She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. Whatever had calmed in him flared again. "I thought you said you were finished."
"Only because there's no one left to interview."
"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 opened her mouth instead, immediately inviting him in. Their tongues tangled in a dance that made heat flash through him. He backed her toward the bed. She smelled like heaven and tasted like sin, and he would never get enough of her.
He was mad for her. It seemed he'd spent his entire life mad for her. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her, and there was just enough anger swirling in him to make him too selfish to treat her like the almost-virgin she was.
Their mouths still bonded, his fingers worked frantically to unfasten the back of her dress as he inched her ever closer to the bed. He dragged the frock down her arms, together with her chemise, breaking their kiss to shove them both over her hips and legs and clear down to the floor. While she stood slack-jawed in shock, he yanked off his boots and tore a seam in his coat in his hurry to get out of it.
Unbuttoning his falls with one hand, he pushed her onto the bed with the other, noting the surprise in her eyes. But there was passion in her eyes, too—utter, unbridled passion. Unable to wait a moment longer, he climbed up to cover her gloriously nude body with his.
A gasp escaped her lips before he crushed her mouth beneath his again. He wedged a hand between her legs to test her with a finger and then another. He knew he should take his time, treat her gently, but she felt slick, sleek, throbbing around his fingers, inciting desire so raw he was helpless to hold back. She gasped again as he widened her thighs and plunged home where he wanted to be.
Hot. Impossibly tight and hot as her legs locked around him, the unschooled sensuality of that driving him to distraction. He couldn't wait. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to lose himself in her, and she seemed to be losing herself as well. Her hands gripped his damp shoulders, and she cried out his name, shuddering, dragging him over the edge to join her in oblivion.
When he regained his senses, he kissed her hair, her cheek, her mouth. Part of him was mortified at his lack of control, but another part, a larger part, simply marveled at the emotions she was able to rouse in him.
No other woman had ever been capable of making him lose control. But all the anger, the raw passion, had somehow transformed into softer feelings when he'd felt her respond to him. When he'd felt her join him in the madness. And that had made all the difference.
He hadn't ever made love before Alexandra, he realized all of a sudden…he'd only found release.
"Sweet heaven," she whispered as he eased himself off of her, both of them still shaky, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "I cannot move."
Coming up on an elbow beside her, he ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. "Give it time."
"I think I need until tomorrow."
Alarmed, he wondered whether she was serious or jesting. "I'm sorry I was so quick and…ah, rough."
"I liked it." Her eyes drifted shut. "It was exciting."
Jesting, then. Although she couldn't see him, he smiled. "And last night wasn't? And this morning?"
"Every time is exciting. Every time you kiss me, every time you touch me. Every way…" 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 his heart and soul into it and still knew it wasn't enough. Anything more, though, was beyond him.
He couldn't say words he didn't believe.
"I'll get the lights," he said finally and rolled out of bed.
He quickly finished undressing and then walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went.
She still hadn't moved. Sprawled atop the sheets, ravishingly bare, she was every man's dream. He still didn'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.
THIRTY-SEVEN
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. Holy Christ. He must have sleepwalked here during the night.
Thankfully, his sleeping self had drawn a dressing gown around his naked body. He wrapped it tighter and tied 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."
Bloody hell. 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 wild the night, a woman 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.
At his wit's end, 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 God only knew how long.
He prayed to that 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, wake up." He rocked her back and forth. "Wake up, God damn it!"
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, right here with her in his arms, for minutes, hours—days—if only he knew for certain she'd be all right.
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 seemed difficult. "I think I'm going to hold you for the rest of our lives."
Her little chuckle was the most wonderful sound he'd ever heard. "What happened?"
"God, I could have lost you." He sent a little thank-you up to heaven.
"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. "Christ, yes, especially Holy Christ. But—"
"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. "Oh, God, 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 bare 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 man 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 hug her despite his distress. "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. It was a long, deep kiss, and when he finished she was swaying on her feet again, and he wasn't at all worried it was due to gas poisoning.
While they were still gazing at each other, Rex plodded in, nudged Tristan with his huge head, and barked.
"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 knew she didn't know what he was thinking. Because when he'd stepped back from that final kiss, he'd been thinking that if he'd poisoned her with gas while sleepwalking, then it was that much more likely he'd also poisoned his uncle.
If she could read his mind, she'd surely have responded to that.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SUGAR-CAKES
Take Sugar and half again as much Butter, Beaten together, and add Eggs, as much Flour as sugar, a little Cream, some Sherry, a generous amount of Currants and a spoon of shaved nutmeg. Shape into thin round cakes and Prick all over, then bake in a warm oven. Cover with icing Sugar mixed with white of egg and return to oven until Crisp.
These travel well and are good for visiting.
—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1692
IT TOOK A LOT of sugar cakes to feed a village.
At half-past noon, barely an hour after Tris left, Mrs. Pawley took the fourth pan out of the oven and brought it over to where Alexandra was spreading glaze on top. "Might I pour you more sherry?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Pawley." The small glass Alexandra had finished was quite enough—just enough, in fact, to take the edge off her disappointment that she wouldn't be able to clear Tris's name. Just enough so she could smile and laugh and pretend that everything was all right.
Although, of course, it wasn't.
More than half a glass of anything alcoholic made her very giggly or put her to sleep. When the cook had suggested they have a wee taste of the sherry before adding it to the recipe, she hadn't expected to finish the bottle. But Mrs. Pawley was making a good dent in it.
"I'll just have another myself, if you don't mind." The cook filled her glass for the third time and sipped, watching Alexandra swirl the sugary mixture onto the cakes with a knife. "You do that very prettily, my dear."
"Thank you. My mother taught me how to do this. And my father's mother taught her, I expect, considering the age of the recipe."
Mrs. Pawley smiled and sipped again, one eye on all the activity in the kitchen. While Alexandra wouldn't normally approve of Hawkridge's cook drinking wine while she worked, Mrs. Pawley seemed unaffected, and she couldn't argue with the woman's results. Her meals were exquisite, and her kitchen was spotless.
The woman did, however, have a smudge of flour on her little button nose that Alexandra itched to wipe away. "I know your father was Hawkridge's last cook," she said to distract herself, "but did your mother work here as well?"
"Bless her, she did. Started as a scullery maid before she caught m'father's eye." The cook's blue eyes danced. "'Course she became his assistant in short order."
Alexandra smiled. "I imagine she did like that better than scrubbing dishes."
"No one aspires to stay a scullery maid long. If a girl cannot expect advancement—"
At the sudden silence, Alexandra looked up from the pan of cakes. "What is it, Mrs. Pawley?"
"I just remembered. There was a scullery maid—Beth, she was called—went to Armstrong House a few years ago for a better position. She was here that night—the night his lordship's uncle died. Will you be wanting to ask questions of her as well?"
"Goodness, yes." The news lifted Alexandra's spirits more than an entire bottle of sherry. "How far is Armstrong House?"
"An hour or less on horseback. You'll just need to follow the river."
"Lord Hawkridge would prefer I take a carriage." There was no reason to ignore his wishes completely. He'd doubtless be angry she'd gone at all, but she couldn't very well ignore an opportunity to solve their problems, could she?
Not and live with herself.
"May I prevail on you to finish these?" She shoved the pan toward the cook. "I have to change my dress, and have a carriage brought round, and
find a footman to accompany Peggy and myself." She was already headed toward the door. "They need only a few more minutes in the oven; when the icing has hardened, they're done."
Half an hour later, plans for her journey in place, she returned to fetch a few sugar cakes to bring along with her to Armstrong House. She couldn't very well arrive empty-handed.
After yesterday's rain, the day was beautiful. She opened the carriage windows to let in the sunshine and fresh air. Ernest, the footman she'd recruited to accompany her, rode up on the box with the coachman, and Peggy sat with her inside. No sooner had they started rolling than Peggy pulled a basket out from under the seat and began filling plates for them both.
"What's this?" Alexandra asked.
"Luncheon. You missed breakfast. I won't have you wasting away from starvation."
Alexandra laughed, suddenly realizing she'd forgotten to eat. She supposed she'd been too upset to really care. But now that her investigation was open again, she felt famished.
Peggy truly was a dear for taking care of her so well. She piled cold meats, cheese, pickles, and fruits on both their plates. "No strawberries for me," Alexandra told her. "I cannot eat them."
Peggy handed her a plate before adding a few strawberries to her own. "Why is that?"
"They make my tongue swell and my throat feel tight. It's really quite dreadful. The last time it happened, I thought I might perish from a lack of air."
"That is dreadful," Peggy said, her eyes wide.
Throughout the drive, Peggy kept up a running conversation that required little more than nods and murmurs from Alexandra. Sooner than she expected, they arrived at Armstrong House. Although smaller than Hawkridge, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man. It looked to have been extended many times over the years and was now a sprawling mishmash of styles—medieval, Tudor, Stuart, and more modern.
"Wait here," she told Peggy. "I shouldn't think this will take long."
"Oh, but I haven't seen Beth in years," Peggy said in a pleading tone.
"Very well, then. Come along."
Alexandra put a smile on her face as she approached the door with her sweets. "Lady Hawkridge," she told the green-liveried manservant who answered, her new name sounding strange on her tongue. "Here to visit with the lady of the house, if you please."
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 24
