Now her lips tingled, too. “There’s no sense in discussing it, either.”
“But that doesn’t mean we cannot talk at all, about anything. I always considered you a friend, Alexandra. I don’t want to lose that, too.”
Tristan watched her fight with herself, watched her swallow hard, watched her eyes go from glassy to clear as she came to a decision. “I’ll be your friend,” she said at last. “Always.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
He expected her to pull her hand away. Instead she squeezed his back, so hard he wondered how her slim fingers could take the force. Then she didn’t let go as they continued on their way to the abandoned picnic site.
They strolled silently for a while. He was more aware of Alexandra’s hand in his than he remembered being aware of any physical sensation, ever. And he knew it was the same for her.
“Tris?” she finally said.
“Hmm?”
“Do you believe there’s only one perfect person for each of us in this world?”
He smiled to himself. This was the sort of philosophical question she used to bring up when they were younger. “Perhaps some of us have no perfect person.”
“Be serious,” she said.
He had been, but obviously she didn’t want to hear that. “No. My father believed there was only one for him, though. I don’t think I ever quite forgave him for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t always a drinker and a gambler,” he said, wondering vaguely why he was telling her this, “although I barely remember him as anything else. But my uncle assured me he’d once been a kinder man, and respectable.”
“What happened?”
“When I was seven, my mother left us.”
Her eyes widened. “She didn’t die? She just left?”
“Yes, she just left. Went to America—”
“With another man?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I expect there’s more to the story than anyone bothered telling a boy of seven.” Over the years, he’d never asked. Perhaps he’d feared the truth. And when his father and uncle died, the facts had died along with them. “One day my mother was gone, and Father said she had gone to America. She took my sister with her. Susan.”
“Tell me about her,” she said softly.
She must have heard the wistfulness in his voice—an unintended wistfulness that had taken him by surprise. He’d thought he was past feeling pain from these particular wounds.
He took comfort from her fingers laced with his. “Susan was four years older, and my half sister, really—from my mother’s previous marriage. The odd thing is, though I missed Mother something fierce, I missed Susan even worse.”
“Dear heavens.” She squeezed his hand. “You must have loved her very much.”
“I worshipped her, to tell you the truth,” he admitted sheepishly. “She was more a mother to me than my own mother, and I couldn’t understand why she would leave me. Now I realize she probably wasn’t given a choice.”
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
“They both died. Of smallpox. We received a letter a year later. That was when my father became dispirited and never recovered. It reached the point where he eventually squandered all of his inheritance, endangering the viability of his estate and the people who depended upon it. Depended upon him.”
“You were one of those people.”
“I wasn’t talking about myself, but yes, I suppose I was.” He didn’t like to think of himself as a victim. There was nothing to be gained by placing blame, he’d learned; it was better to get on with life. “You see—to get back to your original question—my father loved my mother, and I gather that until he saw that letter, he hadn’t given up hoping she might return. But once he learned of her death, he was so convinced he’d never love again that he gave up.”
“Did you want another mother?”
The sympathy in her tone all but killed him. “Desperately, when I was young—most of the other boys had one, after all. But perhaps it’s just as well that my wish never came true.” He added to make her laugh, “With my luck, she would have turned out to be a mean stepmother like Cinderella’s.” When she did laugh, his spirits lifted. “Do you believe there’s only one perfect person for each of us?”
“No,” she said in a way that made it clear she’d thought on the subject before. “I’ve seen many of my family’s acquaintances lose spouses and find someone new. Ofttimes they seem happier.”
“Maybe the first person wasn’t the right one and the second one was.”
“Perhaps, in some cases. But I still don’t think there’s only one in the world for each of us. What would be the odds of finding him or her? God wouldn’t make it that difficult for us to be happy.”
He knew she was thinking about finding someone besides him. The sting he felt at that was unexpected—and entirely inappropriate. He hoped she’d find someone to make her happy, or two or three someones should she think that possible. With all the grief she’d suffered in the past few years, she was still optimistic about her future. Bless her for that.
Life had taught him to be more cynical.
As they came in view of the vineyard where her brother knelt by the pipeline in the distance, she slid her fingers from his with an abashed smile.
He was very glad they were friends again.
But it was a good thing he was leaving tonight.
Griffin made dinner that night into a celebration, toasting Tris and their success with champagne. Conversation flowed along with the bubbly wine. Her tongue loosened by spirits and Tris’s offer of friendship, Alexandra was very much a part of it.
But while she watched everyone else eat Juliana’s strawberry tarts, a melancholy mood began settling in. When Tris’s horse was saddled and waiting, she defied her brother’s wishes and walked Tris downstairs.
The stone entrance hall felt cold this evening; the carved beasts that topped the newel posts looked fierce and forbidding. Although it was still light out, the sun had shifted, throwing shadows through the open oak doors.
They both paused on the threshold. “I don’t know when next I’ll see you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t count on it being soon. I don’t go about in society.”
“You could visit again. You and Griffin are still friends.”
Tris’s gaze flicked to that friend, who stood on the staircase watching them like a hawk, his fingers gripping the marble handrail. “I won’t be visiting for a while, I expect.”
“Not until I’m married,” she said to the floor.
In spite of Griffin’s vigilance, Tris reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “I wish you a happy life, Lady Alexandra.”
Captured in his intense gray gaze, she remembered him saying the same words years before.
And as then, she had no reply.
Chapter Fifteen
The next month passed in a whirl of preparations for the ball. Though she wasn’t usually given to moping, Alexandra was grateful for the frenzy of activity that kept her from sinking into a fog of melancholy.
A mere four days from now, the great hall would be filled with the most eligible young men in all of England. Surely one of them would sweep her off her feet and make her forget Lord Hawkridge.
In fact, she’d dare say he was half forgotten already! She hardly thought of him at all these days. Bent over the household bills and attending with diligence to her monthly preparations for Griffin’s solicitor, she congratulated herself on successfully banishing the troublesome gentleman from her mind.
Oh, drat! Did thinking about not thinking about him count as thinking about him?
Shaking her head, she refocused on her neat columns of numbers. ”Mrs. Webster is overpaying for meat again,” she muttered, referring to their housekeeper.
Corinna mixed two colors of paint on her palette. “Griffin can afford it.”
“That’s not the
point.” Pushing back from her mother’s rosewood desk, Alexandra wandered pensively to one of the drawing room’s windows. Outside, the morning was gray and dreary. Her reflection in the glass looked rather dreary, too. “I shall have to have a talk with her and set her straight.”
Juliana looked up from her copy of La Belle Assemblée. “You should be paying attention to other matters now, Alexandra.”
“Everything for the ball is in place.”
“I meant personal matters.”
She turned from the window. “Like what?”
“You’ll want to present yourself—”
“Your skin, yes,” Corinna interrupted. “A Lady of Distinction says a flawless complexion is key.” Adding a dab of white to the hue she was creating, she nodded toward Juliana’s magazine. “I read in there that if you hang a sprig of tansy at the head of your bed, a few inches above the pillow, you won’t be bitten by any bugs as you sleep.”
“Not her skin. Her skin is beautiful.” Juliana shook her head. “Her deportment. She needs to practice enticing gentlemen.”
“Practice?” Alexandra scoffed. “I’ve never had trouble enticing gentlemen—I simply haven’t been afforded the chance.” She certainly hadn’t had any trouble enticing Tris—that is, Lord Hawkridge—into that kiss. But since Juliana seemed to draw young men like moths to a flame, she couldn’t help being curious. “What sort of practice?”
“For example, smiling in the mirror. You should have many smiles, you know, for many different occasions. And if you wish to make gentlemen fall at your feet, you need to practice the look.”
“The look?” Alexandra and Corinna asked together.
“The look.” Setting down her magazine, Juliana rose and faced them. “First you locate the young man you wish to entice. Then you command his gaze.”
Her sensual, blatant stare had both her sisters swallowing hard. “And then?” Alexandra prompted.
“Look down, bowing your head slightly to display your lashes against your cheeks—lashes you will have darkened, no matter what that twit lady says—and then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at him full on again, and curve your lips in a slowly emerging smile.” When she demonstrated, both her sisters sighed.
“Where did you learn that?” Corinna asked.
“I was born knowing it.” Juliana plopped back on the sofa and picked up the magazine, idly flipping pages. “But I have no doubt you can master it with enough practice.”
Corinna stared hard at Alexandra, shut her lids, opened them again, and grinned.
“Not like that!” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “She’s right—you need practice.”
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.
Command his gaze, look down, then sweep your eyelids up— She blinked at the scene beyond the glass. Astride a black horse, a figure was galloping toward the castle. A figure she’d have recognized at any distance.
Juliana heard her soft gasp. “What is it?”
As he rode around the side of the castle out of view, Alexandra turned from the window, apprehension twisting her insides. “He’s come back.”
Chapter Sixteen
Did you bring the new 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 marble handrail.
Alexandra, watching from the picture gallery.
Suddenly he remembered why he shouldn’t have come back here.
In the month since he’d last seen her, she had often visited his dreams. But these weren’t the sort of dreams he’d occasionally struggled with in his adolescence; far from lustful, these dreams were oddly…sweet. He and Alexandra would dance together, pressed close. Or he’d release the pins from her mass of curls and comb his fingers through her hair. He had kissed her again, but only once, on her soft cheek. Mostly, they just talked and laughed together, but still it felt more intimate than anything. He’d no idea what to make of it.
And now, here in the flesh, she was even more lovely than the girl haunting his dreams.
And every bit as unattainable, he reminded himself.
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 otherwise his life was tranquil and productive, and he had no intention of upsetting hers by fostering anything more than friendship.
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 friend
s 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 more than three 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 infernally 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?”
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