Chapter Two
*
FOR THE FIRST TIME in seven years, Tristan rode over Cainewood Castle’s drawbridge and into its quadrangle. As a groom hurried from the stables, he swung down from his black gelding, his gaze skimming the clipped lawn and the four stories of living quarters that formed a U around it.
Cainewood didn’t look any different, although there was no reason it should. If he remembered right, the castle had been in Chase hands—save during the Commonwealth—for close to six hundred years. He shouldn’t have expected it to change in the last seven.
But he’d changed, so it felt odd that this place hadn’t.
Seven years ago, he’d been a young man of one-and-twenty on his way to Jamaica to begin a promising career working with his generous Uncle Harold. He’d had a new degree from the University of Oxford, a soon-to-be-healed broken heart, and nary a serious care in the world.
Four years ago, Uncle Harold had died, and Tristan had taken his place as the Marquess of Hawkridge.
These days, he was anything but carefree.
The young groom tipped his cap. “Take your horse, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you.” Tristan handed over the reins. As his mount was led away, his gaze wandered the ancient keep—still as tumbledown as he remembered it—and past it to the old tilting yard that lay beyond. He smiled, recalling games played there as a youth, he and Griffin—and often, Griffin’s charming little sisters—running through the untamed, ankle-high vegetation. Those summers spent here during his school years were memories to be treasured. Griffin’s family had been a jolly substitute for the lack of his own.
“Tristan. Or I suppose I should call you Hawkridge. Whichever, it’s been entirely too long.”
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard Griffin approach, but now he turned to see his old friend holding out a hand. He reached his own to grasp it.
“Ah, hell,” Griffin said and pulled him into a rough embrace instead.
Tristan tensed for a stunned moment. Other than the impersonal attentions of his valet or a perfunctory handshake now and then, it was the first human touch he had felt in…entirely too long to remember.
He clapped his friend on the back. “Yes. Entirely too long,” he echoed as he drew away. “Am I supposed to call you Cainewood?”
“Strikes the ear wrong after all these years, doesn’t it?” Like the castle, Griffin’s slightly crooked smile was familiar. “Griffin will do. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Tristan walked with him toward the entrance. “Your note sounded urgent.”
Before they reached the front steps, the double oak doors opened. Cainewood’s longtime butler stood between them. “Welcome back, my lord,” he said with a little bow.
“Why, thank you, Boniface,” Tristan returned, pleased to see him again. The man was aptly named, for he had a bonnie face—a youthful countenance that belied his forty-odd years. No matter how hard he tried to look stiff and serious, he never quite succeeded. And other than a touch of gray gracing his temples, the years hadn’t changed him a bit.
Tristan couldn’t say the same for Griffin. “You look older,” he said as they climbed the steps. Griffin’s jaw looked firmer; his green eyes looked somewhat world-weary. “But I expect one could say the same of me.”
Griffin nodded. “We’re both shouldering responsibilities we never thought to have.”
“Feeling overburdened, are you?” Tristan was surprised. “Surely the marquessate is less stressful than plotting war strategy.”
“You have no idea.” They stepped inside. “I have three sisters to marry off, and that’s only the beginning—”
“They cannot already be old enough to wed!”
Griffin’s laugh boomed through the three-story-high entrance hall, all the way up to its stone-vaulted ceiling. “You expect we aged while time stood still for them?” He led Tristan up the carved stone staircase. “Corinna—the baby—is nearly twenty. Plenty old enough to find a husband.”
Tristan frowned. “And Juliana and Alexandra?” he asked, deliberately mentioning her last.
Maybe she would seem less important that way.
“Twenty-one and twenty-two.” They turned on the landing and went up a second level to the family’s private apartments. “Four deaths in the family have kept them from the marriage mart, but I mean to see them all settled now—and soon.”
Griffin ushered Tristan into a dark wood study. Waving him into a leather wing chair, he went to open a cabinet.
Tristan sat warily. “Look, old man, I sympathize with your problem, but your letter indicated you were in dire straits and needed my expertise—”
“Yes.” Rather than sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, Griffin chose the chair beside Tristan’s. “I appreciate your response.” He set two crystal glasses on the small table between them, unstoppered a matching decanter, and began pouring. “Regardless of the fact that you’ve hidden yourself away in the countryside all these years, you’re known far and wide—”
“I’m not in search of a wife!”
“—for your advances in scientific agriculture and land management.” In the midst of handing Tristan a glass, Griffin blinked. “Wife? Do you imagine I asked you here to marry one of my sisters? Perish the thought!”
Tristan breathed deep of the brandy as he wavered between relief and annoyance. Never mind that he had no interest in wedding any of Griffin’s sisters—or anyone else, for that matter—he wasn’t sure he appreciated having his unsuitability thrown directly into his face. “Why did you summon me, then?”
“I need your help. I’ve heard you’ve worked miracles with Hawkridge’s vineyard.”
“I’ve managed to revive it, yes. We’ve had two excellent harvests—the wine from last year’s is particularly good.” Relaxing back, Tristan took a bracing sip of the fine spirits. “You’re in need of wine?”
Griffin’s sip was more like a gulp. “Charles,” he said, referring to his late older brother, “had taken up growing grapes, with an eye to making wine. He planted vines some three years ago—”
“Charles wanted to make wine?”
“It’s the latest thing; haven’t you heard? What with the prices soaring during the war against France, I suspect he thought to make a killing. But regardless, Charles always was a swell of the first stare.”
“Yes,” Tristan said dryly. “He was.” He well remembered Charles, a tall, dark man with an air of superiority and an eye to owning the best. “Go on, then.”
“I’ve been told not to expect a yield suited for production for another year at the least. But the vines should be bearing fruit by now, shouldn’t they? They’re not producing anything.”
“Three years with nothing at all? Not even the odd bloom?”
“Nothing beyond leaves. I fear they may be dying. And I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do.” Griffin’s fingers tightened on his glass. “I’m trained to lead men into battle, not manage land and livestock.”
“Not to mention make wine, which is another enterprise entirely.” Tristan sipped thoughtfully. “With more than thirteen thousand acres, a good percentage of that productive, you cannot stand to lose the vineyard? This is your emergency?”
Griffin colored. “I apologize if my letter made it sound dire. But…this was Charles’s pet project. He invested a fair amount of funds, and I wish to make a success of it.” After hesitating a moment, he met Tristan’s eyes. “I hate to think I might fail where my brother would have succeeded. I’m not comfortable with these responsibilities—they were meant to be his, and I wasn’t raised to the task. But I mean to make the best of it.”
The admission sounded pained, but Tristan could sympathize. He didn’t imagine that military officers sat around at night baring their souls. And as for himself, it had been a long time since he’d had anyone to confide in.
“I understand,” he said. He hadn’t been raised with expectations of inheriting a title, either. Quite the contra
ry, he’d been born the son of a second son, a mere mister who’d attended the right schools only on the largesse of his uncle. “I’m trying to make the best of my life, too.”
Griffin nodded, looking uneasy.
These days, most everyone was uneasy around Tristan.
“Shall I have a look at your vineyard?” He drained his glass, set it down, and began to rise.
“It will have to wait until tomorrow.” Waving him back down, Griffin refilled their glasses. “It’s a good hour each way by horseback, and I’m expecting another caller shortly. A very acceptable suitor for Alexandra’s hand.”
Alexandra. Tristan pictured long dark curls and innocent young eyes. He wondered how she’d look all grown up.
He wondered if she’d have the same effect on him she used to.
“We’ll ride over in the morning,” Griffin added. “You’ll stay, won’t you? At least long enough to evaluate the situation?”
“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.” Though Griffin’s problem wasn’t as pressing as Tristan had imagined, it had been a long time since he’d felt needed.
And a long time since he’d seen Lady Alexandra Chase.
Chapter Three
*
“YOU LOOK LOVELY, ALEXANDRA.” Standing in the high gallery, Juliana tweaked her sister’s low, ruffle-edged neckline. “Lord Shelton won’t be able to resist you.”
“Especially after he tries your magical ratafia puffs.” Corinna grabbed one of the small sweets from the tray on a marble side table and popped it into her mouth. She sighed as it dissolved on her tongue. “François said they turned out perfect.”
“Lord Shelton won’t be able to try one if you eat them all first.” Alexandra lifted the silver tray, smiling at the little golden puffs, which had been beautifully arranged by François, their French cook. “Come along, now. Lord Shelton is surely waiting.” She hurried through the gallery, lifting her blue sprigged muslin skirts with one hand while carrying the fancy tray with the other.
Her sisters flanked her going down the wide stone staircase. “Gentlemen expect to wait for ladies,” Juliana said. “It’s not the thing to appear too eager.”
“I don’t care to play those silly feminine games,” Alexandra said, gazing down at her sister.
Juliana was exceedingly short—so short she made Alexandra feel tall, although she and Corinna were rather average in height. Juliana, Alexandra had noticed in the brief time Griffin had been inviting his friends to pay calls, attracted men like bees to honey—most especially the shorter men.
Thankfully, Lord Shelton was tall.
On the first floor, Alexandra paused in the picture gallery outside the drawing room’s door. Masculine voices drifted out. Griffin must have been entertaining her guest—or, more likely, trying to talk him into a proposal.
With any luck, his efforts would pay off.
She schooled her expression into a welcoming one and rounded the corner into the room. “Lord Shelton,” she said pleasantly, “please excuse my tardiness. I hope these sweet confections will make up for the wait.”
Lord Shelton turned and smiled, walking toward her. But her gaze shifted past him, to where another man stood beside her brother. As he turned slightly and she met his eyes—intense gray eyes she recalled from years before—her heart gave a little skip.
Tristan Nesbitt.
He still had the same strong jaw, the same long nose, the same heavy, straight brows. His skin was unfashionably bronzed, as though he’d spent much time outdoors, and his streaky brown-blond hair still looked tousled, as it used to—and still made her wish to run her fingers through it.
The mere sight of him robbed her of breath.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” Lord Shelton said. “I was more than pleased to receive your invitation to take tea.”
She tore her gaze from Tris. Lord Shelton looked pale in comparison, his skin a pasty white, his hair the lightest blond, his eyes an innocuous blue. Odd, his paleness had never made an impression on her before. It seemed almost as though he’d faded.
And he wasn’t as tall as she’d thought. At least not when he was standing in the same room with Tris.
“Thank you for accepting the invitation,” she murmured, struggling to remember her manners.
“I’m certain you girls recall Tristan,” Griffin prompted.
Juliana and Corinna curtsied. “Mr. Nesbitt,” they said in unison.
Dazed, Alexandra followed suit. “Mr. Nesbitt.”
“The Marquess of Hawkridge now,” her brother informed them. “Tristan inherited four years back.”
Tris was titled now? How had that happened? And where had he been all this time? she wanted to ask. That and a million other questions. She hadn’t seen him in…sweet heaven, was it seven years? While she hadn’t precisely forgotten him in all that time, she had forgotten how just looking at him made her insides melt like butter.
Or maybe she’d banished that from her thoughts.
“Lord Hawkridge,” she corrected herself.
“Lady Alexandra,” he returned with a vague if polite nod. “And Ladies Juliana and Corinna. My, if you haven’t all grown up since I saw you last.”
Of course, when he saw Alexandra last, he’d paid her little mind. If he’d noticed her at all, he’d thought of her as Griffin’s bothersome younger sister.
And he didn’t seem to be paying her any mind now, either.
He turned back to Griffin. “Do you know what time of the year Charles planted the vines?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Griffin said.
Lord Shelton stepped closer. “Lady Alexandra.” There was a cloying quality to his voice that had been missing when Lord Hawkridge said the same words. Alexandra supposed Lord Shelton was trying to sound romantic. She probably would have reacted positively to that yesterday.
He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back. “My dear, you look exquisite.”
She’d never heard anything quite so disingenuous.
Juliana elbowed her discreetly. “Perhaps Lord Shelton would like to taste one of your ratafia puffs.”
Alexandra looked down to the silver tray, forgotten in her other hand. “Oh, not quite yet.” Her laughter sounded forced to her own ears. “Don’t you think we should pour the tea first?”
Ignoring her sisters’ puzzled frowns, she walked clear across the room and put the tray on a gilt-legged table that sat against the wall.
Juliana began pouring. “The puffs can hardly work their magic from over there.”
“Magic?” Lord Shelton inquired.
“Please do sit,” Alexandra told him, leaving the tray safely distant while she made her way back across the room. She seated herself on one of the light blue velvet sofas instead of a chair; a tactical error, since Lord Shelton immediately took the place beside her.
That wouldn’t have bothered her yesterday. But his scent—an Oriental mix—was too flowery and suddenly annoying.
When Juliana handed her a teacup, she rose and went to Lord Hawkridge where he was talking with her brother. He smelled of clean soap and starch and something else she couldn’t identify—but it was decidedly male. “Tea, my lord?”
“Thank you.” He took it while barely sparing her a glance. “Not every variety is suited to our climate,” he said to Griffin.
“You’re welcome,” Alexandra murmured.
“Alexandra,” Corinna called conspicuously, “since you’re up, why don’t you get the ratafia puffs and bring them over here?”
“Not just yet.” Alexandra marched to the sofa and plopped back down, giving her sister a pointed look. “I’ve decided I’m not certain I wish to serve the ratafia puffs at all.”
Lord Shelton glanced between them, clearly confused. “And why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Corinna pressed. “They’re supposed to be magical.”
“Precisely.” Alexandra accepted another teacup from Juliana and sipped. “I’ve no wish to employ magic.”
> “Magic?” Lord Shelton repeated.
Juliana stood. “May I speak with you in private?” Before Alexandra could disagree, she pulled her up by the arm and drew her out into the picture gallery, Corinna in their wake.
Juliana’s hazel eyes radiated concern. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Alexandra glanced away, her gaze landing on a solemn ancestor who glared from a canvas on the smooth stone wall, looking exceedingly disapproving.
“Nothing?” If possible, Corinna appeared even more disapproving. “Why won’t you give Lord Shelton one of the magical ratafia puffs?”
“Magical?” Putting scorn into her voice, Alexandra focused on each of her sisters in turn. “Do you truly believe that eggs and sugar can be magical?”
“Of course not,” Corinna said quickly. “But don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
Juliana laid a gloved hand on Alexandra’s arm. “If they did work,” she said gently, “you could add a notation to Eleanor Cainewood’s entry in the recipe book, verifying her allegation. It’s a tradition.”
“I don’t care,” Alexandra said blithely. At least, she hoped she sounded blithe.
Her sisters stared at her, their eyes wide.
“You don’t care?” Juliana breathed. “About tradition?” She pulled off a glove and reached to touch Alexandra’s forehead. “Are you ill?”
“No.” Alexandra drew away. “I just don’t care about this silly tradition.”
“But, Alexandra…” Juliana hugged herself. “You’re the most traditional person I’ve ever met.”
It was true. Juliana was known for her wild ideas—always meant to help, of course—and Corinna was a bit of a rebel. But Alexandra always did exactly the right thing. She ran her brother’s enormous household like clockwork; she kept up with her correspondence; she visited the villagers and tenants, both healthy and ailing, always with some famous Chase sweets in hand. She could sing, play the pianoforte, make lovely profile portraits, and embroider—and if she wasn’t exactly renowned for any of those talents, at least she was competent.
Alexandra was a perfect lady. The best single word to describe her was traditional. But right at the moment, tradition could hang for all she cared.
Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set Page 66
