavor of the fine, sweet wine and enjoying the quizzical look on his wife's face.
She filled his plate and took a single biscuit for herself. "How was your afternoon?" she asked, her gaze drifting again to the box.
"Extremely successful."
She took a small sip of the deep red port. "Your business in Windsor went well?"
"Exceedingly."
She hadn't touched her biscuit. "Would you mind if I asked what you did there?"
"Not at all." He popped a grape into his mouth, enjoying this exchange immensely. "I visited the shops." Seeing her startled gaze fly toward the box once more, he smiled to himself again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. "Would you like to open it?"
"Is it for me?" A tinge of excitement threaded her voice. "This was your business?"
He loved seeing her happiness. He hadn't given her enough since he'd brought her home. "Part of my business. Another parcel should arrive tomorrow." He moved the platter to make more room near her on the table, then rose, fetched the box, and placed
it in the space he'd created. "Open it," he said, lifting his glass as he sat again.
The box was so large she couldn't see into it while seated. Slowly she pushed back her chair, stood, and untied the ribbon. The paper fell open, and she raised the lid, set it aside, and reached inside with both hands to part the tissue that protected the contents.
"Ooooh," she breathed.
"Take it out."
She did, lifting it by its handle. Polished silver gleamed in the gaslight. "A basket," she said reverently. "A…solid silver basket?"
"Sterling," he confirmed. "For your sweets. The Marchioness of Hawkridge's specialties deserve much better than wicker." He sipped, watching her stare at the basket, letting the potent liquid slide down his throat as her expression stole his heart. "It won't be too heavy to carry with you when you go visiting, will it?"
"No." She clutched it like she might never let it go. "It has a glass liner," she informed him as though he might not know.
"You wouldn't want to be trailing crumbs."
She still stood there, slowly turning it this way and that, watching the light bounce off its shiny surfaces. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I'm glad you like it," he said, although glad seemed a very tame word. Thrilled would more accurately describe his feelings. He'd wanted so much to find something she'd like. He hated visiting shops—Vincent ordered all of his clothes—but he'd walked from shop to shop all afternoon, searching for the perfect thing. Refusing to buy anything until he found it. And it seemed he had.
She was looking a little bit shaky, so he rose just long enough to move behind her and push her chair toward the back of her knees. "Sit, before you drop it."
She lowered herself gingerly, holding the basket on her lap, her fingers tracing the chased and pierced decorations, the floral swags and raised ribbons and bows all fashioned out of silver.
He moved the box from the table to the floor by her chair, where she could reach into it. "There are more gifts inside," he pointed out.
"I can see." She folded the basket's fancy handle down and pulled it back up. "Why?" She looked over at him, dewy-eyed. "When you have so much to do, why would you spend your day buying me something like this?"
Because he wanted to give her a nice night.
No, that wasn't the whole truth.
Because he couldn't say the words she needed to hear. Because he couldn't risk loving her. Because he was sure she'd leave him when she failed to clear his name, and he was hoping against hope that a silly silver basket would keep her near.
But he didn't say any of that.
"Because you deserve it," he said instead.
"I do not," she said, her voice thick. "I defy you at every turn."
"Every other turn," he disagreed agreeably. "At the alternate turns, you delight me."
She sighed and reached into the box, pulling out a book bound in fine leather dyed robin's-egg blue. The cover was embossed with gold designs, the pages edged with gold leaf. "This is lovely," she said though an obviously tight throat.
"It's blank inside. For your recipes. After you copy the ones you like, I thought you could start your own tradition. Our family could add to it every year."
"Our family," she echoed softly, not quite meeting his gaze. She set the book aside and pulled the next item from the box, her eyes widening as the fabric unfolded in all its transparent glory. "Dear God in heaven, what is this?"
"A nightgown," he said.
At that moment, two footmen returned to clear their dishes. Her cheeks burning, she stuffed the garment back into the box and plopped the book on top. "It's lovely, too," she said quickly, sounding like she wasn't quite sure.
It took everything he had not to laugh. "Shall we take it upstairs and have a closer look at it?"
He couldn't wait to see her in it.
FORTY-THREE
THE NIGHTGOWN was only the first of the scandalous garments in the box. There were seven nightgowns, in fact—one for each day of the week—of delicate silk gauze, gossamer georgette, and tissue-thin tiffany. As Alexandra pulled them out, she draped them on the bed. She'd never seen a nightgown that wasn't white, but these were almond and pale blush pink, powder blue and soft peach, with delicate edgings of lace and intricate, exquisite embroidery.
Under the nightgowns lay seven chemises of nearly transparent Swiss muslin. They weren't shapeless like every other chemise she'd ever seen, but fitted to mimic a woman's curves. Instead of plain white, they were various pastel colors adorned with elegant trimmings and needlework.
There were stockings of the finest silk. There were satin garters with dainty rosettes.
"There are no drawers," Alexandra noticed.
Tris just grinned.
He seemed different tonight. More relaxed, less worried. She didn't know what had prompted his change of heart, but she didn't want to question it. She'd rather enjoy it instead.
After the afternoon she'd had—starting with Elizabeth's letter and ending with three fruitless interviews—she wasn't about to risk the one thing that seemed to be going right.
By the time she finally reached the bottom of the box, the bed was strewn with garments that made her blush to look at them. She suspected there was only one kind of woman who wore these sorts of things, and she didn't even want to think about where Tris might have found them.
Windsor must be a very wicked town.
"Are you going to model something for me?" he asked.
She felt her face heat even more.
He chose a nightgown off the bed, palest lavender with black lace and violet embroidery. "This one," he said, handing it to her.
It felt like nothing. Silky, slinky nothing.
"Do you require assistance with your dress?"
"Just the buttons," she said, and turned to let him unfasten them. She shifted the nightgown in her hands. Silky, slinky nothing.
"There," he said when the back of her green dress gaped open. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck, then settled on one of the striped chairs, sipping from the glass of port he'd brought upstairs with him. "Use the dressing room. I'll be waiting."
In the dressing room, she shakily stripped out of her frock, chemise, shoes, and stockings, then dropped the nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs. It felt like nothing on her body. Silky, slinky nothing.
She turned to see herself in the looking glass. Dear God in heaven, it was more shocking than nothing.
Her nightgowns all had high collars that tied at the throat. This one had a wide, low neckline. Her nightgowns all had long, full sleeves. This one had tiny puffed sleeves that began halfway off her shoulders. Her nightgowns were made of yards and yards of billowing, opaque fabric. This one was a slender column of diaphanous material that clung to her every curve.
She could see right through it.
The small bodice was split in the middle and gathered beneath her breasts. Strategically embroidered blossoms didn't conceal, but rather served to draw the eye. A narrow, black satin ribbon secured the top…a single tug to untie that bow was all it would take to have the bodice fall open and expose a scandalous amount of bosom.
"Are you ready yet?" Tris called.
Alexandra swallowed hard. A man didn't buy a woman a nightgown like this unless he wanted her. And heaven knew she wanted him.
She was as ready as she'd ever be.
Drawing a deep breath, she exited the dressing room, walked quickly through the sitting room, and paused in the bedroom's doorway. She dropped her gaze, then raised her lashes, giving him the look.
Juliana had said it would make men fall at her feet, and it seemed she'd been right. Judging from the expression on Tris's face, Alexandra figured it was a good thing he was sitting.
The way his eyes widened and filled with hunger made her heart begin to pound. He rose and started toward her. He'd already stripped to his trousers and turned down the gaslights, and the contours of his na
ked torso gleamed in the faint glow.
She met him halfway, licking suddenly dry lips. "Will you kiss me?" she asked softly, reaching up to sweep that always unruly lock off his forehead.
It worked this time. He crushed his mouth to hers.
This—the two of them together without the realities of life coming between them—was the one thing that seemed to work. She wrapped her arms around him and let herself sink into the kiss.
He tasted of rich port and hot desire and his own unique flavor she'd come to crave. Her fingers twined in the too-long hair that covered the back of his neck. As his hands wandered, a shimmering haze seemed to creep over her, obscuring her thoughts, dissolving her bones. She leaned toward him, into him, pressing herself against his hard, warm body, already wanting to take him inside her.
"Hurry," she whispered.
"Not tonight," he said with a low laugh, pulling the pins from her hair and dropping them to the floor with little pings.
He'd removed all the garments from the bed, and he laid her upon it, gently, spreading her long curls out over the pillows. Unable to resist him hovering above her, she reached to touch his bare chest, to smooth her palms over taut skin and muscle.
"You're beautiful," she said.
"That's supposed to be my line."
"But you are."
"You're beautiful," he countered, his gaze wandering the length of her in the transparent nightgown.
She knew he could see everything…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the view. She flushed from her head to her toes. Wordlessly, his gaze locked on hers, he shucked off his trousers, climbed up beside her on the bed, and proceeded to kiss her until her head swam.
When he finally released her lips, his mouth trailed past her chin and down her throat, blazing a warm trail toward her breasts encased in the gossamer nightgown. His lips skimmed the violet flowers, his breath hot through the thin material. As she arched up to meet him, he closed his mouth over a nipple, suckling through the fabric.
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 27