Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  And her brother wanted her to find love. He wasn’t bent on marrying her off to the first young man who offered.

  She stopped singing. “I hope so, too.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Griffin smiled…until her gaze wandered again to Tris. “Pay attention to your dancing, will you?”

  “I think I’m improving.” She looked back at her brother. “You’re a great deal better than Boniface.”

  “That’s not saying much,” he muttered as the butler stumbled by with Corinna.

  “Switch!” Tris called, heading toward the cakes. While everyone else shuffled partners, he ate two more.

  Then finally, just when Alexandra felt like she’d been waiting forever, he slipped an arm around her waist and took her hand. As he locked her body into the proper position opposite his, he locked his eyes on hers, too.

  A bolt of energy rippled through her. And through him as well—she’d swear it. He couldn’t look at her like that and not feel as she did, not sense the current that ran between them.

  And then he began to dance. He moved so smoothly, she didn’t have to think about what her feet did. All by themselves, they seemed to know the steps. She forgot to hum.

  His smile seemed as intimate as a kiss—that second kiss she’d been thinking about but knew she would never get. “Now you can follow me around,” he said playfully, “instead of me following you.”

  “I’m sorry about yesterday. I was in a mood.”

  “I understand.”

  The fact that she believed he did understand didn’t make her feel any better.

  His gray eyes watched her so intently, she feared she might lose herself in their depths. She fit perfectly in his arms, the two of them moving together as though they’d been born to share a dance floor. Where his hand rested on her back, heat seemed to spread out from his palm to warm every bit of her skin.

  She feared all the hard work of forgetting, of piecing her heart back together, was unraveling in the space of a single dance.

  The song came to an end. Corinna and Juliana stopped humming. The incessant rain pounded on the hammerbeam roof. Tris kept dancing, kept his gaze fastened on Alexandra.

  She felt rather than saw Griffin’s glare. “Switch!” he called, shoving himself between them. He handed Tris a sweet. “Time for another chocolate cake, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you,” Tris said and stepped back, allowing Boniface to take his place.

  For the next minute or two, Alexandra danced in a daze. Boniface had improved slightly. He actually held her hand, and he trod on her toes only once.

  “Switch!” Tris called.

  Alexandra noticed Juliana sweetly hand him a cake as she joined him. Sometimes her sister grated on her nerves.

  “Why are you frowning?” Griffin asked, holding Alexandra a little too tightly. “You’re supposed to pay attention to your partner.”

  “Thank you for the advice. You could write a book and call yourself A Gentleman of Distinction.”

  “Stop watching him,” he growled low.

  “I’m studying his technique. He’s good, isn’t he?”

  “How would you know?” He swung her farther away. “You’ve never seen anyone waltz before in your life.”

  “Switch!” Tris called.

  Not to be outdone by Juliana, Alexandra rushed to grab one of the little cakes before meeting him. Her sisters laughed, but the smile Tris gave her made her knees turn to jelly.

  Yet when his arm came around her, his sure guidance kept her twirling in perfect rhythm. She felt giddy, lightheaded. As their gazes held, she wondered whether to attribute that to the motion or to him.

  Him. Definitely him.

  She wracked her brains for a neutral topic of conversation. “If you never go out in society, when did you learn how to waltz?”

  “Directly after my uncle died, when I first inherited the marquessate.”

  Before the scandal broke out, then. “Did a dancing master teach you?”

  “No.” When she just looked at him, he added, “A girl taught me.”

  If she hadn’t turned green before, she surely did now. “A girl? Who?”

  It was possibly the rudest question she’d ever asked. Her stomach twisted with shame, but she had to know the answer.

  “It doesn’t signify,” he said, somehow managing to sound both evasive and blithe. “Just someone who hoped to dance with me at many balls.”

  He spoke in past tense, Alexandra consoled herself. Quite obviously, that girl’s hopes had ultimately been dashed. But she hated her, regardless.

  Even though she couldn’t remember hating anyone before.

  “Switch!” Griffin yelled, sounding so furious she was glad her next partner was Boniface instead of him.

  She gave the butler a big smile. “You’re surely improving, Boniface.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” He stumbled. “Pardon me.”

  “No, no, you’re doing fine.” Since he didn’t seem to be leading her, she led him instead. “Just think, you’ll be able to waltz at the next servants’ ball.”

  “I think not, my lady. I don’t believe waltzing is my forte.”

  “Oh, bosh,” she said, although she agreed. “You’re doing just fine.”

  “Switch!” Tris called.

  Griffin started twirling her with a little more gusto than necessary. “What were you two talking about so intently?”

  “Boniface fears that waltzing is not his forte.”

  “Not Boniface. You and Tristan.”

  “Goodness, Griffin. That was a good two minutes ago. I cannot remember the conversation, but I’m certain it wasn’t anything significant.”

  “He was holding you too close.”

  “No, he wasn’t. You’re not holding me close enough. There’s a reason old matrons think the waltz is a scandalous dance, I’ll have you know.”

  “Switch!” Tris called. While Alexandra headed to fetch him a chocolate cake, he added, “You’re all doing splendidly.”

  “Good,” Griffin said. “Because we’re all finished.”

  Alexandra turned to protest, her gaze swinging past her brother and over to Tris. As she met his gray eyes, their intensity evoked the memory of his warm hand on her back as they danced, his thigh grazing hers as he reached for the bread, his chest pressing up against her in the library, his fingers encircling her elbow, his lips touching her forehead, his breath tickling her cheek…

  Alexandra’s knees began to buckle.

  Sweet heaven, Tris had been holding her too close.

  And she’d been encouraging him, flirting with him, not to mention letting jealousy turn her head. It was all wrong, so wrong. Tris was wrong for her, wrong for her sisters, wrong for the future of her family.

  She took the plate of remaining cakes and held it before her like a shield. “I’ll go put these in the dining room,” she said, keeping her tone as casual as possible. When Tris gave the sweets a longing glance, she released a tense laugh. “Don’t worry; we’ll save them for you. They’ll go well with your port after dinner.”

  She didn’t breathe until she’d escaped, leaving the sweets on one of the dining room’s side tables and her heart in the great hall.

  Chapter 22

  With only a day and a half left before the ball—and less than that before Tris departed—Alexandra was finding it hard to sleep. Still lying awake in her bed well after midnight, she sighed and lit a candle, leaned back against her pillows, and slid a copy of Mansfield Park off her night table.

  Then sat with it unopened on her lap.

  Unless one could count fleeting glances, she hadn’t seen Tris in the two days since the dance lesson. He’d ordered his meals brought to the workshop, where he was building the second pump. But his rush to finish didn’t really explain his avoidance.

  Nor did it explain why, the few times she’d caught sight of him, she’d found herself walking the other way.

  It seemed silly and childish—and wrong somehow—and each time
it happened, she swore to herself it would be the last. But after all, it took two to play the game. She wondered if he, like she, had been unprepared for the heady experience of waltzing together. Unprepared and dismayed. For both their sakes, nothing like that must ever happen again.

  If only…

  According to Griffin, although the incessant rain had delayed completion of the new pipeline, the pump was ready, and Tris would be leaving after they installed it tomorrow. A full day before the ball, just as planned. Griffin was jubilant, but her feelings on the matter ran to dejection mixed with relief.

  Well, she told herself sternly, staring into space wasn’t going to change anything. With another sigh, she opened her book. But she hadn’t read two paragraphs when her attention was claimed by the prolonged creak of a slowly opening door.

  Apparently she wasn’t the only one finding sleep hard to come by this night.

  She heard furtive footsteps, followed by a soft knock and murmured conversation. Her sisters, she was sure of it. Puzzled, she waited for them to fetch her too, but instead their voices receded down the corridor, leaving her feeling very much alone.

  In the next quarter hour, she read the same page of Mansfield Park at least a dozen times while wondering what Juliana and Corinna were up to and why they hadn’t invited her to their middle-of-the-night rendezvous. Now hurt warred with all her other emotions. Only pride kept her from seeking them out.

  Until she heard movement in the dining room, which was directly below her chamber. A thud, as though perhaps someone had stumbled. And other muffled noises.

  Curiosity overcame pride.

  She set the book aside and climbed from her blue-draped bed. Tying a wrapper over her nightgown and taking the candle, she tiptoed from her room past her sisters’ open doors and downstairs.

  Walking through the picture gallery toward the dining room, she considered what she should say when she found Juliana and Corinna. Should she act wounded or surprised? Disapproving or conspiratorial? Would she join them or suggest they return to their beds?

  She’d play it by ear, she decided, depending upon their attitudes. Hopefully, they’d all have a good laugh. That could go a long way toward releasing some of her tension.

  Anticipating a little sisterly mischief, she rounded the corner into the dining room.

  And stopped short, bobbling the candle in her hand.

  Her sisters weren’t there. Instead, Tris stood with his back to her, barefoot, wearing a long dressing gown of rich burgundy brocade belted loosely around his waist.

  Though the only skin bared was that of his wrists and ankles, the sight of him in such intimate clothing made her mouth go unnaturally dry.

  Standing by a gothic mahogany side table, he was devouring what remained of the little chocolate cakes she’d left there yesterday morning. The embroidered cloth she’d laid over them sat crumpled on the floor.

  He had yet to notice her. Recovering her composure, she laughed softly and walked closer, determined this time not to flee in the opposite direction. “Sneaking sweets, are you?”

  The last cake in his hand, he turned to her. “Alexandra.”

  Placing the candle on the side table, she knelt to retrieve the cloth. “We missed you at the last few meals. But you could have asked if you wanted more.” She straightened, setting the cloth on the table, too. “I’d have sent them to you in the workshop.”

  He tilted his head, giving her a look so calculatedly innocent—his smile vague, his eyes deliberately blank—that she laughed again. “I’m going to tell everyone you’re a sweet thief.”

  The cake fell from his fingers and landed with a little plop on the carpet. “Alexandra,” he repeated and reached for her, dragging her into his arms.

  Though stunned, she went willingly. With their faces just a hair’s breadth apart, he hesitated, making her shiver with anticipation. Then their lips met—she couldn’t tell who closed the gap—and her heart rolled over in her chest.

  The way they were pressed together from shoulder down to navel seemed incredibly intimate and thrilling—and very different from the friendly or sisterly sort of embrace she was used to. She could feel the searing heat of his skin through the fine fabric of his dressing gown. He wrapped his arms around her back. She buried her hands in his soft hair. He tasted of sugar and chocolate and Tris, a deliciously sweet combination.

  No, make that dangerously sweet.

  It took a herculean effort to retreat the barest inch. “We cannot,” she whispered.

  The look he gave her was so odd and intense, it seemed to go right through her.

  “I—I need to go back to my room,” she stammered, removing herself from his arms. When he didn’t reply, she added, “I’m sorry,” even though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for.

  He nodded, his lips curving in a sad almost-smile.

  “We should both go back to our rooms,” she said more firmly. “Good night.”

  “’Night,” he echoed and turned to exit the far end of the room.

  Almost against her will, she followed him to the doorway and watched him slowly traverse the long length of the torchlit great hall, standing there until he disappeared into the dark corridor that led to the guest chambers.

  He didn’t look back.

  She released a long, shuddering breath before retrieving her candle and starting upstairs. All the way down the picture gallery, the little flickering light reflected off the canvases on the walls—all her solemn, disapproving ancestors.

  She wasn’t supposed to even dance with Tris again, let alone kiss him.

  But now that it had happened, all she could think was that she wanted more.

  She didn’t remember actually going upstairs, didn’t remember walking through the high gallery or down the corridor past her sisters’ rooms. She was settled beneath her covers before she realized their doors had been closed and they must be safely back behind them.

  So much for some sisterly mirth to release her tension and help her relax. She blew out the candle and listened to the rain, wondering how she’d ever get herself to sleep now.

  Chapter 23

  “There’s our thief!” Alexandra proclaimed loudly when Tristan arrived late for breakfast the next morning.

  Spreading marmalade on toast, Juliana tittered. “What can you mean?”

  “Do you see the plate of chocolate cakes that isn’t on that sideboard? Tris sneaked in here and finished them in the middle of the night.”

  Though Tristan was weary and distracted—thinking about how to fix the problem with the pump he’d discovered this morning—he vaguely wondered why Alexandra was suddenly so friendly and cheerful when they hadn’t so much as talked in a day and a half. He dropped onto the chair a footman pulled out. “I did what?”

  “Don’t try to act the innocent,” she accused gaily. “I caught you red-handed. Or perhaps I should say chocolate-crumbed.”

  “You did?” He raised a hand to his mouth and absently wiped away nonexistent crumbs. “Very well, I confess. I cannot resist your sweets.”

  Her sisters both laughed. Griffin frowned. And Tristan wracked his brain.

  Despite his “confession,” he had no memory of leaving his room in the middle of the night. While plastering a smile on his face, he groaned inwardly, more distressed by this news than he’d been by the broken pump.

  Apparently, he was sleepwalking again.

  All of his life, Tristan had been an occasional sleepwalker. For years, he’d suffered through mornings where people informed him of his own doings the night before—often comical doings, none of which he ever remembered. After some of these episodes, his schoolmates—Griffin included—had teased him mercilessly.

  As he’d grown, the episodes had become fewer and farther between—eventually far enough between that he was able to discern a pattern. He was most likely to sleepwalk when under pressure of some sort. As an adolescent and even more so as an adult, the infrequent occurrences seemed to be brought on by emot
ional stress.

  After a long spell of peaceful nights, he’d decided he must have outgrown the odd habit. But now it was back. Since he wasn’t personally affected by Griffin’s irrigation problems and had no great concerns of his own, that could mean only one thing…

  He was more attached to Alexandra—and frustrated by his inability to do anything about it—than he’d allowed himself to believe.

  He needed to install this pump and go home. For good. Isolation had its drawbacks, but it had afforded him a peace he could only hope to reclaim.

  “You rose late,” Griffin commented.

  “To the contrary, I’ve been awake for hours.” Tristan held out his cup for coffee. “I’ve been in the workshop. We won’t be installing the pump today.”

  “Why not? It operated perfectly during the test last night—”

  “Well, something—or someone—bent the shank. The valve no longer works. I don’t expect you have any wild animals about the premises?”

  “Nothing capable of—”

  “Juliana and I are finished,” Corinna interrupted. “May we be excused? Madame Rodale has arrived for our final fittings.”

  Looking distracted, Griffin waved a hand. “Go.” When Alexandra didn’t follow, he turned to her. “Aren’t you going with them?”

  “I’ll join them in a moment,” she said quietly and looked to Tristan. “Are you feeling quite well this morning?”

  He noticed she was wearing his cameo again and wondered about that. “As well as I expect one can when one’s work has been sabotaged.” Not feeling hungry, he put down his fork. “The piece will have to be recast, and the entire pump taken apart to reinstall it. This will set us back a day, if not more. I’ve thought of going home and returning, but…” He trailed off, not wanting to sound selfish.

  “That would cost you another two days of your life,” Griffin finished for him. “Besides, I promised Rachael the job would be finished.”

  “Then you’ll be here for the ball,” Alexandra said, her expression unreadable.

  Tristan hadn’t attended a ball in two years, and he didn’t intend to start now. “I may still be here at Cainewood, but I won’t be attending.” He rose and turned to Griffin. “You might think about placing a guard at the workshop when I’m not there—being a lumber room, it has no proper door. However this came about, we’ll want to make certain it doesn’t happen again.”