Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  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 Twenty-Three

  “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 emotional 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.”

  In a dark mood, he headed off to the foundry.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In contrast to Tristan’s mood, the atmosphere in the drawing room was jubilant. The rain had finally stopped, and summer sunshine streamed through the windows; if the weather held but a
day, they’d have a beautiful evening for the ball.

  Madame Rodale and her two assistants swarmed about, making last-minute tucks here and tiny adjustments there. While Alexandra slipped into her new dress, Juliana and Corinna chattered excitedly, admiring each other’s choices.

  “You look beautiful.” Corinna tweaked one of Juliana’s short, puffed sleeves, which were decorated with knots of pale yellow ribbon. “The jonquille is so becoming on you.”

  “A Lady of Distinction would approve.” Juliana grinned. “Now, as for your pale blush pink…”

  “I adore it.” As Corinna twirled, her skirts belled out, pearls shimmering all over the sheer top layer. Entwined with strings of yet more pearls, a drapery of lace went all around the bottom. “Doesn’t Alexandra look lovely, too?”

  Trying to smile, Alexandra settled her skirts into place. The dress certainly wasn’t blue; shimmering in the morning light, the pinkish-purple amaranthus hue looked almost shocking. The hem was embellished with white velvet roses and a wide rouleau of amaranthus. Below that, a row of delicate white tassels alternated with sparkling white beads, nearly skimming the floor.

  She’d never felt so pretty. But she could no longer hold her tongue.

  “You two did it, didn’t you? I heard you leave your rooms last night, so don’t try to deny it.”

  “Deny what?” All innocence, Corinna adjusted her bodice.

  “That you ruined Tris’s new pump.” Alexandra didn’t wait for confirmation. “And all for naught, as it turns out. He’s determined to avoid the ball, and nothing you do will convince him otherwise. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Though Juliana didn’t try to play coy, she didn’t look ashamed, either. “We did it for you. We thought if Tristan attended—”

  “Our other guests won’t welcome him. Stop dreaming, will you? I’m not going to marry him, and nothing you do will change that.” Nothing Tris could do would change that, either. Not even middle-of-the night kisses that made her melt. “Now, Griffin is paying for this ball for the express purpose of finding me a husband. I’m planning to do my best to have a proper attitude and make the most of it.”

  The sound of applause came from the doorway. “I missed the majority of that speech,” a voice came from behind them, “but I heartily approve of the last part.”

  They all turned to look at Griffin.

  At the sight of them, his eyes all but popped out of his head.

  “Aren’t our dresses exquisite?” Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle.

  “Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?”

  She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. “They won’t go.”

  He eyed their dresses’ high waistlines and scooped necklines, designed to accentuate the bust. “You’re all going to cover”—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—“with one of those scarf things, right?”

  “A fichu?” Madame sniffed. “I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord.”

  “They don’t look like the pictures my sisters showed me.”

  “The pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they’re already beginning to pass out of style.”

  “We shall not be caught in last month’s fashions,” Juliana added. “These gowns are the thing.”

  “Not in this house, they aren’t!”

  “Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day.” Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. “By George, you ladies will put every other girl to shame.”

  “My sisters won’t be wearing these dresses,” Griffin said.

  “Of course they will.” Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. “While I take apart the pump, you’ll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed.”

  “Very well.” Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. “I’m not paying for those dresses,” he warned. “Not until they’re made decent.”

  Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding “hmmph.”

  Tris laughed. “Listen to yourself, old man. You’ve been on campaign far too long. Don’t you want men to find your sisters appealing? Irresistible? Marriageable?”

  “Not if they’re men like…”

  “Like us?” Tris suggested helpfully.

  Griffin’s “hmmph” put the mantua-maker’s to shame. “I need to get to the vineyard,” he muttered and left.

  “Madame has finished with my dress and Corinna’s,” Juliana announced. “We’ll just go to our rooms and take them off.” Grabbing Corinna’s hand, she pulled her out the door.

  Madame’s two pasty-complexioned assistants fluttered around Alexandra, pinning her dress here and there. Tris stood watching. Wondering what she should say now that they’d kissed again—wondering if they’d kiss yet more—she shifted uncomfortably.

  “Stand still,” Madame said. “Else Mariette might poke you.”

  She stiffened and met Tris’s gaze. “Don’t you need to work on the pump?”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Of course, you’re always beautiful—it has nothing to do with the dress.” He spoke conversationally. “You’d be beautiful in a shapeless burlap bag. And you’ll be beautiful when you’re a hundred years old, because your beauty comes from inside.”

  She didn’t say anything, because she didn’t know what to say.

  “I want to apologize,” he went on, “for the way I treated you the last time we were together—”

  “Are you finished?” she interrupted, addressing the assistants. The two girls were standing back, watching her and Tris as though they were performing a most fascinating play.

  “Oui,” Madame said briskly. “Remove the dress carefully, please, and bring it down the corridor to the armory, if you will.” Since the armory was just an empty room with rusty weapons all over the walls—Alexandra figured it hadn’t been renovated since before the Civil War—Griffin was allowing them to use it as their sewing room. “Come along, Mariette, Martina. We have much to do before tomorrow.”

  Tris waited until their footsteps had receded down the corridor. “Do you expect their names are really Mariette and Martina?”

  She laughed. “No, I think their names are Mary and Martha.”

  They shared a smile before he sobered. “As I was saying…”

  “Yes?” She’d never seen him look quite so uneasy.

  “The last time we were together, I didn’t treat you much like a friend.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she agreed quietly. He’d treated her as much more.

  And they’d kissed.

  “I didn’t look at you the way one looks at a friend.”

  “I didn’t look at you like a friend, either.” They’d looked at each other like two people in love; there was no other way to put it.

  And they’d kissed.

  “I held you too close.”

  He certainly had; she could still feel his body against hers.

  And they’d kissed.

  “I’m sorry for all of that,” he concluded. “I still wish, more than anything, to remain friends.”

  She blinked. That was it? He still wanted to be friends? Nothing had changed for him last night?

  Of course, nothing had changed for her last night, either—on the surface, that was. Marriage still wasn’t an option. But clearly they’d crossed some sort of line. Surely, regardless of the fact that they couldn’t act on their mutual feelings, they could acknowledge them and admit that they were more than simple friends.

  “I can scarcely even imagine going back to a distant, polite friendship,” she said carefully.

  “I’m so pleased you agree,” he said, looking relieved. “The hours and days we’ve spent avoiding each other…I shouldn’t like to go back to that ever again.” He released a pent-up
breath. “There are many definitions of friendship. We’re both sensible people. Certainly we can control—”

  “What about the kiss?” she burst out.

  He blinked. “That was weeks ago. More than a month. I thought we’d agreed to forget it.” Watching her, his gray gaze narrowed warily. “What about it?”

  “What have you been talking about, then?”

  “What do you mean, what have I been talking about? The dance lesson, of course. I held you too close, and that precipitated our latest—”

  “What about last night?”

  “What about last night?”

  “We kissed again last night,” she said, exasperated. “Am I expected to forget about that, too? Or shall I assume kissing is part of your definition of friendship?”

  He visibly paled, his jaw going slack. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Evidently he had expected her to forget it.

  “What do you mean, am I sure?” Every minuscule detail of that kiss was burned into her memory. Just thinking about it, she could feel his arms around her, his lips slanting over hers. She could taste the hint of chocolate. “How could I forget such a thing?”

  “I meant…” He hesitated, apparently fumbling for words. “I meant, are you sure you wish that to be part of the definition? Because frankly, I don’t think it should be.” The color had returned to his face, and unlike a moment ago, he sounded quite certain. “I don’t think I could handle that. I don’t think I could stop with kissing.”

  Part of her was shocked at the implication, but she couldn’t help being flattered, too. And although she’d never considered kissing to be part of friendship, she had to admit the idea was tempting. After all, despite his stated opinion, kisses didn’t have to go further. Hadn’t she told her sisters they were “only kisses,” not meaningful in and of themselves? And Rachael had said the same thing.

  “I’m sorry,” he continued, interrupting her musings. “I seem to be apologizing quite often these days, but I assure you, I mean it. I’ve no idea what came over me, but I hope to remain friends. I won’t be kissing you again.”