She’d never be free of him, not truly. “Will you tell me about the ladies you loved?” she asked carefully.
He turned to stare out over the dancers. “There was a girl in Oxford who wouldn’t wait for me when I had to leave. And a girl in Jamaica who wouldn’t come back with me to England.” His fingers gripped the rail. “More recently, there was a girl named Leticia. Miss Leticia Armstrong.”
When he stopped there, she laid a hand over his on the rail. “What happened?”
“She’s the daughter of a local baron. I met her around the time I inherited, when everything in my life seemed charmed. She seemed charming, too, and I was certain she returned my feelings. In fact, she swore her undying love. I proposed, and she accepted happily enough. But then the scandal broke, and when I suggested her reputation might suffer should she stand by my side, she fled without a second thought.”
Leticia. She must have been the girl who had taught him to waltz. Although Alexandra supposed she should be grateful that Leticia hadn’t kept Tris for herself, instead she hated her—and the others—for hurting him. For filling his heart with cynicism.
She studied his shadowed profile—so like the portrait she’d done of him years ago. Except his jaw looked harder. “Leticia never loved you, or she’d have stayed with you. Perhaps she loved who you were—a marquess. She loved the life she imagined you’d give her. But when that life was threatened, her love disappeared. It wasn’t true love.”
“And neither was my love for her. Or the others. It always dissipates before long. As will yours. You’ll make a nice life for yourself—with someone else.” He finally turned to look at her, but it wasn’t to offer hope. “I won’t change my mind, Alexandra. Not for you or anyone else.”
She’d heard that from him before—too many times before—but he couldn’t fool her any longer. While she understood that he didn’t want to be responsible for exposing his wife to society’s derision, she also knew he didn’t want to open himself up for more hurt. She knew he cared for her—he’d acknowledged as much more than once. But those three girls had damaged him more than he’d admit. He’d built a wall around himself.
She wished she could figure out how to scale it, even as she knew that, for her sisters’ sakes, she couldn’t.
Unless…
“What if you’re proven innocent?” she asked, stunned that she hadn’t considered this angle before. Should he be exonerated, society would welcome him—and his wife—with open arms. “Did you ever search for the real killer?”
He looked defeated before he even opened his mouth. “I’m not convinced there was a killer—my uncle hadn’t been himself since his family was lost. Men often die in their beds naturally, from hidden illnesses or the weakness of old age. He was ill—a mild chill, we all thought, though it might have been something more serious. But yes, I tried to find a culprit. And no, I’m not going to reopen the investigation now.”
“Why not? Perhaps we can find new evidence.”
“We?” Something like panic filled his eyes. “Stay out of this, Alexandra.”
“But I could help—”
“No. No, you cannot.” Below, the musicians struck up a waltz. “The matter is closed. No one murdered my uncle. Forget it. Dance with me instead.”
He pulled her into his arms, and they began twirling together across the wide, empty balcony. She found herself buffeted with warring emotions: frustration that he flatly refused her solution, sadness that this might be the last time they’d ever dance together, elation at finding herself this close to him if only for a short time.
He drew her even closer, much closer than he had during their lesson. His strong hand rested once again on her back, pressing her closer still. They whirled faster. A lock of his carefully combed hair came loose and flopped over his forehead. Her heart seemed to beat directly against his, quick and unsteady.
She couldn’t remember ever being so happy and so troubled all at the same time.
As for Tristan, troubled didn’t begin to describe his state. Her declaration had set off an avalanche of jumbled feelings, churning and roaring within him so that he could barely hear himself think.
The most prominent of these feelings was abject horror.
I think I’m in love with you.
In the aftermath of Leticia leaving him, he’d made firm decisions, the main one being he would never again believe a girl’s claims of undying love. He’d been burned thrice already, and he wasn’t so dense as to put his hand in the fire a fourth time.
But mixed with the horror were guilt, anger, exasperation, and a dash of self-pity. And then there was the not-insignificant corner of his mind that longed for her words to be true.
The idiotic corner.
Alexandra couldn’t be in love with him—she just couldn’t. She was too loyal, too sincere, too difficult to heartlessly deny. He couldn’t cope with her love, with the guilt of leaving her, with the thought of her going to another. His only saving grace was his certainty that she was wrong. She didn’t know love any more than he did.
The waltz was sweet torture, her softness pressed against him, her hand squeezing his so hard he wondered if their gloved fingers had gone blue. Beneath a fussy little bonnet, her hair was piled atop her head in a loose, sensuous arrangement, and he buried his nose in it, inhaling the fragrance and feeling the silky strands tickle his cheeks.
“I’m dizzy,” she breathed as he spun her faster. “Dizzy and in lo—”
“Don’t say it.” Exasperation surpassed horror—though over both fell a flurry of what he could only call lust. “Just dance with me.”
She leaned away from him, far enough to meet his eyes. “Why?” Even as she asked, her grip tightened on his hand, her other arm tugging him closer. “What made you ask me to dance?”
Abject horror, of course. He’d have done anything to stop her from continuing her line of questioning. The only thing more frightening than her talk of love was the murky uncertainty surrounding his uncle’s mysterious death.
But he couldn’t tell her that. “It was our last chance,” he said instead, not wanting to encourage her but unable to come up with another explanation.
“And Griffin isn’t watching.”
“No,” he agreed, “he’s not.”
When the music stopped, he twirled her once more before reluctantly releasing her.
“Will you kiss me?” she whispered in the hush that followed. “It’s our last chance for that, too.”
He shook his head. “I cannot.” His reputation might be in shreds, but he still had his honor.
“You kissed me before.”
He couldn’t tell her he’d been sleepwalking. That would be humiliating for them both. “I cannot trust myself to only kiss you. I thought I explained—”
“Never mind.” She began pulling off one of her gloves.
Below, the musicians struck up a jolly country dance. Tristan stared at her busy hands. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to touch you.” She dropped the glove to the floor and started on the other one. “Do you remember when I made your profile portrait? Years ago, before you left for Jamaica?”
“Yes, but—”
“I wanted to touch you then. I pretended I was touching you while I traced your face. I’ve loved you for all that time, Tris. Maybe longer.”
“You cannot have.” As her second glove met the ground, he backed away toward the rail. “Young girls often have crushes on their older brothers’ friends. You never let go of that. Now I understand.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Following him, she raised a hand to his forehead and swept the hair from his brow. Her fingers were gentle, and she smelled sweet, and it took everything he had not to pull her back into his arms.
“That won’t work,” he said unsteadily.
She only shrugged and reached for one of his hands, tugging to loosen the glove, slowly and deliberately, fingertip by fingertip. As she slid the silk free and dropped it to join hers
on the floor, a tremor ran through him, leaving a queasy ache in his belly.
Blast if she wasn’t seducing him—and successfully, at that. His body was sending him all sorts of messages his brain couldn’t accept. He should leave. Now.
The door was right there in front of him, but instead of leaving, he backed away some more. A smile curving her lips, she followed again, giving his second glove the same rapt attention as the first. When it dropped to the floor, she linked her fingers with his—both hands—and sighed prettily.
“I just wanted to touch you,” she repeated.
He just wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t. As she leaned into him, he took one more step toward the rail—
And knocked the silver tray clear off of it.
“Drat!” Alexandra cried, twisting sideways to lean over the rail. They both watched in horror as the tray hit the ground below with a resounding metallic crash, scattering miniature colored marzipan fruits all over the polished wood. A few guests screamed, scattering along with them, while everyone else froze. The musicians stopped playing mid-note.
Alexandra wrenched her hands from his and pushed hard against his chest. “Run!”
She turned and fled, clattering down the stairs before he could even reach the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Before any servants could arrive to help, Alexandra skidded into the great hall and dropped to her knees on the floor, scrabbling for the miniature marzipan fruits. A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment.
“We’ll have this set to rights in a minute,” she announced to anyone who would listen, “and the dancing can resume. No need to panic.”
Never mind that she was panicking herself. Her stomach was in a knot. Her breathing was quick and unsteady. Her pulse was racing even faster than it had when she’d been trying to get Tris to kiss her.
Tris! Good heavens, if anyone had glanced up and seen them there together…
Rachael knelt beside her, adding a tiny apple, orange, and strawberry to the dented tray. “What happened?” she whispered.
“Later,” Alexandra muttered out of the side of her mouth. She stood, holding the tray with one hand while smoothing her skirts with the other. With a deliberate smile, she addressed the little crowd that had gathered around them. “Pray, continue.” She waved a hand at the musicians. “If you will?”
The music resumed, and the guests began dispersing. A few ladies whispered behind their fans, but it seemed the worst was over. Alexandra’s heart began to calm; her breathing began to slow; the knot in her stomach began to unravel.
Someone tapped her on the arm with a folded fan. “Lady Alexandra.”
She turned to see Lady St. Quentin. “Yes?”
“Where are your gloves?”
She forced a light laugh. “Oh, silly me. I must have left them up in the minstrel’s gallery.”
“Well, then,” Lady St. Quentin said, a keen glitter in her eyes, “shall we go recover them?”
“I’d be pleased to do that,” Rachael offered quickly.
But Lady St. Quentin was already heading for the corridor, as unstoppable as a battleship under sail. A very narrow one. Alexandra shoved the tray at her cousin and ran to follow.
“I wonder what we’ll find up there?” Lady St. Quentin asked.
“Nothing much,” Alexandra said, knowing exactly what the woman would find: two pairs of gloves, one of them quite obviously a gentleman’s. But she seemed helpless to deflect the meddlesome harridan. “I was overly warm,” she babbled at the woman’s bony behind as they climbed the stairs. “I was…yes, I was overly warm, so I went up to the minstrel’s gallery and removed my gloves, and I was watching the ball from up there—so beautiful, it was—just resting a bit and cooling off, when I very unfortunately dropped—”
Alexandra broke off, fearing her heart might stop as the harridan marched through the gallery’s door.
But there were no gloves. None at all. The floor was as bare as when she and Tris had danced on it.
Her knees weakened with relief.
“What happened to your gloves?” Lady St. Quentin turned on her, a predatory look in her eyes. “Do you suppose your lover took them as a souvenir?”
“Wh-what?” Alexandra stammered. Her knees weakened still more, but now it was with fear. “I have no lover.”
“You were up here with a man,” the woman accused in a low voice. “I saw you, so don’t try to deny it.” She smiled, the mean smile of an undeserving victor. “You’re ruined, my girl.”
“Ruined?” Alexandra breathed, raising a hand to cover her gasp. That was that. She’d undone her family. Disgraced herself, sullied their good name, tainted her poor sisters…and all for what? One dance with Tris?
The harridan was still talking. “Fortunately, my son is willing—”
“Your son is willing to do what?” Griffin interrupted from the doorway.
Rachael arrived behind him; perhaps she’d alerted him to the trouble. Alexandra didn’t know whether to be comforted or petrified by their presence. How would they react? Would Rachael and her sisters share in their cousin’s disgrace, too?
Lady St. Quentin lifted her pointy chin. “My son is willing to marry your sister.”
“Would her sizable dowry have anything to do with that?”
“Does it matter? She should consider herself lucky. She was seen up here with a man.”
“Was she?” He looked to Alexandra. “Were you up here with a man?”
“No, of course I wasn’t.” Alexandra said quickly. “That would be very improper.”
“She wasn’t up here with a man,” Griffin calmly told Lady St. Quentin.
Two bright pink spots appeared on the woman’s cheeks. “She was.”
“She was not. Now, would you care to return to the ball? Or shall I have a footman escort you to your carriage?”
“I saw them,” the woman insisted.
Griffin gave a long-suffering sigh and crossed his arms. “Let me put this another way, Lady St. Quentin. Should you spread the falsehood that my sister was seen with a man, neither you nor your son will ever receive another invitation to Cainewood…or anywhere else south of London. Do I make myself clear?”
All the color drained from her face, which looked even more pinched than usual as she sucked in her cheeks. The widow of a baronet was no match for the Marquess of Cainewood. “Indeed,” she said stiffly.
“Excellent.” His smile failed to reach his eyes. “I trust you know your way back to the great hall?”
Dumbfounded, Alexandra watched Lady St. Quentin make her muttering way down the stairs. What in heaven’s name had just occurred? She felt like applauding. Or crying. Perhaps both at once. She could have kissed Griffin—in fact, she did just that, startling and embarrassing him in the process. He looked so awkward that she nearly dissolved in laughter, but for the sake of his pride she reined in her hysterics.
Rachael did applaud. “Bravo!” she said softly, her eyes shining as she turned to Griffin. “You were magnificent.”
He gave a little bow.
“You were magnificent,” Alexandra echoed fervently. “I thought we were ruined. I hope she’ll keep her mouth shut.”
“She will,” Griffin said, sounding very sure. “Whom were you up here with, Alexandra?”
She swallowed hard. “Tris. Juliana noticed him watching the ball, and she and Corinna suggested I come up and keep him company for a short while.” That was close enough to the truth. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “There are six more gentlemen waiting to dance with you. We’d best go downstairs.” He flipped open his pocket watch, looked at it, and closed it again with a snap. “You have two hours left to see if anyone catches your fancy.”
“And if no one does?”
He shrugged. “We’ll have to plan another ball.”
A different brother might have said that in a threa
tening tone, Alexandra thought as she preceded him downstairs. But from Griffin, the statement had sounded matter-of-fact and good-natured. So good-natured, in fact, that she felt even more guilty for defying him. To think how narrowly they’d escaped, how close she’d come to damaging those she loved most in all the world…
Well, one thing was certain: the time for selfish, childish dreams had ended. She would never let herself see Lord Hawkridge alone again.
Though she still reeled from the night’s highs and lows, the resolution gave her a sense of dull satisfaction. She squared her shoulders, determined to enter the great hall with aplomb.
She didn’t want to disappoint her suitors.
Chapter Thirty
Alexandra was having the most extraordinary, most incredible, most marvelous dream.
Tris was kissing her. Long, slow kisses that made her senses spin.
Even in her dream, she was shocked, but as it was only a dream, she decided to let it continue. To just lie back and imagine this was real, that they could truly be this close to each other. Just lie back…
Indeed, she realized, she was lying back…on a bed. Her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew it was her bed regardless, perhaps because it was her dream.
Tris was lying beside her. She’d never kissed Tris while lying down. It felt glorious, being sandwiched snugly between his body and the mattress.
Perhaps also because it was her dream, she didn’t wonder if she was doing it right. The kissing, that was.
This was nothing like any kiss they’d ever shared before. Their lips were parted, and their tongues were touching. It felt wonderfully bizarre. She didn’t know if other people kissed in this fashion, but if they didn’t, she felt sorry for them.
She sighed happily and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer. She could barely conceive of acting so forward in real life, but this was a dream, so she could do as she pleased. She slid her hands over his back, feeling his muscles through his dressing gown. He felt so warm and solid, and so very, very real—
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