by Lauren Royal
Juliana took a cake for herself. “He’d propose in an instant if she’d let him within speaking range. But one look at Tristan, and she banished Lord Shelton forever.”
“Tristan?” Rachael echoed, looking shocked. “You cannot be seriously interested in him.”
“Why not?” Alexandra asked cautiously, afraid she knew the answer.
“He’s tainted with scandal! Everyone knows he’s been accused of murdering his uncle.”
“I didn’t,” Alexandra pointed out. “How is it we never discussed this?”
“I don’t know.” Rachael reached for another cake. “It happened a couple of years ago, didn’t it? It must have been one of those seasons when I was in town and you were stuck here. In any case, it did happen—and in light of that, you cannot consider Lord Hawkridge’s suit.”
“There’s no suit.” Alexandra clenched her hands in her lap. “Lord Hawkridge refuses to even entertain the thought of marriage.”
“Good for him. He’s retained some honor, at least.”
Alexandra’s eyes widened at her cousin’s tone. “You cannot think he committed murder? He wasn’t convicted.”
“Not in the House of Lords. But in the hearts and minds of the people who matter—”
“Rachael! You know Tris. He cannot have done something so heinous.”
“I don’t know him. Not anymore. It’s been years—”
“He hasn’t changed,” Alexandra insisted. “Not that much.”
Rachael’s lips curved in a faint smile. “You always have been the most loyal person I know.”
“My loyalty isn’t misplaced. Not in this case, anyway.”
Rachael considered, then nodded. “Very well. But that still doesn’t make him marriageable.”
“My sisters don’t seem to agree.” Alexandra turned to Juliana. “You left us alone again. You’re trying to push us together, and don’t try to deny it.”
Juliana didn’t. “Is it working?” she asked instead.
“Yes,” Alexandra admitted miserably. “But he hasn’t kissed me again.”
“He kissed you?” Rachael breathed. “And you allowed it with no intention of marriage?”
Alexandra measured her cousin for a long moment. “You’ve had four seasons. Have you never been kissed?”
“Well…” Rachael’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, then deepened when Alexandra looked pointedly at the fourth finger of her left hand. “No, I didn’t marry any of them.”
“Any?” Corinna burst out. “How many gentlemen have you kissed?”
Rachael hand with the ringless finger curled into a fist. “They were only kisses!”
“Exactly,” Alexandra said with not a little satisfaction.
Corinna snatched another lemon cake. “I must be the only unkissed girl in all of England.”
“Not the only,” Juliana disagreed with a sigh.
Alexandra sighed in sympathy. “You’ll both have your seasons. But only if I don’t marry Tris. So it’s in your best interests to let him finish what he came here to do and leave…without us being caught in a compromising position, thanks to you.”
“But what about your best interests?” Juliana insisted. “You don’t care so much for society—you’ll be happier married—”
“I won’t be happy if you’re not. And how many times do I have to tell you that Tris has no intention of marrying me regardless of your plans?” She took a lemon cake, too. “At the ball I shall dance with someone who will sweep me off my feet.”
Rachael smiled. “Waltzing always makes me fall halfway in love.”
“Waltzing?” Alexandra repeated, alarmed. “There will be no waltzing. We don’t know how to waltz.”
“Of course there will be waltzing! There hasn’t been a society ball without waltzing since 1812.”
“We’ve had no dance lessons since 1812—people in mourning don’t dance.” Juliana looked panicked. “There’s no time to send for a dancing master—the ball is just four days away. Good gracious, how will Alexandra find a husband if she doesn’t know how to waltz?”
“This isn’t just about me,” Alexandra snapped.
Rachael bit into another lemon cake and shrugged. “One way or another, you will all have to learn how to waltz.”
TWENTY
THE GRAY DAY had finally delivered on its promise, and rain pattered on the drawing room’s windows. “Lord and Lady Charlford will be delighted to attend,” Alexandra read off a sheet of heavy cream-colored paper. Seated on one of the blue sofas, she set the acceptance note facedown on the empty space beside her.
At the desk, Juliana flipped through the guest list. “Charlford,” she murmured. “Ah, here they are.” She made a mark. “Next?”
Griffin peeked into the room. “Is she gone?”
“Who?” Alexandra asked innocently.
Her sisters snickered.
“Rachael,” Tris clarified, walking in. He moved the stack of responses aside so he could sit next to Alexandra. “Griffin would just as soon avoid her.”
Griffin grunted as he plopped down on a chair.
“Rachael? You’re afraid of little cousin Rachael?” Juliana walked over from the desk to hand her brother the last of the lemon cakes. “Here, this will cure your melancholy.”
“I’m not melancholy,” Griffin growled before biting into it anyway.
Tris’s leg was scarcely a finger’s width from Alexandra’s, and she’d swear she could feel the heat radiating off of him. Not only that, she could still feel the imprint of his lips on her forehead from earlier. Right in the center above her eyes.
This would never do. What could Tris mean by coming so close? How was she to complete her task and—more importantly—hold herself together, with the cause of her broken heart all but sitting in her lap? She should be focusing on last-minute party details and looking forward to the ball, not battling this wretched attraction.
Rubbing her forehead hard, she rose and wandered over to see Corinna’s latest painting. On the unfinished canvas, a young couple lounged, sharing a cozy picnic. Corinna often painted landscapes, but Alexandra couldn’t remember her ever including people.
She watched her sister create the dappled shade beneath a tree. “That’s not one of your usual subjects.”
Corinna looked up from her easel. “Do you like it?”
“Very much,” Tris said, suddenly standing beside Alexandra. “The two of them look like they’re in love.”
Corinna glanced at him and Alexandra before focusing on her scowling brother. “Griffin’s in love,” she teased.
“I am not,” he mumbled around a mouthful of lemon cake.
She swirled her brush in gray paint. “Rachael took a fancy to you, too.”
He swallowed, half choking. “She did?” They all burst out laughing while Griffin slowly turned red. “I’m sure she said nothing of the sort.”
Alexandra started inching her way back to the sofa. “Of course she didn’t, but we could tell.”
“We’re girls,” Juliana added.
“As though I hadn’t noticed with all your dressmaker’s bills.” Griffin swallowed the last of the sweet. “It doesn’t signify, in any case. I cannot have an affair with Rachael.”
Leaning against the painted stone chimneypiece, Juliana crossed her arms. “Of course you cannot. It would ruin her. You’ll have to marry her instead.”
“I don’t intend to marry anyone at present.” He gestured to the pile of letters Alexandra had left on the sofa. “Are those the responses?”
“Yes,” she said, grateful to have an excuse to move farther away from Tris.
“How many have accepted our invitation?”
She reclaimed her seat and picked up the acceptance notes, straightening the stack on her lap. “More than a hundred.”
“Including Rachael,” Corinna added with a mischievous smile.
Alexandra thought her sisters had meddled quite enough. “Oh, do leave Griffin alone. Rachael made it clear she’ll never
marry him, anyway.”
Though Griffin looked curious, he remained stubbornly mute. The rain sounded louder as they all waited.
“What did she say?” Tris finally asked for him.
“She will never marry a cousin.”
“Just that?” Griffin burst out, apparently unable to help himself. “Just she will never marry a cousin?”
Juliana took the chair beside him. “Do you remember her cousin Edmund?”
Griffin shook his head.
“The monster,” Corinna reminded him sheepishly.
“Don’t call him that!” Alexandra burst out at the same time Griffin said, “Oh, yes,” wincing at the memory.
He looked to her. “We all called him that.”
“Well, he wasn’t one. He was a sad little boy. And Rachael will get very upset if you call him that in front of her.”
“Tell me about him,” Tris said, sitting again by Alexandra.
Tantalizing warmth and clean-Tris scent. “Edmund looked very odd,” she said, scooting away a little bit.
“Malformed,” Juliana elaborated.
“I was trying to be diplomatic, but yes. And he couldn’t talk. He only grunted.” Alexandra rubbed her forehead again. “He died very young.”
“His mother and father were cousins,” Juliana said. “The doctors suggested perhaps that was to blame for Edmund’s condition. And Rachael said that’s why she’ll never marry a cousin.”
Griffin nodded thoughtfully. “When we were young, Edmund scared me out of my seven senses. I can understand why Rachael would be frightened of giving birth to such a mon…such a child.” He released a tense breath, looking relieved. “Obviously, marriage between us is out of the question. I don’t know that her fears are founded, but given her feelings, that hardly makes a difference.”
“There are others who believe close marriages aren’t wise,” Tris added in support. “I concur with the theory that interbreeding produces weak animals.”
Corinna snickered. “Griffin and Rachael aren’t animals!”
“But they are…in the strictest definition.”
“Look at our own Mad King George,” Griffin pointed out. “A product, you must admit, of copious interbreeding.”
“What a picture,” Corinna said. “You and Rachael interbreeding copiously—”
“Kindly shut up.” Griffin had gone scarlet from the roots of his dark hair all the way down to his collar and perhaps beyond. “Tell me what you’ve planned for the ball,” he said tightly.
Alexandra rubbed her forehead some more. “The invitations went out last month, requesting guests arrive at eight. We’ve procured a band of music from Chichester, and we’ll place them in a corner of the great hall—”
“Not the minstrel’s gallery?” Griffin broke in.
“No,” Juliana said. “That’s too far removed from the dancers. We want the musicians to take requests and interact with the guests. We’ll have dancing until one o’clock, when a handsome supper shall be served. After supper, the dancing shall resume until dawn, and, for those who stay the night, we shall serve breakfast between eleven and twelve.”
“And how many of our hundred-plus acceptances are from young men?”
“Most of them!” Corinna grinned. “We’ll have a much greater number of unmarried gentlemen than unmarried ladies.”
“Excellent.” Griffin looked pleased.
Tris reached for some bread and cheese, leaning against Alexandra in the process. “Your ball sounds like quite an ambitious undertaking.”
Juliana turned to him with a smile. “We’ve yet to receive your response, Lord Hawkridge.”
“I don’t attend balls,” he said quietly, brushing Alexandra again as he settled back in his seat.
“Tristan will be leaving before the ball.” Griffin stretched his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Everything’s all set for Friday night, then?”
“No.” Alexandra rose abruptly and went to the desk, bringing the response notes with her as a pretense. She sat and tucked them away in a drawer. “Rachael alerted us to a problem. We don’t know how to waltz.”
“Then we won’t waltz,” Griffin said easily.
“We cannot not waltz,” Juliana said. “Everyone who is anyone waltzes. It’s the thing.”
“The thing is, we don’t know how. One of you shall simply have to explain to the musicians—”
“I know how to waltz,” Tris interrupted. He stood and walked over to the desk. “I can teach you all.”
“Wonderful!” Juliana clapped her hands. “Tonight?”
An exasperated Alexandra glared up at him looming over her. He began absently rearranging items on the desk. ”Griffin and I must finish planning the pipeline tonight—we have men arriving first thing in the morning for instructions. We can dance tomorrow, while I’m waiting for the parts to arrive from the foundry.”
“What will we do for music?” Corinna asked. “If we’re all dancing at once—”
“We can hum,” Juliana said.
“We cannot all be dancing at once,” Alexandra pointed out, moving the inkwell back to where she liked it. “Tris is the only gentleman.”
“I take offense to that,” Griffin said with mock outrage.
“You don’t know the dance.”
Tris lifted a quill. “He can dance while he learns. But we’ll need a third man.” Looking contemplative, he stroked his chin with the end of the feather. “I know. Boniface.”
“Boniface?” Juliana scoffed. “Butlers don’t dance.”
Tris raised a brow. “Butlers do as they’re told.” He reached with the quill to tap Griffin on the nose. “Go inform him. You’re the lord around here.”
Griffin batted the feather away and stood. “I’m doing this only because I want to see Boniface’s expression when I tell him,” he claimed in a transparent attempt to retain his dignity.
“I want to see his face, too,” Juliana said and quickly followed him. “Corinna?”
“Wouldn’t want to miss this.” Corinna dropped her palette and ran after them both.
A Lady of Distinction would find her sisters quite vulgar, Alexandra thought. Releasing a long sigh, she rubbed her forehead.
“Have you the headache?” Tris asked, looking solicitous.
“No.”
“But you keep—”
“No.” She wasn’t going to tell him she felt phantom lips on her brow.
He shrugged and smiled. “They left us alone again.”
“I was just leaving.” She rose and started toward the door, then, sensing him on her heels, whirled to face him. “Would you please stop following me around?”
“I haven’t been—”
“Yes, you have. You’re shadowing my every step.”
“Am I?” He looked puzzled, as though he’d been totally unaware of his actions.
“Yes. And you keep touching my things.” Not to mention touching me, she thought, plucking the feather from his fingers.
Rain pattered while he stared at his empty hand as though he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding the quill, either. Taking it with her, Alexandra left him there and hurried off to the solitude of her room.
Men truly were the most oblivious creatures.
TWENTY-ONE
CHOCOLATED SPONGE CAKES
Take a measure of sugar and a like amount of butter and mix together well. To this add two beaten eggs and then flour in the same amount as the butter and sugar. Put together with a little milk to make soft and pour into your pan. Put in your oven for half an hour until well risen, then cut into little squares, cover with chocolate icing, and decorate with white icing strands to make them look like little presents on a plate.
Mere acquaintances have been known to call on me hoping to find these offered. They look like tiny gifts and are reputed to be irresistible!
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1769
BONIFACE’S PRETTY face was even prettier with red cheeks.
“Take her hand, Bon
iface,” Tris said patiently, demonstrating with Corinna. “You can do it.”
Even with their hands gloved, the butler held Alexandra’s fingers so hesitantly she had to cling to his to hold on.
“Put your other hand around her back.”
Though Boniface complied, Alexandra could barely feel his fingers grazing her spine.
“Music, please.”
All three sisters began humming.
“The basic figure is a full turn in two measures using three steps per measure. Like this.” Tris swept Corinna into the dance, the two of them turning so fast she was forced to rise to her toes. She stopped humming. Her laughter echoed through the cavernous great hall.
Alexandra hummed through gritted teeth.
Griffin and Juliana took a few tentative steps, then seemed to grasp the idea. “Oh, this is fun!” Juliana cried, leaving Alexandra humming alone.
She changed to la-la-la’s. Boniface still stood there, limply attached to her, his blue eyes wide with apprehension. Unlike most families, the Chases didn’t ban their servants from marrying, and Alexandra had sometimes wondered why he chose to remain a bachelor. Now she knew.
By all appearances, he was terrified of women.
“Shall we dance?” she prompted, abandoning the music. It was still raining—it had rained all night—and the drops sounded louder in the sudden silence. “Hum!” she commanded her sisters, turning back to Boniface when they took over. “Well?” she asked.
He nodded mutely, remaining riveted in place.
Tris frowned as he twirled past. “Go on, man. Give it a try.”
“It’s delightful!” Corinna called encouragingly.
Seeing her sister in Tris’s arms, a stab of jealousy caught Alexandra by surprise.
At last, Boniface took a few jerky steps, and she lurched with him, trying her best to stay attached. She hardly noticed the three times he trod on her feet, busy as she was watching Tris guide her sister in whirling circles around the planked wood floor. He danced with admirable grace, looking handsome and debonair and dreadfully delicious.
