Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  He rested his elbows on the mahogany surface, steepling his fingers. “What happened out there?”

  She had to say it. She squared her shoulders and opened her mouth before she could stop herself. “Tris kissed me.”

  “He did what?”

  She struggled to maintain eye contact, but the shock on her brother’s face was too much. Instead she looked down at her hands clenched together in her lap. ”You heard me. We wish…we wish to marry.” She’d have to do better than that if she meant to persuade him. She drew in a breath and all but shouted, “I don’t want to marry Lord Shelton. I want to marry Tris!”

  “I heard you!” Griffin snapped. He sat back in the chair, rubbing the nape of his neck. “He hasn’t asked for your hand, has he?”

  “Not exactly.” Something in Griffin’s eyes, in the tone of his voice, was making her uneasy. She managed to look up at him, though not with anything like conviction. “He seems to think you won’t approve.”

  “He’s right, and that’s why he would never ask.” He fixed her with a piercing green gaze. “The man’s been accused of murder.”

  Chapter 8

  “Murder?” Alexandra’s elbows gave out, and her energy seemed to drain on the spot. She couldn’t have heard Griffin right. “Murder?”

  “Murder. His uncle—the last Marquess of Hawkridge—died under suspicious circumstances.”

  She sagged in her chair, trying to wrap her mind around her brother’s words. “What circumstances?”

  “The old man went to bed with a mild fever and failed to awaken the next morning. Poison, it was rumored, and Tristan was with him at Hawkridge at the time. Since his father had recently drunk himself to death and left him heavily in debt, penniless and well nigh desperate, there are those who believe his timely inheritance of his uncle’s title, property, and massive fortune proved rather too convenient.”

  “Poison?” With some effort, she righted her posture. “I don’t believe it for a moment.”

  “Neither do I,” Griffin said with a sigh. “He was never convicted—there was no solid evidence—but many still think him guilty of the deed. What we personally do or don’t believe has no bearing on the fact that Tristan is not a suitable husband.”

  Alexandra smoothed her dress over her knees while she tried to remember to breathe. If what Griffin said was true, she had to agree that wedding Tris was out of the question. Although she could live without the social whirl, if her family aligned themselves with him by any bond so strong as marriage, their own good name would be ruined. Juliana and Corinna would find it impossible to make good matches for themselves…and despite Alexandra’s new resolve to be less in thrall to societal convention, she wasn’t selfish enough to doom her sisters’ marriage prospects.

  If what Griffin said was true.

  “I don’t believe it,” she repeated. “I don’t believe any of it. How did I never hear of this? It must have been an enormous scandal.”

  “It was. So major a scandal that Tristan has remained cut off from the respectable sphere. He hasn’t claimed his seat in the House of Lords. He abandoned his friends rather than subject us to society’s criticism. Did you never hear the murmurings, the nasty rumors? Well, of course you didn’t,” he answered himself. “You were hidden away here in the countryside wearing black.”

  Pushing himself up from the desk, he moved around it to lay a hand on her shoulder. He meant it to be comforting gesture, Alexandra knew, though his own discomfort with such familiar contact was obvious.

  ”I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you cannot marry Tristan.”

  She stared past him at the empty desk chair for a long spell. She’d never been one for tears, but right now it took all her self-possession to hold them at bay.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  Finally, she looked to her brother, nodding her acceptance. He released her shoulder with evident relief and sank into the chair beside hers.

  ”I don’t want to marry Lord Shelton.”

  “You wanted to this morning.”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I realize now that I cannot be happy with him. Please don’t make me—”

  “I would never make you marry anyone. Anyone in particular, that is.” The beginnings of panic flooded his eyes. “You do still want to marry? In general, I mean.”

  Under different circumstances, she might have laughed. “Yes, I still want to marry.” She couldn’t imagine what she would do with herself otherwise. From birth, her mother had trained her to care for a household and oversee its accounts, but she could only remain mistress of Cainewood until her brother took a wife. Besides, she’d always known that she wanted children of her own someday.

  She didn’t have a passion like Corinna’s painting, or, like Juliana, a compulsion to meddle in other people’s lives. She just wanted to live her own. “I only wish…”

  Though her wish remained unspoken, her brother knew what she wanted to say. “Wishing won’t get you anywhere,” he said gently, and then added, “He shouldn’t have kissed you,” looking totally disgusted. “I’ll send him away. Immediately. You won’t have to face him at breakfast.”

  At hearing her brother say the word kissed, she flushed for what felt like the thousandth time today. ”No, please don’t! Juliana said you need his help.”

  “Yes, I do need his help.” With an agitated motion, he unstoppered the crystal brandy decanter that sat on the small table between them. “But I don’t need him seducing my sister.”

  The word seducing made her face grow even hotter. “He didn’t. I swear it.” She watched him pour two glasses, one much fuller than the other. “Honestly, Griffin, it was only a…a kiss. I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”

  “There’s nothing only about a kiss. At the very least, I will have a serious talk with him.” He handed her the glass with less brandy.

  She stared at it stupidly. “I’ve never had brandy.”

  “Then it’s about time you did. Drink up, little sister. You need it right now.”

  This was certainly a night for firsts. She swallowed a gulp and coughed.

  Griffin laughed. “You’re supposed to sip it.” Cupping the glass, he took an appreciative sniff, then a small sip. “Like that.”

  Cradling her glass in imitation, she drew deep of the heady scent. She sipped carefully, feeling the spirits’ heat trail down her throat and warm her inside.

  “Nice?” he asked.

  “Very nice.” She took another taste. “Go easy on Tris. Please. I asked for that kiss.”

  His eyes widened. “Did you?”

  Her face would never return to a normal temperature again.

  She hadn’t asked for it in the way he was assuming, of course, but she knew Tris wouldn’t have kissed her of his own accord. Knew now, in hindsight, that he’d agreed to walk with her because he’d wanted to tell her of the scandal, to explain why there could never be anything between them.

  But she hadn’t let him. Instead, in her schoolgirlish desperation, she’d moved closer, linked her fingers with his, skimmed his hair from his forehead. What had happened afterward was just an impulsive reaction.

  She had seduced him, she was startled to realize. She sipped more.

  Griffin reached to pry the glass from her hands. The empty glass. A corner of his mouth curved up in a sympathetic half smile. “I think you’d best get a good night’s sleep.”

  She looked longingly toward the decanter, then sighed. The brandy was much stronger than the wine she was used to, and she couldn’t even drink much of that. Her head was already buzzing, and more spirits wouldn’t solve anything. “You’re right. Just promise you won’t send Tris away until he’s done what you asked him here to do.”

  “Very well. But—”

  “And promise you won’t make him feel uncomfortable here, either.”

  “I suspect he’ll feel uncomfortable around you no matter what I—”

  “And promise you won’t tell him I told you he kissed me.”
/>   “Would you let a man complete a sentence?”

  She laughed. A heavyhearted laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Only if you’re going to say what I want to hear.”

  “I pity the fellow who finally marries you.” Griffin drained the rest of his brandy and set down his glass. “Of course, we have to find a fellow before I can pity him.”

  “We can wait for the season—”

  “Good gracious, no.” He looked horrified at the thought. “Securing two husbands next year is a daunting enough task.” Steepling his hands again, he tapped his fingers against one another thoughtfully. “I know,” he said, suddenly stilling. “We shall host a ball, and I will invite every unmarried gentleman of my acquaintance. At least twice as many men as ladies…that will ensure that no gentleman is monopolized by another girl, and you’ll have ample chance to meet all of them.”

  Feeling bold with the brandy in her, Alexandra rolled her eyes. “You’ve no idea the preparation that goes into hosting a ball.”

  “Well, of course not. We didn’t host balls on campaign.” He poured himself another drink. “I do know how to play the proper host, though. And I have you to do the planning—”

  “Me? I’ve never planned a ball!”

  “You cannot tell me Mother never had you assist with the planning. We shall hold it in a month, I think. The season will be well over by then, and Charles will have been laid to rest a full six months by then, too, so our merrymaking won’t dishonor his memory.”

  “A month? I cannot plan a ball in a month! Invitations should go out more than a month in advance. Mama spent all year planning Cainewood’s annual ball.” Realizing she’d as much as admitted she did know something of what it took to plan a ball, she rushed on before her brother could make a smug rejoinder. “We’ll need two months, at the very least.”

  “Six weeks, then.” Griffin raised his glass, admiring the way the candlelight illuminated the amber liquid. “You’re nothing if not efficient, Alexandra. I’m certain you can plan a ball in six weeks.”

  Chapter 9

  “Six weeks.” Pacing the music room and shaking her head in disbelief, Alexandra popped a ratafia puff into her mouth. They sure didn’t seem to be working any magic. “He wants us to plan a ball in sixweeks.”

  “We can do it.” At her easel, Corinna sighed happily. “A ball! We’ll all need new evening dresses.”

  “Alexandra isn’t concerned about our wardrobes at the moment,” Juliana chided. She rose from her harp and went to stop her sister’s frantic pacing, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “I cannot believe Griffin is after another husband for you already. You haven’t even recovered from the loss of Lord Hawkridge yet.”

  Alexandra wanted to protest that she couldn’t have lost Tris when she’d never had him. But it did feel like an immense loss. “I don’t believe he committed murder.”

  “Neither do we,” her sisters chimed in unison.

  “He doesn’t have it in him,” Juliana added. “Griffin had no right to forbid you to marry him.” Juliana always wanted to see everyone happy. “You should elope; you could run off to Gretna Green—”

  “Don’t be a goose.” Alexandra moved away from her sister and back to the ratafia puffs. “Have you thought about the effect such a marriage would have on your own prospects? Our good name would be ruined. You and Corinna would never find suitable husbands.”

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t happen,” Juliana said. “You cannot know for certain how society would react—”

  “Oh, yes, I can. Look how they’ve treated Tris!”

  “In any case, you shouldn’t sacrifice your own happiness for us,” she concluded loyally, looking to Corinna for agreement.

  Corinna swallowed hard but nodded. “We shall survive, one way or another.”

  “Geese. I’m surrounded by geese.” Alexandra resumed pacing, now wishing there were real ratafia in the ratafia puffs. Was she forever doomed to exercising enough common sense for all three of them? “I won’t marry if the two of you will suffer as a consequence.”

  The look that passed between her sisters set her teeth on edge. If they were conspiring against her, it wouldn’t be the first time. Juliana made a hobby of meddling in people’s lives, and Corinna had played her willing accomplice more than once. But Alexandra was determined to undermine them, never mind that their hearts were in the right place.

  “Tris hasn’t asked me in any case,” she informed them. “He doesn’t wish to marry me.”

  Juliana and Corinna exchanged another glance. “He’s hardly had time to propose,” Juliana started.

  “That doesn’t signify.” Alexandra feared her protests were falling on deaf ears. “He made his intentions—or non-intentions—perfectly clear. So don’t go getting any ideas in your head. One little kiss doesn’t mean—”

  “A kiss?” Juliana interrupted. “He kissed you?”

  “What was it like?” Corinna demanded.

  Alexandra hesitated. Even if she could have found words to describe the marvelous sensation, she couldn’t have brought herself to say them aloud.

  Juliana came to her rescue. “I’m sure it was just a good-natured peck on the cheek. There’s nothing so wrong with that.”

  “That’s not what it says in The Mirror of the Graces,” Corinna informed her. “A Lady of Distinction claims that ‘good-natured kisses have often very bad effects and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.’”

  “Must you remember every word you read?” Alexandra asked with a huff.

  “I cannot help being able to picture the pages in my head. And in any case, I didn’t say I believed it. The Mirror of the Graces is dreadfully straitlaced.”

  Alexandra had had quite enough of this nonsense. She was tired and brokenhearted, and she wanted to go to bed. “Well, it wasn’t a good-natured kiss, anyway,” she said, leaving her sisters gaping as she quit the room.

  Chapter 10

  Breakfast the next morning was uncomfortable. Conversation was stilted, and Tristan couldn’t help but notice Alexandra wasn’t wearing his cameo. He wasn’t sure whether he found that a relief or a disappointment.

  After breakfast, Griffin and Tristan went out and called for their horses. Griffin waited in stiff silence while Tristan wondered what he should say. But it was a crisp, sunny morning, and once they were on their way to the vineyard, it felt good to be astride in the fresh air. Good and familiar.

  “Race you,” he challenged.

  Griffin slanted a single look at him before digging in his heels.

  They hadn’t designated a stopping point, but it didn’t matter. Tristan leaned over his mount, bunching his muscles along with the animal beneath him, enjoying the rush of cool wind, the pounding rhythm. Beside him, Griffin kept pace; they could both afford expensive horseflesh.

  What Tristan couldn’t afford was to feel this distant from the only friend he had left. They were neck and neck, yet farther apart than when they’d lived on separate continents.

  When the horses were blowing, they slowed to a walk and rode silently for a while.

  “You can still ride,” Griffin conceded.

  Looking toward him, Tristan raised a brow. “And I wasn’t in the cavalry.”

  “Keep your hands off my sister.”

  “I will.” He wondered how much Alexandra had revealed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” Griffin said.

  Just like that, the tension eased. Such was the way of old friends. But Tristan felt very fortunate that their friendship had survived his indiscretion.

  It had been a terrible mistake. They were all lucky the two of them hadn’t been caught. In a sphere where a kiss was often as good as a declaration, an observed kiss was sometimes enough to compel a marriage.

  And Tristan had not the slightest intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “It’s forgotten.” Gr
iffin raised his face to the sun. “I’m certain it won’t happen again.”

  They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his muscles unclench and the stiffness ease from his neck.

  “Why did your brother plant this vineyard so far from the house?” he finally asked.

  “You think I understood Charles? Ever?”

  “He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn’t he?”

  “Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did.” They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren’t in sight. “What made you decide to restore Hawkridge’s vineyard?” Griffin asked. “I understand the vines had long been unproductive. It must’ve been an arduous task.”

  Tristan shrugged. “It wasn’t so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part.”

  “Not mine, apparently.”

  “We shall see. In any case, I viewed the vineyard as a chapter of family history. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s.”

  “By whom? Do you know?”

  “Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his father-in-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines.”

  “And they survived all this time.”

  “Under the brambles, yes. I’ll do my best to make sure yours survive, too.”

  At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. “It’s large.”

  “Charles never did anything halfway.”

  “He did his research. They’re spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal.”