by Cheryl Bolen
While Rex followed at their heels, Tris led her through the ground-floor rooms, tickling her palm with his thumb all the while so she could hardly pay any attention. She gleaned little more than general impressions, and even those were muddled. The main parlor looked pretty and comfortable, the dining room had a beautiful two-toned parquet floor, and the study—which, oddly enough, was accessed through the dining room—had a heavy, ancient-looking desk. There were also some lovely guest rooms and Tris’s uncle’s rooms—which Tris seemed reluctant to go into.
“I can see them later,” she told him. “Where am I going to sleep?”
For truly, beautiful as the house was, now that they were inside she could think of little else besides the room she would share with Tristan tonight. She hoped familiarizing herself with the setting ahead of time might help calm her nerves, as learning what to expect from Griffin had done.
Finally he led her up the massive oak staircase, a feature clearly built to make a statement. Rex bounded up ahead, his huge body taking the wooden steps with amazing ease. Alexandra skimmed her free hand along the polished wood handrail, the panels beneath composed of boldly carved cannons, muskets, lances, and other trophies of war, all highlighted by sparkling gold leaf.
“Goodness,” she asked Tris, “were your ancestors very savage?”
“Not that I’m aware,” he said with a laugh as they reached the landing. He rubbed the dog’s giant head. “Although I understand this house was used as a base of operations to plot against Cromwell in the Civil War.”
The next room looked to be a gallery of sorts. “The round gallery,” Tris clarified.
It wasn’t really round, but a long oval. It was a room mainly used to access others, sort of a very wide corridor with a hole in the middle of the floor—the large, railed octagonal opening where one could see down to the great hall below. But she didn’t take time to look, as she was gaping at the paintings on the walls.
“Corinna is going to die when she sees these,” she said.
He brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. “Hmm?”
“You know she paints. I cannot believe what you have here.” She gestured to the many gilt-framed canvases. “Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Rubens—”
“That one was painted by one of Rubens’s students.”
“Regardless. She’ll sit here and study these for hours. She’ll forget to eat.”
“Like you at our wedding breakfast?” he asked with a tender smile. “What were you studying, sweetheart?”
You. But she wouldn’t say that, even though he’d just made her melt by calling her sweetheart. “I simply have a ladylike appetite,” she informed a staid Dutch woman in one of the paintings.
Laughing, he took her elbow to guide her into a corridor, Rex following close behind.
Peggy was in the next room, already unpacking Alexandra’s things. “Enjoying your tour, my lady?”
“Very much.” Alexandra blinked at the sumptuous furnishings. Behind a balustrade in the French style, an enormous state bed sat on a raised parquet dais. Hangings of rich turquoise were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and great poufs of matching ostrich feathers crowned the bed’s four corner posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the walls hung with heavy, old tapestries.
“It looks fit for a queen,” she breathed.
“Queen Catharine of Braganza, Charles II’s wife,” Tris confirmed. “It was decorated for her visit.”
That was easy to believe. The streaked marble fireplace was adorned with gold crowns. “Is this to be my room?”
“Not a chance,” Tris said.
Peggy didn’t even hesitate, let alone cease unpacking. “My lord, Mrs. Oliver wanted your new lady to have the best Hawkridge has to offer. The last Lady Hawkridge enjoyed this room very much.”
Alexandra was taken aback by her audacity, although she supposed that if Peggy were a shy one, she wouldn’t have so boldly asked for the position of lady’s maid. But while the chamber was gorgeous, she couldn’t imagine being comfortable among such opulence. Goodness, what if she spilled something on Queen Catharine’s antique counterpane? “It’s lovely,” she said tactfully, “but—”
“Lady Hawkridge will be sharing my rooms,” Tris interrupted. “While we dine, please move her things.”
Peggy blinked. “But—”
“You may ask two footmen to assist you with the trunks. While you’re downstairs, please inform Mrs. Pawley that we’d like a light supper in half an hour.” He took Alexandra’s hand to draw her from the room.
“That was a bit harsh,” she said once they were out of earshot. “I know she defied you, but—”
“I’ve never liked that one.”
“Why have you kept her on, then?”
“She’s been here since she was a girl. What kind of person would I be if I turned her out?” He drew her down the corridor, Rex trotting by his other side. “Are you certain you want her for your maid?”
“Since I’ve already given her the position, I’ll wait and see how we get along. As long as you don’t mind.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Stay, Rex.” As they entered another chamber, he closed the door behind them. “My rooms,” he announced. “And yours, too, as soon as Peggy moves you in here.”
A huge bed dominated the space—an old-style four-poster hung with dark blue velvet bordered in yellow silk. The walls were hung with blue velvet panels on a yellow background, and, set before the fireplace, two cushioned armchairs were upholstered in blue-and-yellow striped fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “And much cozier than the Queen’s Bedchamber.”
“I didn’t want you in a separate room,” he said low, making her eyes dart to the bed as butterflies fluttered in her middle. Then he grinned. “Although I was half tempted to leave you there as revenge for putting me in your Gold Chamber.”
“Thank you for resisting.” She heard the heavy thumps of Rex padding away down the corridor. “If you don’t allow him in here, where does he sleep?”
“Given his size, I’d say anywhere he wants. But a man is entitled to a bit of privacy, don’t you think?” He pulled her closer. “Besides, he snores something terrible.”
She began to laugh, but he cut her off with a kiss.
And what a kiss it was.
Both times they’d kissed since becoming husband and wife—during the wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been perfunctory. Before that, they’d had only stolen kisses, ones tainted by feelings of shame and remorse.
This time there was no one watching. This time there was no guilt, no heartache. This time there was only the two of them, together, without a single obstacle keeping them apart. She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossible truth that he was finally hers.
A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.
“In here,” Peggy directed.
Her head swimming, Alexandra endeavored to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.
“Through the sitting room to the dressing room,” Peggy added briskly.
Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn’t even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She watched him now, breathless.
Her new husband—husband!—looked just as dazed and frustrated by the interruption. He sighed and took her arm. “Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?”
Chapter 38
Light supper at Hawkridge turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. Though she’d been pleased by her lovely new bedroom, seeing their marital bed had done nothing to set her at ease—although, paradoxically, spending time alone with Tris had served to increase her anticipation. Tension jangled about in her stomach, leaving but little space for food.
Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate’s fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfi
sh soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room’s long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn’t snap off her fingers along with the food.
While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn’t the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver’s mother had held the housekeeper’s keys before her; and the groundskeeper’s great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants’ families had served Hawkridge for years.
“Tradition,” Alexandra said with a smile.
“Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge’s first female cook, however.” Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a young man’s appetite. “Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that.”
So Mrs. Pawley wasn’t married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father’s name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. “Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?”
“During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became clear her father’s retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under a master.” Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. “Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender.”
“Her food is delicious.”
“I’m sure Rex thinks so,” he teased with a grin.
The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.
“I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries,” Tris said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, in any case.” He was nearly finished, and she still hadn’t brought up the servant she found most curious. “Tell me about Vincent.”
He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass’s rim. “Do I strike you as someone who would own a slave?”
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. “You cannot blame me for wondering.” Though trade in new slaves had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to liberate those already in captivity. Many in England still owned slaves, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.
With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. “Vincent served me well during the year I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left.”
She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was a generous thing to do.”
“Merely decent. I cannot countenance one man owning another.”
“But your uncle could.”
He shrugged his ambivalence. “Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife’s dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn’t particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point.”
“There has been no legislation.”
“There will be. Soon.” He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. “Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves’ plight, but he feared they’d be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace.”
“And you agreed.”
“In theory, perhaps. In practice, no.” He paused for a sip. “The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica.”
She’d known he was kind. She reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. “And have there been consequences?”
“Making a profit has proven difficult,” he admitted quietly. “But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income.” He squeezed her fingers. “A fellow has to live with himself if he’s to sleep at night.”
Sleep. She’d wager he hadn’t noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, was not a man who could commit murder. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.
He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. “Are you finished?”
She nodded, suppressing her discomposure. There was no reason to fret, she told herself sternly. She had no doubt she’d be happy with Tris—being a wife was a big change, to be sure, but his home, his disposition, and his values were all more than she could ask for in a husband. Not to mention, he was more than attractive—why, she could happily do nothing but kiss him for the rest of her life! The marriage bed was a normal part of every marriage, and Alexandra was ready for it.
Wasn’t she?
She found herself inordinately relieved when Tris stood and asked, “Would you like to see more of the house?”
“That would be lovely,” she said with a grateful smile.
As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.
“The north drawing room,” Tris said.
“It’s beautiful.” She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. “Johannes Ruckers,” she read out loud from where the maker’s name was painted above the keyboard.
“Has he a good reputation?” Tris asked from behind her.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don’t expect his company is making instruments anymore.”
“Can you play it?”
“Probably.” Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. “I shall enjoy trying it. But is there no pianoforte?”
He shook his head. “I’ll get one for you.”
“You needn’t go to so much trouble—”
“I want you to feel at home here.” He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.
Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.
“I don’t think he likes me kissing you,” Tris observed.
“He’s jealous. Until now you were all his.”
“He’s not mine. I told you—”
“That’s not what he thinks.”
Tris stared hard at the dog, opened his mouth, then shut it. “Well, he’s going to have to get used to sharing me. Come see the long gallery.”
Rex followed them through another door into a lengthy tunnel of a room. A room that called for quiet. Woven matting on the parquet floor muffled their footsteps. Large paintings in heavy gilt frames were spaced evenly along the dark paneled walls.
Even Rex kept quiet as they walked along slowly, gazing at the pictures. The painters here weren’t important; this gallery was all about their subjects. Gentlemen in silks and velvets, ladies in stiff white neck ruffs.
“Some are older than the house,” Alexandra observed softly. “Are they family?”
“Nesbitts, one and all.”
A few of the names were familiar from inside her ring. Henry and Elizabeth. James and Sarah. She stopped to study a canvas whose brass plaque r
ead WILLIAM AND ANNE. The painting showed that particular Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Alexandra could almost see her graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat.
“They look happy,” she decided.
The next couple, Randal and Lily, looked happy as well. “1680,” she read off the plaque. The man had gray eyes, like Tris’s. His hair looked like Tris’s, too, but longer, and a huge dog that looked just like Rex sat at his feet. A small child stood at his side, still in skirts so she couldn’t tell its gender. The man’s hand rested on the shoulder of his pretty, dark-haired lady, who beamed a smile at the baby in her arms.
Alexandra smiled in response. “Everyone here has been happy. I can feel it, can’t you? This is a good house. A real home.” History and tradition fairly oozed from the walls.
“My uncle wasn’t happy,” Tris disagreed quietly.
“Not after his family died, of course. But before?”
“He was happy,” Tris conceded. Evidently unwilling to promise that they would be happy too, he gave her another kiss instead, short but heartfelt.
She would swear she heard Rex snort.
“The library is through here,” Tris said.
It was a lofty, two-story chamber with dark shelving crammed with important-looking books. Alexandra walked over to pull one out and flip idly through it, the old pages crackling as she turned them.
“You don’t want to read now, do you?” Stepping up behind her, Tris bent to kiss her neck.
“Not really.” Tingling warmth spread from where his lips met her skin. He reached around her to take the book from her hands and set it on a small table, and she turned in his arms.
Rex’s bark echoed up to the laurel wreath in the center of the high ceiling.
“See why I lock him out of my rooms?” Tris asked with a sigh.
“I hope it’s not because you kiss a lot of girls in there.”
“Only one,” he said with a soft smile that made her skin tingle even more than the kiss. “Would you like to escape the beast and go there now?”