by Cheryl Bolen
“I’m pleased you agree,” Juliana said, still smiling. “Alexandra would be happy to accompany you.”
Chapter 6
Alexandra was shocked at her sister’s bold suggestion, and even more shocked when Lord Hawkridge, after a slight hesitation, nodded rather grimly and said, “That would be delightful.”
He sounded less than delighted.
“Tristan,” Griffin said in a quiet tone laced with warning. But Lord Hawkridge ignored Alexandra’s brother, rising and taking her elbow, and she was too excited to pay Griffin any heed. She’d never thought to disobey him before, but then, she’d also never wanted to do anything he’d prohibit. At seventeen, it seemed, she was suddenly developing a defiant streak.
Lord Hawkridge had agreed to walk with her. Out of doors. Alone. Whether he was delighted or not, it seemed too good to be true. This was the perfect opportunity to make him notice her in the short time he’d be here.
If only she knew where to start.
Her efforts so far had been disastrous. She’d hoped to engage Lord Hawkridge in conversation over dinner, but after deliberately seating him across the table from herself, her nerve had failed her. Each time she’d mustered up the courage to look his way, her powers of speech had fled. Her agitation had exposed itself in fits of nervous laughter and unladylike fidgeting.
But perhaps he’d failed to notice, for now he was touching her! Just her elbow, but still, it was something! His grip was strong—almost painful, in fact. In determined silence he steered her from the room. In silence they descended the staircase and walked outside into the quadrangle. In silence they crossed the groomed lawn.
After a while, the silence grew worrisome.
She couldn’t help wishing he’d sounded happier when he’d agreed to this walk. Perhaps he’d only acquiesced to avoid embarrassing Juliana. Maybe he would rather have stayed inside with Griffin. Though there was a full moon tonight, his gray eyes were unreadable.
She averted her gaze before he could catch her looking. She had to say something. “My lord,” she began.
“After all the years we’ve known each other,” he interrupted, “you’re not going to start addressing me formally now, are you?” Having spent enough time at Cainewood to know his way around, he guided her uphill toward the keep, which sat atop an ancient motte—a mound of earth built to give the castle’s defenders the advantage of height. “You called me Tristan when we were younger. Or Tris. I always liked that.”
Had he? Feeling her cheeks heat at the thought, she was happy when it grew darker as they stepped into the tower.
He let her lead the way up the winding stone staircase, following close behind—as a gentleman should—in case she should stumble in the darkness. She put a hand to the rough wall for balance. “You weren’t a marquess when we were younger.”
“I’m still the same person.”
She wasn’t so certain he hadn’t changed in three years. Braver in the dark than she’d have been in the moonlight, she blurted the question she’d been dying to ask. “However did you become a marquess?”
Behind her, Lord Hawkridge sighed. “My father was a second son—a spectacularly unsuccessful one. It was my uncle—the marquess—who financed my schooling and university.”
“So I gathered.” She glanced at him as they stepped through the archway and back into the pale illumination. “But your uncle had heirs, didn’t he?”
“The requisite heir and a spare, yes.” By unspoken agreement, they began strolling along the top of the wide, crenelated wall. “My uncle had married well, an heiress who came with a large plantation in Jamaica. Her family lived on other property they owned on the island, and though she and Uncle Harold had a good marriage, she pined to see them from time to time. While I was in Jamaica learning the ropes, she brought her sons home for a visit. None of them returned. Weeks after they were due to arrive, my uncle learned their ship had gone down in the Caribbean. He sent for me earlier than I expected, only a year after I’d left England, because suddenly I was his heir.”
“You’ve been back in England two whole years? And you never called on us?” To think, all this time she’d been picturing Tris in a jungle halfway across the world, and in truth he’d been half a day’s ride from her front door!
“When I first returned, things were…difficult. My own father had died while I was en route, and I’d inherited his estate—which was little more than a mountain of debt. I was in dire straits.”
He hesitated as though he wanted to say more, but she waited a while and he didn’t. “I’m very sorry for the loss of your father.”
“Thank you.”
He reverted to silence.
“It must’ve been dreadful for you,” Alexandra prompted. Still nothing. “An estate full of dependents suddenly counting on you to save them from destitution,” she went on, “and you just a year out of school and quite on your own.”
“Yes, but all that was solved when I inherited the marquessate,” he said and hesitated again. Their footfalls echoed into the night. “But there’s no need to call me Lord Hawkridge,” he finally added, bringing the conversation back to where they’d started.
She was certain there was something else he hadn’t told her, and besides which, the account didn’t explain his two-year absence from the social scene. But she felt too shy to press. “You always called me Lady Alexandra,” she said instead. “On the rare occasions you noticed me, that is.” She glanced toward him and smiled—a blithe smile, she hoped. “Last time you saw me I was just Griffin’s vexatious little sister.”
If only he could see her as more than that now. Shadowed in the moonlight, his features gave her little insight to his thoughts. A lock of his tousled hair had fallen onto his forehead. His eyes looked hooded.
“I always noticed you, Alexandra.”
No Lady. She should take offense, she supposed—they weren’t close enough to warrant that sort of familiarity. Not anymore, in any case. But she wanted to be that close. And he’d said…
Sweet heaven, had he actually said he’d always noticed her?
“Did you?” she asked breathlessly, even knowing he couldn’t have meant it the way she hoped. I always noticed you. “Probably because I bothered you,” she said with a shaky laugh.
“Not at all. You used to talk about the most interesting things. Deep things.”
She’d always been somewhat of a philosopher, even as a child. Her sisters were forever telling her she was too serious. She turned to the ledge and stopped, gazing out over the darkened landscape, the fields and the nearby woods. The River Caine glistened in the distance.
She felt rather than saw him come up to stand beside her.
“I hadn’t expected you listened,” she said quietly.
“Alexandra.”
Something in his voice made her turn to him. “Hmm?”
“I listened to every word.”
When he laid a hand over hers where it rested on the ledge, she realized she’d forgotten to replace her gloves after she stopped playing the pianoforte. And he wasn’t wearing gloves, either. His hand felt warm and a little rougher than a true gentleman’s hand should. Not that she’d ever touched another gentleman’s bare hand.
The sensation was thrilling beyond words.
“Tris,” she breathed, the only syllable she seemed capable of uttering.
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “That’s better.”
“I…I don’t think it’s proper for you to be touching my hand.”
“You’re right. I most definitely shouldn’t be touching your hand.”
But instead of removing his fingers, he tightened them over hers, and his other hand came up to touch the cameo she wore.
“You kept it,” he said.
“Of course I did.” She wouldn’t tell him she’d put it away after a year. “It was the best gift I’d ever received. I was so surprised when it arrived.”
“I promised I’d send you something from Jam
aica.”
“No. You were supposed to bring me something.”
“I couldn’t,” he said simply. And then, “Alexandra, there’s something I must tell you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Yes?” she all but croaked.
“I listened to you, and I’ve thought about you, all the time. More often than even I realized,” he added with a fleeting smile. “I wanted you to know that.”
Had he just said those words, the very ones she’d always daydreamed about hearing from his lips? I’ve thought about you all the time. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest. She was so excited, she barely heard what he said next.
“But I also need for you to know—”
“I always noticed you, too,” she burst out.
He winced, as though her admission had hurt him. “I’m almost sorry to hear that, sweetheart. There are circumstances…”
Heavens above, he’d called her sweetheart!
He seemed to be gathering himself. She waited. And waited. She’d never realized she could hold her breath so long.
“We’re not meant to be together,” he said at last. “Your brother would never—”
“This isn’t my brother’s choice.” Now that she knew he had noticed her, she wouldn’t let Griffin or Lord Shelton keep her from Tris. The Prince himself couldn’t stand in her way! “I shall have a talk with him.”
He shook his head mournfully. “Even in the extremely unlikely event that Griffin might agree, I cannot allow—”
“Hush, Tris.” She turned her hand over beneath his and gripped his fingers, hard. “You don’t mean it.” She moved even closer, so close she had to tilt her head back to search his eyes, looking for understanding and failing to find it. Then, without thinking, she reached up and swept that single renegade lock off his forehead.
All at once, something changed in that molten gray gaze, and he stepped closer, his scent overwhelming her—that clean-Tris scent. “Alexandra,” he murmured, his fingertips grazing her cheek.
His warmth enveloped her, warding off the chill night air. He cupped her face in his hand and pressed closer, all but pinning her against the ancient stone wall. Closer, closer, until she could feel his breath teasing her lips.
She wondered fleetingly if she would faint from lack of air. Then his lips touched hers, and all thought fled for a long, glorious moment.
When he released her, she stood frozen in utter, giddy disbelief, relying on the wall for support.
Her first kiss, it had been, and it had felt wonderful. Soon, she thought dizzily, his surprising, thrilling words still swirling about in her head…I’ve thought about you all the time…soon, they would kiss again. Soon, he would be her husband.
She gave him a trembly smile. “That was nice.”
“No.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair raggedly. “That was wrong of me.”
“Well, perhaps,” she said, confused. She drew a shaky breath and let it out. “But such a small impropriety cannot really matter so long as we…”
“So long as we what?”
“So long as we…”
He hadn’t proposed, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it for him. But as she watched and waited, she saw understanding dawn in his eyes. And then she saw his jaw set as he stepped farther back. “A kiss doesn’t equal a marriage proposal, Alexandra.”
His voice shouldn’t sound so cold and resolute. Her giddiness seemed to pop like a soap bubble. “But I thought—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, and he did indeed look sorry. “I cannot marry you. There are circumstances…blast it, I knew I needed to think about how to explain this.” She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Please accept my sincere apologies. What I just did was dishonorable, and I can only assure you it won’t happen again. There’s no chance I will ever take you for my wife.”
Chapter 7
“I see,” Alexandra said and immediately turned to leave.
Though he knew he should elaborate, Tristan held his tongue as he trailed her back to her family. Along the wall walk, down the winding steps of the tower, and across the quadrangle, he cursed himself a dozen times. Alternately, he considered the wording of his explanation. How could he make her understand that that no matter her feelings or his, an alliance between them would be the worst mistake of both their lives?
And in between all of that, his thoughts kept returning to that one extraordinary moment when, reaching out to touch his hair, her fingertips had skimmed his forehead.
It had been such an innocent gesture. Trivial, even. He couldn’t fathom why it had affected him so. Perhaps he was no longer fit for genteel society, considering the smallest hint of kindness from a pretty girl could rob him of his wits.
He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow anything similar to happen ever again.
On the steps in front of the double doorway to the castle’s living quarters, he caught up to her. “Alexandra—”
The door opened to reveal Griffin. “My sister doesn’t look happy,” he said flatly.
He—or perhaps Juliana and Corinna—must have been watching them approach through one of the picture gallery’s tall, narrow windows.
Alexandra stepped decisively into the stone entrance hall. “I’m fine.”
Griffin didn’t look like he believed her.
Following, Tristan shut the door behind them. “Alexandra, let me explain.”
“There’s no need.” She raised her chin. “I understand completely.”
As Griffin moved closer to his sister, Tristan looked between the two of them: Alexandra, calm and composed—she would never be flustered for long, nor, Tristan expected, was she the sort of girl to succumb to weeping—and her protective older brother. Theirs was a close-knit family; it seemed to make little difference that Griffin had been gone for years. Such closeness was so foreign to Tristan’s own experience as to be nearly unimaginable.
He felt helpless in the face of their united front.
“I must explain,” he repeated.
“You did,” Alexandra said. “I shall have a word with Griffin and straighten this all out. Now.”
Turning to Tristan, Griffin emitted a long-suffering sigh. “There’s more port in the music room. Please help yourself.”
Tristan heard the delicate notes of the harp wafting down the staircase. But he didn’t need liquor or entertainment. What he needed was to go back to his secluded existence—the one he should never have left—and forget this mortifying episode.
“I believe I shall take my leave for Hawkridge,” he said.
“No.” Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You’ve promised to help me. Stay, please, at least until you’ve seen the vineyard in the morning.”
It had been a long time since a friend—or anyone, truthfully—had wanted Tristan around. It was a nice feeling, and he gave into it with pitifully meager resistance. “I shall retire, then. Good night.” Before he could change his mind again, he headed for the great carved stone staircase.
Boniface appeared from the shadows. “Allow me to accompany you, my lord.”
“Thank you, but I know the way.”
The butler handed him a lantern. “I shall send a valet to you posthaste.”
Tristan didn’t want a valet. He wanted to be alone. He’d been relieved to escape his own very fine and competent valet this morning and ride to Cainewood in blessed solitude, assuming this would be a day trip.
But he was a marquess now. Upon inheriting the title, the world believed he’d forgotten how to undress himself.
What he’d forgotten instead was his head. His manners. His principles, his integrity, his consideration for the fragile heart of a lovely, innocent young girl.
And then, as an encore, he’d made an awful situation worse with his blasted inability to explain the blasted circumstances that made any relationship between them impossible.
Holding the lantern high, he mounted the stairs, cursing himself. He cursed himsel
f all the way through the picture gallery, across the arched dining room, and down the impossibly long length of the hammerbeam-ceilinged great hall. At its far end, he stomped down a corridor and slammed into the room he’d been assigned.
Seemingly endless rows of guest bedrooms lined this wing, and he’d never been given this one before. Of course, he hadn’t been a marquess before. The Gold Chamber, this room was called, and it was saved, a chatty chambermaid had informed him, for the castle’s most honored guests. Having been decorated for a royal visit in some previous century, it was filled with heavy gilt furniture and draped in golden fabric. It dazzled the eye. And had him tiptoeing his way around.
The makings of a fire had been thoughtfully laid on the marble hearth. Within Cainewood’s thick stone walls, even summer evenings were chilly. No doubt the chambermaid hovered in the passageway, waiting for his summons to start it. In an act of defiance, he set the lantern on a gilded dressing table and bent to light the logs himself.
Straightening to retrieve the lantern, he managed to jostle an ornate painted vase and only just righted it in time. He groaned.
With any luck, he’d be leaving in the morning, right after inspecting the vineyard. But in the meantime, this gaudy room was no place to relax.
He sat gingerly on a carved, gold-leafed chair to await the blasted valet. Hawkridge Hall, the mansion he’d inherited, had its share of impressive rooms, including one very much like this. He rarely went in there. He hadn’t been raised among such valuable trappings. He was almost afraid to touch anything.
He shouldn’t have touched Griffin’s sister, either.
* * *
“Sit down, Alexandra.”
Griffin waved her toward one of the study’s leather wing chairs, then settled himself behind the big desk she still thought of as belonging to her father. Establishing his authority, she thought with an internal sigh. Well, it didn’t matter. Everything had changed. She was finished being the obedient sister, and she wasn’t going to let Griffin pressure her into marrying Lord Shelton—or anyone besides Tris.