Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  From where he was snoozing in the corner, Rex perked up and sniffed.

  “Just leave it here on the desk,” Tristan said, reading a letter from his steward in Jamaica. “And take yourself off to bed. I can undress myself.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Vincent hesitated.

  Tristan looked up. “Yes?”

  “Since your lady is asleep, I just thought you might like to know that she questioned everyone, but I don’t believe she uncovered any new evidence.”

  He set down the letter. Slowly. “What do you mean, she questioned everyone?”

  “About the circumstances surrounding your uncle’s death.” Vincent peered at him in the yellowish gaslight. “She assured me you were aware of her intentions.”

  “She did make her intentions clear, yes.” And he’d thought he’d made his clear as well. “Thank you, Vincent. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, then, my lord.”

  Tristan waited for his valet’s footsteps to fade from his hearing, then counted to ten. Then counted to a hundred. Then told himself he’d be better off eating his supper and waiting for his anger to ebb, rather than stomping upstairs immediately to wake his new wife.

  He ate two bites of chicken, tossed the cheese to the dog, and took a hunk of the bread with him.

  Chewing savagely as he squished up the stairs, he considered the best way to wake Alexandra. A light tap on the shoulder? A whisper in her ear? Perhaps he should jerk the sheets up and dump her out of the bed.

  He was sorely tempted as he squished through the round gallery and down the corridor. Having wolfed down the cheese, Rex caught up to him just in time to get the door slammed in his huge, hopeful face.

  Seated in one of the armchairs, Alexandra looked up from her book. “You’re home.”

  Tristan slumped back against the door. “You’re not sleeping.” He couldn’t dump her out of bed after all. “You’re not even undressed.” All she’d removed were her shoes and stockings.

  She set her book on the side table and smiled. “I thought you liked to do the undressing.”

  “I thought…”

  Seeing her now, he could hardly remember why he’d been angry. She looked gorgeous with that beckoning smile, her eyes glazed from lack of sleep, her cheeks rosy in the gaslight, her soft curves evident in the slim dress she’d no doubt donned to eat dinner alone.

  Gritting his teeth, he yanked his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “I thought I told you to stay out of my business.”

  Her rosy cheeks went white. “You’ve heard.”

  “Of course I’ve heard. Every servant here is loyal to a fault.”

  “So I learned today. They were all loyal to your uncle while he lived, and now they’re all loyal to you. No one thinks you poisoned him, and no one believes any of the others were responsible, either. They all stand together and behind you, Tris.” She rose and crossed the distance between them. “It’s extraordinary, when you think of it. Servant turnover is an enormous problem on most estates. Yet everyone here, it seems, has been here forever.”

  Rain pattered against the windows while he considered her speech and fought to control his temper. Perhaps all was over and done with; perhaps now the matter would be closed. “You didn’t learn anything incriminating.”

  “Incriminating to whom? We both know you’re not at fault. But no, I learned nothing to incriminate anyone here. Not even Vincent.”

  “Vincent?” he snapped. “Why should you mention him?”

  He saw her swallow hard. “He was the only one new to the staff. The only one without a long-standing loyalty to your Uncle Harold. The only one, in fact, who had a reason to resent him.”

  The anger surged anew. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Your uncle owned him, Tris. Don’t you think that could have made a difference? After you freed the man and then found yourself in dire straits, haven’t you ever wondered if it’s possible he considered murder a way to both revenge himself and solve your problem?”

  He hadn’t. Not for the barest moment. “I’d sooner believe I murdered my uncle myself. Just because the man has dark skin—”

  “This has nothing to do with his skin!” Outrage brought color back to her cheeks. “I cannot believe you would think that of me. I happen to like Vincent very much. We had a nice chat. He cares about you—”

  “Then why? Why would you accuse—”

  “I’m not accusing him!” Her eyes now flashing rather than glazed, she rose from the chair to confront him. “Shall you fault me for simply considering the possibility? For looking everywhere I can to find someone to blame so we can clear your name and get out of this mess?”

  He realized they’d both raised their voices, but he didn’t care whom they might wake. “I do not want this mess, as you put it, stirred up again. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. Do you understand me this time? Or do I need to write it down on a blasted piece of paper?”

  “What are you afraid of, Tris? That you’ll find yourself a murderer? I know that won’t happen.” She looked beautiful in her righteous fury, her cheeks red as rubies now, her hair escaping its pins and curling about her face. “All I wanted was to ask around and see what I might turn up.”

  “And all I want is for you to stop!”

  “Well, then, you have your wish,” she said, suddenly sounding defeated. “I’ve talked to every single person on this estate, and no one had anything the least bit helpful to contribute. There’s no one else to ask.” She drew a deep breath, her chest heaving with the effort. “It’s over,” she added in a voice so dead and quiet it was startling following all the shouting.

  The silence reigned for a space of time, stretching awkwardly between them.

  “I am sorry for defying your wishes,” she said at last. “But I confess I’d do it again. It’s over, but if it wasn’t, I’d do anything I could to find a way to clear your name.”

  He couldn’t summon any more anger—what he felt edged closer to guilt. After all, it was his fault—his sleepwalking, his failure to leave her room—that had landed them in this impossible marriage.

  Maybe a tiny part of him had hoped she’d be successful. Hoped she’d find a way to erase the stain on the Nesbitt name. Hoped she’d prove able to keep that stain from spreading to her own family.

  Of course, a much larger part of him—the part that was scared stiff of what she might have found—overshadowed that tiny part.

  But it was there. Maybe.

  “I’m glad it’s over, then,” he said. “And I’m sorry, too.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. Given the chance, he’d try to stop her all over again. But he did feel sorry. And guilty. And a little angry still, and he didn’t know what else.

  She sighed and moved the few inches between them to lay her head on his chest. “You’re damp.”

  “I had to ride home through the rain.”

  She snuggled closer anyway. “I guess we’ve had our first fight.”

  “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re always so calm.”

  “When something matters to me as much as this does—as much as you do, as much as my family—I will not be calm.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.

  She felt warm and soft in his arms. Irresistible. Though his emotions were still running high, he’d never been able to resist her pull.

  Never.

  “It’s very late,” he said regretfully. She obviously needed sleep, which meant he’d just have to do his best to resist. “Do you want to put on a nightgown?”

  “All my nightgowns are so plain,” she murmured against his chest. “I borrowed a pretty one from Juliana, but it’s really much too short. I didn’t have time to acquire a proper trousseau. I shall have to hire a seamstress—”

  “Another servant here for you to interview?” he said bitterly. “I think not.”

  She tilted her chin up to se
e him. “Was there a seamstress here at the time?”

  She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. “I thought you said you were finished.”

  “Only because there’s no one left to question.”

  “It’s over. You said it was over.”

  “If there was another person here at the time—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. Exasperated, he could think of nothing else to do.

  He half expected her to protest, but she reciprocated instead. He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed without breaking the kiss. She smelled heavenly and tasted divine, and he would never get enough of her.

  And, in this moment, there was just enough anger left swirling inside him that he didn’t care if she was too tired.

  “Sweet heaven,” Alexandra whispered later. “I cannot move.”

  Tristan chuckled, feeling more than a little done in himself. With effort, he raised himself on an elbow. He ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. “I knew the hour was too late. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Her eyes drifted shut. “I’m not sorry.”

  Although she couldn’t see him, he smiled.

  She lifted her lids and met his gaze. “I love you, Tris. Even though we don’t always agree, I love you.”

  The only answer he could give her was a kiss. He poured all the tenderness he possessed into it and still knew it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what she wanted.

  But much as he cared for her and desired her happiness—more than he wanted happiness for anyone else in the world—he knew it wasn’t really love. And he couldn’t say words he didn’t mean.

  Finally he pulled away. ”I’ll get the lights.”

  He walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went. He still couldn’t believe she was his.

  He still didn’t believe he wouldn’t lose her.

  If he woke in the night, he wanted to be able to see her. He left the last light burning.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tristan woke in his study.

  At first he just blinked, disoriented. Slowly he noticed the light coming in through the shutters, the ticking of the clock on the desk. The dog snoring in the corner, rattling the windows.

  He swung himself upright on the leather sofa and rubbed his face. The sofa was too short, and his legs ached. He stretched them out before him, wondering how many hours he’d slept cramped in that position.

  Hours. Hours? For pity’s sake, he must have sleepwalked here during the night.

  Thankfully, his sleeping self had donned a dressing gown. He wrapped it tighter and retied the sash. Yawning, he stood and left the study, intending to head upstairs.

  No sooner had he stepped foot in the dining room, however, than Hastings popped in. “Good morning, my lord. Will you be wanting breakfast?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Half past eight.”

  Blast it. He needed to get back to the gasworks. He’d promised to arrive with the sun. “Yes, breakfast, please. Is Lady Hawkridge up and about?”

  Hastings looked at him curiously. “No, my lord. She’s yet to make an appearance.”

  “I’ll let her sleep,” he decided, amused. He must have worn her out. Rather than risk waking her, he’d have breakfast now and then quickly dress after she’d arisen.

  When he’d downed his last bite of eggs and drained his second cup of coffee and she still hadn’t appeared, he returned to his study to finish going through his mail. An hour later, he sent a footman to the gasworks with a note. An hour after that, he hurried upstairs, concerned.

  No matter how late he’d kept her up, a girl who habitually rose at six didn’t sleep until after eleven.

  “Alexandra?” He knocked softly. “Alexandra?”

  He opened the door. Curled up under the covers, she looked so peaceful he had to smile.

  He walked closer and shook her shoulder. “Alexandra, it’s time to wake up.”

  She slumbered on.

  “Alexandra.” He shook her harder. “Alexandra!” Still no response.

  Fighting panic, he drew a deep breath. And suddenly felt lightheaded.

  For a moment he just stood there, a vague prickling in his brain suggesting the woozy feeling should mean something significant. Shifting uneasily, he glanced around the room. And noticed the gas lamp he’d left lit.

  Only it wasn’t.

  His pulse stuttering, he rushed over and twisted the key, hoping it wouldn’t move.

  It did move. The gas line had been open. It had been open with no flame, and Alexandra had been breathing gas for who knew how long.

  He prayed to God as he scooped his wife and the covers from the bed, ran down the corridor, and turned into the Queen’s Bedchamber.

  “Alexandra!” He laid her on the turquoise and gold counterpane and crawled up beside her, his heart pounding so hard he had to yell over the roar in his ears. “Alexandra, wake up!” Kneeling on the mattress, he gathered her into his arms. “Oh, God, please, let her wake up.” He rocked her back and forth. “Wake up!”

  Her lids fluttered halfway open, then closed.

  He held his breath. His heart seemed to stop. “Alexandra?”

  “Just…”

  Had he imagined that single, breathy word? He’d had to strain to hear it.

  “Just…wait a moment.”

  A moment. Wait a moment.

  He’d wait as long as it took. Hours. Days. Until the end of his days. If only she’d wake up.

  He waited.

  “You’re holding me too tight,” she finally said.

  His heart started again.

  He was shaking all over.

  “I mean it,” she murmured, her eyes opening at last. Warmed brandy. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  She blinked up at him. “Let go of me, Tris.”

  “I can’t.” He did loosen his hold, though even that small compromise took effort. “I think I’m going to hold you for the rest of our lives.”

  Her little chuckle was the most glorious sound he’d ever heard. “What happened?”

  “Good God, I almost lost you.” He sent a thank-you up above.

  “What happened, Tris?”

  “The gas. The lamp I left burning last night. The flame went out, so gas leaked into the room, and you were breathing it.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I know. You were breathing it, and you could have died.”

  She struggled to sit up on his lap. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m fine.”

  “Thank God that room isn’t airtight. It may have been leaking for hours.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk so much of God,” she said with a little smile.

  “Hours,” he repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  “Tris?” She levered off his lap and knelt facing him on the bed, drawing the covers over her shoulders and around her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No.” His heart was pounding again. “I must have extinguished the flame.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I sleepwalked again last night. Woke up this morning in my study. Before I left the room in the night, I must have extinguished the flame in my sleep.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The blanket slipped off a shoulder, and she pulled it back up. “It was stormy last night. A draft blew it out.”

  “The glass chimney is there to protect the flame. A draft cannot blow it out. It had to have been put out deliberately.”

  “Anything can happen, Tris.”

  He wanted to believe her. He didn’t want to believe he was capable of harming his own wife in the middle of the night. What kind of person would that make him?

  A dangerous one.

  What would that do to their marriage?

  “I know what you’re thinking.” She sighed, sounding so much like hale-and-hearty Alexandra he wanted to h
ug her despite his dread. “Even if you did put out the flame—which I am not at all convinced is the case—surely it wasn’t intentional. For heaven’s sake, you did it in your sleep. You must have meant to turn it off and mistakenly extinguished it instead.”

  “Maybe,” he said—because he knew that was what she wanted to hear.

  “Absolutely.” Having settled the matter—to her mind, in any case—she scooted to the edge of the high bed and slid off, swaying a bit on her feet.

  He landed beside her and caught her by the elbow. “Careful.”

  “I’m fine.” Hitching the blanket back onto her shoulders again, she peered up at his face. “Better than you are, I’d wager. What are your plans for today?”

  He winced. “I need to ride out to the gasworks. I was supposed to be there hours ago. But I cannot leave you—”

  “Don’t be a goose. I told you I’m fine. I’m going to make some sweets and take them with me to meet the villagers.” He’d barely opened his mouth when she added, “I know what you’re thinking. I won’t be asking anyone any questions about your uncle’s death.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said you know what I’m thinking.”

  She shrugged prettily and smiled. A smug smile.

  He kissed that smug smile off her face.

  While they were still embracing, Rex plodded in, nudged Tristan with his huge head, and barked. They broke apart.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Alexandra said.

  “He just wants some attention. Which I cannot give him right now.” He rubbed the dog’s head. “I need to get dressed.” He turned to leave, then turned back and pulled up the blanket that had slipped off her shoulder again. “Make certain to take Peggy with you.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “And a footman for good measure—and a carriage. I shouldn’t like to see you walking or riding after what happened here this morning. You may not be as fine as you believe.” He gave her one more short, hard kiss, ignoring Rex’s bark, then headed off to find Vincent.

  No matter what Alexandra claimed, he was certain she couldn’t read his mind. Because there was no chance she’d let him walk away if she knew what he was thinking at this moment: