Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  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 there.

  Command his gaze, look down, then sweep your eyelids up—

  She blinked at the scene beyond the glass. Astride a black horse, a man was galloping toward the castle. A man she’d have recognized at any distance.

  Juliana heard her soft gasp. “What is it?”

  “He’s here again.” As he rode around the side of the castle out of view, Alexandra turned from the window. “Tris has returned.”

  *

  “DID YOU BRING the 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 gray marble handrail.

  Alexandra, watching from the picture gallery.

  Suddenly he remembered why he hadn’t wanted to return.

  In the month since he’d last seen her, she had come to him in his dreams, and there he’d touched her as he hadn’t in life. He’d danced with her, their bodies pressed close. He’d released the pins from that mass of curls to comb her hair with his fingers. He’d tasted her skin and breathed in her scent and explored her sweet curves with his hands. Her laughter had lifted his heart, and her smiles had soothed him, and when she’d grown serious, as she was sometimes wont to do, she’d seemed to understand him as no woman ever had.

  And here, in the flesh, she was even more appealing than that woman who haunted his dreams.

  And every bit as unattainable, he reminded himself fiercely.

  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 therefore 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 his life was tranquil and productive, and he had no intention of upsetting hers by trying to be anything more than a friend.

  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 seven 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 deucedly 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 with a pragmatic smirk. “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—Ale
xandra’s, to be precise—robbed his breath like a punch to the gut.

  Not a proper reaction to a friend.

  Griffin snorted at his sisters. “You can hear better 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 visit unsettling.

  Hell, so did he.

  “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 have come back here. “What the devil is the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress?”

  “Damned if I know.” Griffin started down the stairs. “You think I understand anything to do with women?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  *

  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.

  Riding home beneath gray skies, they congratulated each other. For once, everything seemed to be going right.

  But no sooner had they passed under the barbican than Cainewood’s big double doors opened and Boniface stepped out. He hurried down the steps and toward them 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 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 heavy walnut chairs, Lady Rachael rose slowly to her feet, gazing slack-jawed at Griffin, as though he looked quite different from what she’d expected.

  Or much better.

  Tristan supposed his friend had filled out and gained a few inches in height over the last decade. Not to mention honed some muscles in the military. But then, Lady Rachael didn’t look much like Tristan remembered her, either. Although she wasn’t his type—he preferred a subtler sort of beauty—he did have eyes in his head, and he could see that she had grown into a stunning example of the fair sex.

  At last she closed her mouth, then opened it again. “I trust you received my letter?”

  “I did, indeed.” Griffin blinked at her, looking rather entranced himself. “Did Boniface not fetch you refreshment?” he asked, neatly sidestepping the topic at hand. He released an elaborate sigh, as though his servant’s lack of hospitality far outweighed his own neglect. “It’s so difficult to get good help these days. Don’t you agree, Tristan?”

  “Mr. Nesbitt,” Lady Rachael acknowledged graciously while still staring at Griffin. In fact, it looked as though the two had locked gazes permanently. She licked her lips. “It’s a pleasure to see you again after all these years.”

  Amused, Tristan executed a small bow. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

  “Mr. Nesbitt is Lord Hawkridge now,” Griffin informed her. “The Marquess of Hawkridge.”

  “Of course.” She finally turned to Tristan, her expression an odd mixture of apology and curiosity. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  Tristan would just as soon she hadn’t remembered, since he was certain it was the scandal she was recalling. He wished she’d go back to staring at Griffin. “It’s a long story—” he began.

  “My sisters will explain everything, Lady Rachael,” Griffin interrupted. “You came to visit them, didn’t you?”

  “I came to see you, as your butler has informed you.” Recovering her composure, she lifted her reticule off one of the ornate iron treasure chests. “Shall we discuss this somewhere private?”

  “Very well,” Griffin said and guided her up the staircase, his feet obviously dragging.

  Tristan had some trouble dredging up sympathy, given his friend had brought this on himself. Besides, he figured there were worse things than having to answer to a gorgeous woman like Lady Rachael. “I shall arrange for refreshment to be brought to you in the study,” he called after them lightly. And with that, he took himself off, leaving his friend to the mercy of his lovely cousin.

  There were no servants hovering about, so Tristan made his way toward the side door that led to the household offices and kitchen, hoping to find Boniface, or perhaps the housekeeper or cook. Then, hearing footsteps and feminine voices drifting from the quadrangle, he turned back.

  Boniface reappeared from nowhere and opened the door to admit Alexandra, Juliana, and Corinna. “Welcome home, my ladies.”

  “Good afternoon, Boniface,” they chimed in chorus, belying the gray day in cheerful straw bonnets and pale pastel dresses. Walking dresses, Tristan presumed, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure what made them such. They were high-waisted and slim-skirted, like all the other dresses he’d seen them wear this summer.

  “Lord Hawkridge,” Juliana said in surprise. “Have you and Griffin returned already?”

  “No, you’re seeing a mirage,” Corinna quipped.

  Juliana laughed. Alexandra didn’t.

  “What have you there?” Tristan asked, indicating the baskets they all carried.

  “Lemon cakes,” Juliana said. “Or what’s left of them.”

  “We’ve just come from the village,” Corinna elaborated. “We were visiting with the ill and infirm.”

  “All of the tenants and villagers look forward to our sweets,” Juliana added. “Would you care for one?” Her gaze flicked from him to Alexandra and back as she reached into her basket and handed him a cake. “They’re reputed to cure melancholy.”

  Did he look that distressed? “How kind of you, then, to bring some to the ill.” He bit into the lemony confection and smiled, wishing Alexandra would say something. “I was just on my way to procure some refreshment for your cousin, Lady Rachael. Perhaps she’d enjoy some of these.”

  “Rachael is here?” Corinna squealed. “Where is she? Di
d Claire and Elizabeth come along as well?”

  “I don’t believe she brought her sisters with her. She’s with Griffin, in his—”

  “Griffin?” She frowned. “Whatever does she want with him?”

  “Oh, it has to do with some flooding on her land. I think.” He laughed, remembering the way they’d interacted. “Has Lady Rachael previously shown an interest in your brother? Or he in her?”

  “What sort of interest?” Juliana looked intrigued. “She was little more than a child when he left for Spain.”

  “She’s not a child now.”

  “Of course she isn’t.” Juliana handed Alexandra her basket. “Take this, will you? We’ll see that refreshments are brought to the drawing room for when Rachael is finished with Griffin.”

  After a silent moment, she nudged Corinna with her elbow.

  “Oh, yes,” Corinna said. “Do take mine as well.” After shoving her basket at Alexandra, she followed Juliana upstairs.

  Alexandra shifted the three baskets awkwardly. “Well,” she said as her sisters disappeared.

  One word, Tristan thought. It was a start. “They do have a habit of leaving the two of us alone together, don’t they?” Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he polished off the rest of the cake.

  She crossed to one of the iron treasure chests, set down the baskets, and busied herself combining the remaining sweets into one of them. “They mean well,” she said, facing away.

  Walking closer, he watched her in the large, rectangular looking glass that hung above the treasure chest. “What do you expect they’re hoping will happen?”

  Though her cheeks went pink, she met his gaze in the silvery surface and answered in her forthright way. “I expect they think you might kiss me again.”

  “I won’t,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said and turned to search his eyes.

  They were steely and determined as always. Alexandra supposed she should be grateful for that—it meant at least one of them would keep a clear head.

  Since she’d spotted him riding to their door earlier that morning, she’d suffered a riot of emotions: surprise, happiness, annoyance, and confusion. Confusion reigned supreme. She’d been looking forward to the ball, to meeting new—eligible—men. In the past month, she’d thought she’d succeeded in relegating Tris to that role in her life labeled friend.