"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. Fortunately, my son is willing—"
"Your son is willing to do what?" Griffin interrupted from the doorway.
Alexandra turned in time to see Rachael arrive behind him; perhaps she'd alerted him to the trouble. But however he'd come to be here, Alexandra had never been happier to see him in her life.
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 gave him a grateful—if shaky—smile. "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 harridan 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 with little land 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?"
Alexandra hadn't known her brother had it in him to be so commanding. She supposed it could be his experience as an officer, but whatever the reason, he seemed to be growing into his role as a marquess. As she listened to Lady St. Quentin make her muttering way down the stairs, she felt like applauding.
Rachael did applaud. "Bravo!" she said softly, her eyes shining as she turned to Griffin. "You were magnificent."
Alexandra wondered if she looked at Tris like that. It really was a shame that Rachael was so opposed to marrying a cousin.
"Thank you," she said to them both. "I hope she won't spread lies."
"She won't," 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, then nodded. "There are six more men 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 any man 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 threatening tone, Alexandra thought as she preceded him downstairs. But from Griffin, the statement had sounded good-natured and matter-of-fact. So good-natured, in fact, that she felt terrible about dallying with his best friend and thereby possibly damaging their relationship.
Many handsome, eligible gentlemen waited in the great hall. She renewed her resolve to be open-minded when meeting them.
But two hours later, when she'd said her good-byes to the guests departing for home, when she'd settled the people staying overnight in the rooms down the corridor, when she'd finally fallen exhausted into bed…she'd come no closer to finding anyone who could make her forget Tris.
TWENTY-FIVE
ALEXANDRA WAS having the most extraordinary, most incredible, most delicious dream.
Tris was kissing her. Slow, sensuous kisses. Cherishing kisses. Kisses that made her senses spin and heat gather in a molten ball low in her middle.
But that wasn't all.
He also had his hands on her body.
On her breasts.
Even in her dream, she was scandalized, but as it was only a dream, she decided to lie back and enjoy the luscious experience. Just lie back and pretend that in real life he would touch her in such a tender, forbidden way. Just lie back…
Oh, yes, she realized…she was lying on a bed. Her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew it was her bed regardless, perhaps because it was her dream. The drawstring ribbon that secured the neckline of her nightgown had been untied, and the garment was pulled down beneath her breasts, and Tris was touching them, tracing feathery circles around their fullness and cupping them in his warm hands, and—oh!
It felt so wonderful, her very breath caught in her throat.
He captured the crests in his fingers, gently squeezing, rolling, pinching. They contracted under his attentions, sending pleasure sprinting along her nerves, throughout her body, centering in a tingling place between her thighs. She'd always known that place was there, of course, but it was as though she hadn't quite known what it was for…and now, in her dream, she did. It was for making her feel languid and achy and altogether decadent.
She squirmed, wanting something, needing something, unsure exactly what but craving it with every fiber of her being.
"Tris," she murmured against his lips. She felt him smile before his mouth left hers, a warm, lingering parting. He bent his head, trailing his lips across her cheek, down her chin, to the hollow of her throat where he dallied, teasing the sensitive skin. And then lower, dusting little kisses all over her upper chest, kisses that made her whole body squirm with pleasure.
And then lower still, until his mouth closed over a breast.
A hot stab of lust lanced through her. She gasped and sighed and arched, offering herself to him like a wanton tart. She could barely conceive of acting so forward in real life, but this was a dream…
And if some small part of her wondered how she could dream of things she didn't know, the rest of her silenced that question, reveling in all the marvelous new sensations.
Warm, damp breath feathered over her skin as he licked and nipped and then lavished her other breast with similar attention. More feelings were building in her, amazing feelings. Sparks skittered along her veins as her heart pumped furiously. She couldn't remember consciously breathing in a dream, but she did now, each ragged inhalation making her head swim.
His mouth returned to hers, kissing her senseless, a mating of lips and teeth and tongues…and he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her nightgown. His fingers inched up her legs, teasingly, excruciatingly slowly, tracing patterns on her calves, behind her knees, across her thighs. His touch felt divine. He seemed to be worshipping her with his fingers, and every inch of her tingled in response.
Oh, this dream was glorious!
Breaking their kiss, he wiggled her nightgown farther up her body. She eased away, lifting herself to help him pull it off over her head, then scooted close again, wrapping her arms around him and nestling her body against his.
He felt large and strong, his muscles contoured beneath taut, hot skin.
Dear God in heaven, he was naked.
And the glorious dream was no dream at all.
She tensed at the realization, her hands stilling on his body. Tris—a naked Tris—was here in her very real bed.
Such sweet scandal, she thought as her heart stuttered and restarted.
Things had already gone far past the point of propriety, but she couldn't bring herself to be sorry. Though this wasn't a dream, the man of her dreams was making her feel as no other man ever had. With all her heart, she was grateful for this unexpected gift. Never had she imagined such exquisite pleasures. And if she was fated to settle for marriage to anot
her man, she couldn't regret experiencing this intimacy just once with the one who owned her heart.
Besides, it wasn't as though he'd taken her virginity. Tris was a gentleman—surely he'd stop as soon as she asked.
No one else would ever know this had happened.
She knew she should ask him to stop now, but she couldn't resist moving yet closer, molding her soft curves to his firmer form. Just a few seconds more to savor these delicious sensations. To commit them to memory.
She concentrated on all the wondrous things she was feeling. Pressed against his chest, her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, their crests still tight from his touch. She felt his lips locked on her mouth, his tongue a sweet, thrilling invasion. Felt her heart race, felt her breath hitch. Felt the hard ridges of his back, the heavy weight of his legs intertwined with hers.
She really should ask him to stop. But as he stroked her inner thighs, his fingers inching ever higher, her breathing grew so shallow and short she didn't think she could ask him anything at all.
Then he maneuvered his hand between her legs and cupped the tingling place where her pleasure was centered, and a jolt of aching desire made her shudder from head to toe.
"Tris!" she cried.
"What?" With a jarring suddenness, he pulled away.
Her lids flew open. In the dim light from the dying fire, his eyes looked wide.
"Don't stop," she whispered desperately, although she knew, without a doubt, that was the exact wrong thing to say.
"Don't…what?"
When he made no move to comply, her first impulse was to grab his hand and put it back where she wanted it. But though her body still reminded her just how wonderful he'd made her feel, her head cleared a bit. Thank heavens he had more sense than she did and had saved her from her folly.
She could scarcely believe she'd become that lost in temptation.
"Where am I?" he asked, and she felt foggy, confused. He struggled to rise to an elbow, his gray gaze swiftly scanning the room. "How the devil did I come to be here in—"
He broke off as he focused on her beside him, then gasped at her naked shoulders and half-exposed breasts. Slipping a hand beneath the covers, he skimmed her bare side briefly, as though needing confirmation before he jerked away and dropped his head to the pillows.
"Oh, bloody hell," he ground out through a groan.
TWENTY-SIX
HIS THOUGHTS still murky, Tristan watched Alexandra snatch the counterpane higher to cover her bare breasts. In the pale, flickering light, her eyes were pools of brandy mist. Her cheeks were rosily flushed. Her breath sounded heavy and uneven. She looked passionate, sensuous, beautiful.
The mere sight of her was horrifying.
Because beneath those same covers, he was as shockingly naked as she. His breath was as ragged as hers. His body trembled with the aftereffects of recent arousal.
He'd never been more appalled in his life. He'd done the unthinkable—made love to his best friend's sister. And having done the unthinkable, now he could barely think.
"Bloody hell," he repeated more vehemently. His heart was pounding from much more than lingering lust. He would have to make amends. Damn his traitorous body, or brain, or whatever it was that compelled him to commit unforgivable acts in his sleep. In his waking hours, like now, he still had his honor. Perhaps it was hanging by a thread, but he was determined to maintain it.
"We shall have to marry," he declared stiffly.
She stared at him, her breathing slowing to something approaching normal while her eyes cleared. "I'd love nothing more," she finally said in her considered, calm way. No temper tantrums for Alexandra, no matter how much she deserved to throw one. "But we cannot. Nothing has changed. My sisters—"
"Everything has changed," he snapped.
Her brow crinkled in confusion. "I thought you were dead set against marriage."
"I cannot believe you're arguing." As romantic proposals went, he knew his had fallen far short of ideal. But her reaction was incomprehensible. "You could even now be carrying my child."
"Carrying your child?" If anything, she seemed even more confused. "Have you changed your mind and now think to trick me?"
"No, I haven't changed my mind." To the contrary, after tonight's doings, he was more fearful of marriage than ever. If he could make love to Alexandra while sleepwalking, what else might he be capable of while unaware? Would he be a danger to his own wife? "But unfortunately, under the circumstances, I don't see where we have a choice."
She shook her head. "I might be a bit hazy on the details, but I've known the facts of life since the age of twelve. My mother was not remiss in my education. What just happened in this bed—nice as it was—couldn't possibly result in a child."
Could she mean…had he not followed all the way through?
The possibility hadn't occurred to him. He'd assumed, since he wasn't aroused, he'd completed the act. Before he'd fully awakened, could the shock have stolen his desire?
"Are you certain?" he asked.
Her brow crinkled again. "Are you not?"
"No," he said simply.
The single word hung in the air. She waited, just looking at him, expecting an explanation. Holy Christ. Humiliating though it might be, there was nothing for it—he had to confess the truth.
"I have no memory of our encounter," he said at last. "I don't even know how I got to this room."
"How can that be?"
"I was sleeping. Or rather, sleepwalking." He braced for her reaction. "The last thing I remember before waking here in your bed was going to sleep in my own. I realize that's difficult to believe—"
"Were you really sleepwalking?" she interrupted, the confusion in her voice replaced by curiosity. He'd been certain she'd think him addled, but that didn't seem to be the case. "I thought that only happened in books."
"It's happened to me all my life, on and off. I'm sorry. I know that's a pathetic excuse for stealing your virginity—"
"You didn't," she said in her usual, straightforward way. "Perhaps you stole some of my innocence, but my virginity is intact."
Most women, Tristan imagined, would be furious regardless. "Are you certain?" he asked again.
She laughed. At a time like this, she laughed. "I'm positive. You only…touched me, Tris. In…very nice ways. With your hands and your mouth—but not in any fashion that would compromise my virginity, let alone leave me with child."
He couldn't remember ever being more relieved, both by that news and her reaction to his confession. She really was a very special woman.
It was almost too bad he couldn't marry.
"Thank you," he said, "for your honesty. This won't happen again. As far as I know, I've never sleepwalked twice in a night." He began to rise, the covers falling to his waist.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Please, stay for a while." Her eyes wide, she stared at his bare chest. "I know it's frightfully improper, but what's a few more minutes? I want to hear more about the sleepwalking. And you're leaving tomorrow."
He hadn't ever seriously talked to anyone about this. The thought was alarming, but also strangely appealing. He drew a steadying breath and gestured to his dressing gown at the foot of the bed, vaguely wondering when he'd donned it, let alone taken it off. "Shall we…put something on?"
Her gaze flicked to her nightgown, a crumpled white ball beside her. She clutched the covers tighter beneath her chin, clearly unwilling to let go in order to dress. "Just relax. I promise I won't attack you."
With a strained chuckle, he resettled himself on his side, facing her but carefully separated by a space. The fire was dying, and with it the light. He briefly considered rebuilding it, but then thought the darkness might make talking easier. And he wasn't cold. Having her this close—and the both of them undressed—made a fire of another kind altogether.
A fire he was determined to resist.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"Everything. When did you first sleepwalk?"
"As a small child. I used to do it quite often, but as I grew older, I seemed to outgrow it. The episodes tapered off. Now it seems to happen only when I'm under stress of some sort. The occurrences have really become quite infrequent. In fact, I was hoping they had stopped altogether. Until this week, I hadn't sleepwalked in three or four years."
"Since your uncle's death," she mused quietly. "What is it like?"
"I don't know. I never remember." He'd guessed right that the darkness would help. Answering a disembodied voice was so much easier than responding to an expectant face. And yet more intimate somehow. "What does it look like to you?"
"My eyes were closed," she murmured. "I wasn't looking."
Her tone made him imagine that if the room were lighter he'd see her blush. "How about the other night? When you caught me 'stealing' the chocolate cakes. What were your impressions then?"
"You were sleepwalking then?" Her voice was suffused with wonder. "Of course," she answered herself. "That's why you didn't remember our kiss. I can see it now. See you, I mean. You seemed a bit…distant—well, other than during the kiss—and you didn't respond well to my questions. I thought you were being deliberately evasive."
"Others have said the same. A blank look in my eyes, responses that don't quite make sense." He sighed. "I never, ever remember. It's rather frightening, if you want to know the truth."
"No, it isn't. I would think it should be, but it isn't."
Bless her for that. But that wasn't what he'd meant. "I've never kissed anyone in my sleep before, let alone climbed into another's bed. It's frightening because I don't know what I might do next." And for some unknown reason, he felt compelled to add, "And what else I might already have done."
"Like what?" she breathed.
His voice dropped to a low, almost-whisper. "Like possibly—though I don't remember it—poisoning my uncle."
There. He'd said it out loud. He prepared for her shock and immediate departure, but she didn't run screaming from the room.
Instead, she reached across the mattress, rooting beneath the covers until she found one of his hands and took it in hers. "You don't really believe that."
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 16
