“I wish you would,” she said under her breath as he walked out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
For pity’s sake, he’d kissed her in his sleep!
Descending the stairs two at a time as he headed for the workshop, Tristan couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact that he’d done such a thing, or the fact that he’d missed out on really experiencing it.
The only thing he was certain of, he thought as a footman threw the front doors open wide, was that he needed to go home. He’d take the pump apart today and put it back together with the new piece tomorrow. Adjusting the blasted thing again would eat up the better part of the day, but that would keep him busy while everyone else was occupied with the ball. Saturday morning he’d install the pump and leave with a sigh of relief. He was counting the hours.
And hoping he’d find the strength to keep away from her.
I wish you would.
Had she meant him to hear that? No matter—he had. And—friendship aside—the thought that she might want him regardless of his reputation was enough to make him run the opposite direction.
Anything beyond friendship would prove a disaster for them both—there was no disputing that fact.
“My lord? Are you in need of something?”
Tristan blinked, realizing he was standing stock-still in the middle of the quadrangle. Servants crisscrossed the lawn, carrying baskets of laundry and buckets of water, slanting him curious glances as they went about their business.
“No,” he told the footman. “Thank you for your concern.”
He headed for his temporary workshop, a dim, doorless room meant for storing lumber, but empty this time of year. After lighting a few candles around the pump, he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust.
No wonder she’d put on his cameo this morning—she thought their relationship had changed. To her, that kiss had meant something.
He wished he could remember it.
And he wished, more fervently still, that their circumstances were different. Because a tiny part of him was beginning to wonder, despite past experience, whether marital happiness—if not true love—might be possible with a girl like Alexandra. A girl who seemed to complement him in so many ways.
But all the sorrow she’d endured didn’t change the fact that she’d grown up in the bosom of a large, loving family—a family that was unquestionably part of society’s elite. She’d never known isolation, never faced disapproval, never walked into a room and felt the chill of icy gazes that stared right through her. Never had whispers behind her back sound louder than the thoughts in her own head.
And now that they’d kissed again, he feared the thoughts in her head might be telling her an alliance between them could somehow take place.
Well, he’d have to nip that in the bud.
Cursing under his breath, he set to removing the first bolt. Blast this peculiar affliction. Not only had it suddenly reappeared, it seemed to be getting worse. He’d never before kissed anyone while sleepwalking—at least as far as he knew. Usually he just ambled around for a bit, although he’d been known to dress himself and go outdoors on occasion. Once in a while he’d heard reports of other activities, but he’d never done anything in his sleep that wasn’t a trivial, everyday action.
At least…as far as he knew.
Sometimes he wondered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARCHPANE FRUITS
Take a Pounde of almonds, Blanched and Beaten in a stone mortar, till they begin to come to a fine paste, and then add a Pounde of sifted Sugar and make it into a perfect paste, putting to it now and then the white of an egg and a spoonful or two of rose-water. When you have Beaten it sufficiently, separate into balls and colour as for fruit, red for apples and cherries, yellow for lemons, orange for oranges, purple for grapes, and the like. Shape small pieces of your coloured Paste into fruits and leave out to dry.
These festive fruits are lovely for parties and elegant enough for a ball.
Or anytime at all, for like all sweets, they are truly delicious.
—Kendra, Duchess of Amberley, 1690
There were no wallflowers at Cainewood Castle’s ball.
Griffin’s strategy had proved an unqualified success. So many more gentlemen than ladies were in attendance that even the plainest girl had barely a moment to sit and rest. And in their fashionable new dresses, the Chase sisters were anything but plain.
The three of them had been claimed for every dance, and though it was barely two hours into the long evening—only ten o’clock—Alexandra’s feet were already beginning to ache. Since she was now engaged in a rather staid country dance, she tried her best to ignore the pain—and the dull gentleman who was her partner—and take a moment to savor the results of her hard work.
The great hall hadn’t looked so beautiful since before her parents’ passing. The enormous Gobelin tapestries on either end of the hall had been cleaned and rehung, their colors more vibrant than Alexandra remembered ever seeing them. The ancient planked floor gleamed with polish, and the huge chamber was ablaze with light from torches mounted between each of the arched stained-glass windows. But what really made the room glitter was the people—all the guests in their gorgeous dresses and handsome evening suits. The ladies’ necks, wrists, and hands sparkled with jewels, and diamonds winked from many a man’s cravat.
The music came to an end. “Thank you for the dance,” the gentleman said with a bow. Lord Haversham, or Haverstock, or Haversomething…she really couldn’t remember.
She smiled and curtsied. “It was my pleasure.”
A row of red velvet chairs beckoned along the oak-paneled wall. She was heading toward one of them when Lord Shelton intercepted her.
“May I have this dance?”
“I’d be delighted,” she told him, ordering her feet to stop complaining. After all, she’d been dreadfully rude the last time she saw Lord Shelton, refusing to serve him ratafia puffs. She could hardly dismiss his invitation to dance. But when he offered his arm to lead her back to the dance floor, she took it and felt nothing. Nothing.
She could scarcely believe she’d once contemplated marrying him.
Thankfully, the musicians didn’t strike up a waltz, but another country dance. As she took her place across from Lord Shelton, she had to admit he looked handsome in his formalwear. Pale and blond and very, very English. But she still thought his scent was too flowery.
“I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered,” he said. “You suffered from quite a lengthy illness.”
Was that the excuse Griffin had used to keep her former suitor away? Bless him, he was a fine brother indeed. “Thank you. I’m feeling quite myself now,” she assured Lord Shelton.
“May I call on you Monday morning, then?”
Oh, drat. “I’m afraid I have prior plans.” Surely she’d need to wash her hair.
“I should like to resume our courtship.”
So she’d surmised. “I expect you should speak with my brother,” she said, mentally composing her apology to Griffin.
“I shall,” Lord Shelton replied.
The steps then separated them for a spell, and when they came back together, Alexandra launched into a lively discussion of the weather. After she’d exhausted that novel topic, she steered the conversation to talk of the latest fashion in gloves and the best way to keep household account books. When the dance—which seemed to last at least half an hour—mercifully ended, she headed toward the chairs again, only to be stopped by Griffin this time.
“Alexandra, I have an old acquaintance for you to meet.”
“My feet wish for me to sit. They’re protesting my treatment.”
“You can sit tomorrow.”
Groaning inwardly, she put a smile on her face. The purpose of tonight, after all, was for her to meet young men. Just because she hadn’t fallen head over heels for the last dozen didn’t mean the next one might not catch her fancy.
Besides, she owed Griffin, though he had yet to learn it
. “Lord Shelton will be approaching you. He wishes to resume his suit.”
“What am I to tell him? You’re obviously in the bloom of health.”
“Oh, you’ll come up with something.” She smiled as a young man approached. “Is this the gentleman you wish me to meet?”
Griffin scowled at her, then switched on the famous charm as he turned to greet his friend. “Lord Ribblesdon, I’d like you to meet my sister, Lady Alexandra.”
“A pleasure,” the young man said, bowing over her gloved hand. “Would you honor me with this dance?”
“I’d be delighted,” she assured him.
Though Lord Ribblesdon wasn’t as handsome as Tris, he was attractive, his hair dark and his eyes a pleasant blue. The musicians were starting a quadrille, so they formed a square with three other couples.
From another square nearby, Juliana grinned. “The look,” she mouthed silently.
Alexandra had completely forgotten. Now she dropped her gaze and then raised it, curving her lips in a slight smile as she met Lord Ribblesdon’s eyes.
Looking a bit dazzled, he smiled in return. “Your home is beautiful.”
“I like it. I’ve always felt Cainewood is a special blend of old and new.”
“You would like my estate, too,” he said, and proceeded to describe it in exquisite detail as they danced.
After a few minutes, she glanced at the tall-case clock that sat against a wall. Ten twenty.
Lord Ribblesdon droned on, describing his octagonal breakfast room, which apparently boasted an unusual chandelier. Next he waxed enthusiastic about a pond on his property that was filled with notable fish.
Why did these dances have to go on so very long? An hour passed, and she glanced at the clock again.
Ten twenty-five.
Catching Griffin’s gaze across the hall, she gave him a tight smile. He shrugged and nodded, looking around for another candidate. She figured he’d been successful when he positioned himself at the edge of the dance floor to wait for her.
“I need to sit,” she told him when the dance that would never end finally did. This time she headed for the small room where they’d set up refreshments and took a chair there. “Ahh,” she breathed as she dropped onto it.
He snatched a few marzipan fruits and brought them to the table with two cups of punch. “What was wrong with him?” he asked, sitting beside her.
“The same thing that’s wrong with every other gentleman here. They have nothing to say of significance.” She munched on a miniature apple, hoping the sweet almond paste confection would revive her. “They talk only of themselves. Or their property.”
He devoured a piece of marzipan in two bites. “Their goal is to impress you. What else should they talk about?”
“Why should they think I’ll be impressed by the number of acres they own or the new horse they just bought at Tattersall’s?” She drained the cup of tepid punch, telling herself it was refreshing. “I trust you wouldn’t introduce me to anyone of insufficient means or a gentleman after nothing but my dowry. I don’t particularly care what these men own; I’d much rather know what they think.”
“About what?”
“Life. The state of the kingdom. Walter Scott’s latest book. Anything.”
“Have you asked them?”
“No,” she admitted to both her brother and herself. She hadn’t. She’d let the gentlemen lead both the dances and the conversations, but perhaps it would be best to take the latter into her own hands. “I’ll try that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Ah,” he added, rising. “Here comes Lord Sandborough now.”
The next dance was a waltz, and Lord Sandborough was a superb waltzer. If it felt a bit odd to be held by a stranger, at least he was a dashing one. He had golden hair and merry green eyes, and his evening clothes hung nicely on his well-proportioned frame.
As they glided over the floor, she decided that, yes, she could imagine marrying this gentleman. She considered giving him the look, but instead she cast about for a good question, finally remembering one she’d asked Tris. “Do you believe there is only one perfect person for each of us in this world?”
“Indeed.” He smiled, displaying nice teeth. “And I’m certain my person is you.”
They’d only just met! Suddenly he wasn’t so dashing. Stupidity—not to mention insincerity—had a way of tarnishing a person’s appearance.
Griffin introduced her to five more young men, one after the other, and she danced on her aching feet with all of them. Three of them claimed she was their perfect person. Lord Jamestone said yes, he believed there was only one perfect person for each of them in this world, but alas, his lady had died. Though he assured her he was willing to settle for second best, for some reason she couldn’t see herself in that role.
The fifth gentleman—whom she privately christened Lord Sapskull—apparently couldn’t wrap his mind around the question. He simply declared that his mother had often assured him nobody was perfect. Alexandra assumed that was because he was very imperfect indeed.
Though the long great hall could be accessed from the dining room on one end and a corridor leading to the guest chambers on the other, it also had its own impressive entrance in the middle, complete with a grand staircase from the quadrangle. As the dance with Lord Sapskull came to its blessed end, three late guests appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Rachael!” Alexandra cried, hurrying to meet them. “And Claire and Elizabeth!” One by one, she wrapped Rachael and her sisters in welcoming hugs.
Her own sisters appeared, too, and the hugs were repeated.
“We’re sorry,” Rachael apologized. “I was certain we’d be your very first arrivals, but a carriage wheel broke on the way.”
Though their estates adjoined, Cainewood Castle was at one end of Griffin’s property, and Rachael’s home was at the far end of Greystone. It took a good two hours to ride between them in a carriage, even one with all its wheels intact. “I understand,” Alexandra assured her. “You’ll stay the night, won’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Rachael’s smile was impish. “We wouldn’t want to miss the breakfast. Seeing how everyone looks in the morning is much more amusing than the actual ball.”
They all shared a laugh. “All of you look lovely,” Juliana said.
Claire, the middle sister, grinned. “Since Noah wasn’t home to consult, we decided he would want us to have new dresses.” She twirled in hers, white lace over pale violet satin with a neckline every bit as low as Alexandra’s. Her unusual amethyst eyes danced, and she’d teased some of her curly raven hair into little ringlets that framed her face. At fifteen, Claire was already an accomplished flirt. “Do you like it?”
“How about mine?” Elizabeth, a year younger, wore blue and green stripes. They went well with her green eyes and the blue ribbons in her sleek dark hair. She dipped into a deep curtsy worthy of royalty. “My lady.”
Alexandra laughed as she took her hand to help her rise. “You’re more than ready for presentation at court,” she told them, though that wouldn’t be happening just yet. They’d been invited to the ball only because they were family and it was a country affair. “And you’re both stunning.”
But neither of them could match their eldest sister. A dress of poppy-red muslin sprigged with gold clung to Rachael’s slim curves. Double rows of gold lace embellished the bodice and hem, and a broad band of gold lace circled the high waistline. Her hair was tucked into a headdress of gold and poppy satin, and the loose strands that framed her face weren’t curled like her sisters’, but left to fall in soft waves.
“May I paint you in that dress?” Corinna asked reverently.
“When Noah gets home, perhaps I’ll be able to find time to sit.”
“By the lake, I think,” Corinna said, staring into the distance in that way she did when she was envisioning a piece.
Glancing around, Alexandra smiled to herself when she spotted Griffin staring at Rachael. He swiftly turned away,
making her laugh again.
“What?” Rachael asked.
“Nothing.” Alexandra knew she wouldn’t appreciate his interest. “I expect dozens of young men are waiting to dance with you all, so let me take your reticules and put them in the ladies’ retiring room.”
She took their three pretty little purses and started across the hall toward the small side room they’d designated for the ladies’ use. A succession of feminine gasps followed by the low hiss of whispered murmurings made her stop and look over her shoulder. Her gaze swept the great hall, searching for the cause of the commotion.
At the far end of the room, Tris stood, his chin held high.
Her first thought was that he’d look better in gray, to match his eyes. Her second thought was that he couldn’t possibly look any better.
His tall, lean form was breathtaking decked out in evening wear. His formal suit was admittedly rather dated—the dark blue tailcoat would always be classic, but the white knee breeches were five years out of fashion, as were the ruffled white cuffs that peeked from beneath the coat’s sleeves. Tris wouldn’t have brought evening apparel along with him, so he must have asked a valet to scare up the outfit. It had likely belonged to her father or her brother Charles. But since several other country gentlemen hadn’t bothered to update their wardrobes to the latest London offered, he didn’t really look out of place.
Yet if the reaction of their other guests was any indication, he didn’t belong here—and his clothing had nothing to do with it.
It wasn’t that anyone confronted him. To the contrary, they all backed away, clearly snubbing him by keeping their distance. By the time she reached him—at the same moment as Griffin—he stood very much alone.
“You’d best turn up your noses,” he drawled in a dry tone, “else your guests may conclude you think me worthy of more than the cut direct.”
“You are worthy,” Alexandra returned hotly.
Griffin was much more composed. “I thought you were determined not to attend.”
Tris shrugged his elegantly clad shoulders. “I changed my mind. Quite obviously a foolish decision.” His steely gaze skimmed the disapproving crowd. “It seems they have long memories.”
Love Regency Style Page 37
