“For two or three years, not seven. Did you never hear the murmurings, the nasty rumors? Well, of course you didn’t,” he answered himself. “You were hidden away here in the countryside wearing black.” Pushing himself up from the desk, he moved closer to lean down and wrap her in a hug. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you cannot marry Tristan.”
When he pulled back, she took a big breath and nodded up at him. She’d never been one for tears, but she couldn’t remember feeling closer to shedding some. “I don’t want to marry Lord Shelton.”
He sat in the chair beside hers. “You wanted to this morning.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I realize now that I cannot be happy with him. Please don’t make me—”
“I would never make you marry anyone. Anyone in particular, that is.” Something akin to panic flooded his eyes. “You do still want to marry? In general, I mean.”
Under different circumstances, she might have laughed. “Yes, I still want to marry.” She couldn’t imagine what she would do with herself if she didn’t. From birth, her mother had trained her to oversee a household and its accounts, to care for an estate, to raise children of her own.
She didn’t have a passion like Corinna’s painting, or, like Juliana, a compulsion to meddle in other people’s lives. She just wanted to live her own. “I only wish…”
Though her wish remained unspoken, her brother knew what she wanted to say. “Wishing won’t buy you anything,” he said and then added, “He shouldn’t have kissed you,” looking totally disgusted. “I’ll send him away. Immediately. You won’t have to face him at breakfast.”
“No. Please don’t. Juliana said you need his help.”
“Yes, I do need his help.” With an agitated motion, he unstoppered the crystal brandy decanter that sat on the small table between them. “But I don’t need him seducing my sister.”
“He didn’t. I swear it.” She watched him pour two glasses, one much fuller than the other. “Honestly, Griffin, it was only a kiss. I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”
“There’s nothing only about a kiss. At the very least, I will have a serious talk with him.” He handed her the glass with less brandy.
She stared at it stupidly. “I’ve never had brandy.”
“Then it’s about time you did. Drink up, little sister. You need it right now.”
This was certainly a day for firsts. She swallowed a gulp and coughed.
Griffin laughed. “You’re supposed to sip it.” Cupping the glass, he took an appreciative sniff, then a small sip. “Like that.”
Cradling her glass in imitation, she drew deep of the heady scent. She sipped carefully, feeling the spirits’ heat trail down her throat and warm her inside.
“Nice?” he asked.
“Very nice.” She took another taste. “Go easy on Tris. Please. I asked for that kiss.”
His eyes widened. “Did you?”
Not in the way he was assuming, of course, but she knew Tris wouldn’t have kissed her of his own accord. Knew now, in hindsight, that he’d agreed to walk with her because he’d wanted to tell her about the scandal, wanted to explain why he couldn’t ask her to be his wife.
But she hadn’t let him talk. Instead, in her desperation to win him, she’d touched him, linked her fingers with his, skimmed his hair from his forehead. What had happened afterward was natural, not a seduction on Tris’s part.
Or at least not a planned one.
She sipped again, feeling very much seduced regardless. And unbearably sad, knowing that nothing could possibly come of it.
Griffin reached to pry the glass from her hands. The empty glass. A corner of his mouth curved up in a sympathetic half smile. “I think you’d best get a good night’s sleep.”
She looked longingly toward the decanter, then sighed. The brandy was much stronger than the wine she was used to, and she couldn’t even drink much of that. Her head was already buzzing, and more spirits wouldn’t solve anything. “You’re right. Just promise you won’t send Tris away until he’s done what you asked him here to do.”
“Very well. But—”
“And promise you won’t make him feel uncomfortable here, either.”
“I suspect he’ll feel uncomfortable around you no matter what I—”
“And promise you won’t tell him I told you he kissed me.”
“Would you let a man complete a sentence?”
She laughed. A heavyhearted laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Only if you’re going to say what I want to hear.”
“I pity the man who finally marries you.” Griffin drained the rest of his brandy and set down his glass. “Of course, we have to find a man before I can pity him.”
“We can wait for the season—”
“Good God, no.” He looked horrified at the thought. “Securing two husbands next year is a daunting enough task.” Steepling his hands, he tapped his fingers against one another thoughtfully. “I know,” he said, suddenly stilling. “We shall host a ball, and I will invite every unmarried gentleman of my acquaintance. At least twice as many men as ladies…that will ensure that no man is monopolized by another female, and you’ll have ample chance to meet all of them.”
Feeling bold with the brandy in her, Alexandra rolled her eyes. “You’ve no idea the preparation that goes into hosting a ball.”
“Well, of course not. We didn’t host balls on campaign.” He poured himself another drink. “I do know how to play the proper host, though. And I have you to do the planning—”
“Me? I’ve never planned a ball!”
“You cannot tell me Mother never had you assist with the planning. We shall hold it in a month, I think. The season will be well over by then, and Charles will have been gone a full year by then, too, so no one will be able to claim we didn’t wait a decent period.”
“A month? I cannot plan a ball in a month! Invitations should go out more than a month in advance. Mama spent all year planning Cainewood’s annual ball.” Realizing she’d as much as admitted she did know something of what it took to plan a ball, she rushed on before her brother could make a smug comment. “We’ll need two months, at the very least.”
“Six weeks, then.” Griffin raised his glass, admiring the way the candlelight illuminated the amber liquid. “You’re nothing if not efficient, Alexandra. I’m certain you can plan a ball in six weeks.”
*
“SIX WEEKS.” PACING the music room and shaking her head in disbelief, Alexandra popped another ratafia puff into her mouth. They certainly didn’t seem to be working any magic. “He wants us to plan a ball in six weeks.”
“We can do it.” At her easel, Corinna sighed happily. “A ball! We’ll all need new evening dresses.”
“Alexandra isn’t concerned about our wardrobes at the moment,” Juliana chided. She rose from her harp and went to stop her older sister’s frantic pacing, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “I cannot believe Griffin is after another husband for you already. You haven’t even recovered from the loss of Tristan yet.”
Normally Alexandra would protest that she couldn’t have lost Tris when she’d never had him, not to mention they’d renewed their acquaintance mere hours earlier. But it did feel like a loss. “I don’t believe he committed murder.”
“Neither do we,” her sisters chimed in unison.
“He doesn’t have it in him,” Juliana added. “Griffin had no right to forbid you to marry him.” Juliana always wanted to see everyone happy. “You should elope; you could run off to Gretna Green—”
“Don’t be a goose.” Alexandra moved away from her sister and back to the ratafia puffs. “For one thing, Tris hasn’t asked me to wed him. For another, have you thought about the effect such a marriage would have on your own prospects? Our good name would be ruined. You and Corinna would never find suitable husbands.”
“Perhaps that wouldn’t happen,” Juliana said. “You cannot pretend to know how society would react—”
“Oh, yes, I can. Loo
k how they’ve treated Tris all these years!”
“In any case, you shouldn’t sacrifice your own happiness for us,” she concluded loyally, looking to Corinna for agreement.
Corinna swallowed hard but nodded. “We shall survive, one way or another.”
“Geese. I’m surrounded by geese.” Alexandra resumed pacing, now wishing there were real ratafia in the ratafia puffs. Was she forever doomed to exercising enough common sense for all three of them? “I won’t marry a man if the two of you will suffer as a consequence.”
The look that passed between her sisters set her teeth on edge. If they were plotting to conspire against her, it wouldn’t be the first time. Juliana made a hobby of meddling in people’s lives, and Corinna had played her willing accomplice more than once. But Alexandra was determined to undermine them, never mind that their hearts were in the right place.
“Tris won’t marry me in any case,” she informed them. “He told me there’s no chance he’ll ever take me for a wife.”
Juliana and Corinna exchanged another glance. “He’s hardly had time to propose,” Juliana started.
“That doesn’t signify.” Alexandra feared her protests were falling on deaf ears. “He made his intentions—or non-intentions—perfectly clear. So don’t go getting any ideas in your head. A single kiss doesn’t mean—”
“A kiss?” Corinna interrupted. “He kissed you?”
Juliana jumped to Alexandra’s defense. “I’m sure it was just a good-natured peck on the cheek. There’s nothing so wrong with that.”
“That’s not what it says in The Mirror of the Graces,” Corinna informed her. “A Lady of Distinction claims that ‘good-natured kisses have often very bad effects and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.’”
“Must you remember every word you read?” Alexandra asked with a huff.
“I cannot help it if I can see pages in my head after I’ve read them. And in any case, I didn’t say I believed it. The Mirror of the Graces is dreadfully straitlaced.”
Alexandra had had quite enough of this nonsense. She was tired and brokenhearted, and she wanted to go to bed. “Well, it wasn’t a good-natured kiss, anyway,” she said, leaving her sisters gaping as she quit the room.
Chapter Eight
*
BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING was a damned uncomfortable meal. Tristan couldn’t help but notice Alexandra wasn’t wearing his cameo, and he wasn’t sure whether he found that a relief or a disappointment. He spent the entire hour avoiding her eyes while feeling her gaze on him.
He’d never realized a gaze could be so heavy.
And he’d never been quite as relieved as when Griffin pushed back from the table and said, “Let’s go.”
Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived. After calling for their horses, Griffin waited in stiff silence while Tristan wondered what he should say. But it was a crisp, sunny morning, and once they were on their way to the vineyard, it felt good to be astride in the fresh air. Good and familiar.
“Race you,” he challenged.
Griffin slanted a single look at him before digging in his heels.
They hadn’t designated a stopping point, but it didn’t matter. Tristan leaned over his mount, bunching his muscles along with the animal beneath him, enjoying the rush of cool wind, the pounding rhythm. Beside him, Griffin kept pace; they could both afford expensive horseflesh.
What Tristan couldn’t afford was to feel this distant from the only friend he had. They were neck and neck, yet farther apart than when they’d lived on separate continents.
When the horses were blowing, they slowed to a walk and rode silently for a while.
“You can still ride,” Griffin conceded.
Looking toward him, Tristan raised a brow. “And I wasn’t in the cavalry.”
“Keep your hands off my sister.”
“I will.” He wondered how much Alexandra had revealed. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Griffin said.
Just like that, the tension eased. Such was the way of old friends. But Tristan felt very fortunate that their friendship had survived his indiscretion.
It had been a terrible mistake. They were all lucky the two of them hadn’t been caught. In Alexandra’s world, a kiss was often as good as a declaration, an observed kiss sometimes enough to compel two people to marry.
And Tristan had no intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“It’s forgotten.” Griffin raised his face to the sun. “I’m certain it won’t happen again.”
They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his clenched muscles slowly slacken and the stiffness ease from his neck.
“Why did your brother plant this vineyard so damn far from the house?” he finally asked.
“You think I understood Charles? Ever?”
“He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn’t he?”
“Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did.” They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren’t in sight. “What made you decide to restore Hawkridge’s vineyard?” Griffin asked. “Given its age, it must have been an arduous task.”
Tristan shrugged. “It wasn’t so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part.”
“Not mine, apparently.”
“We shall see. In any case, I viewed Hawkridge’s vineyard as a challenge. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s.”
“By whom? Do you know?”
“Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his father-in-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines.”
“And they survived all this time.”
“Under the brambles, yes. I’ll do my best to make sure yours survive, too.”
At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. “It’s large.”
“Charles never did anything halfway.”
“He did his research. They’re spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal.”
“But they’re not thriving.”
“Let’s see why that may be.”
As they rode closer, Tristan could see his friend was right: The vines’ tendrils were drooping, the young leaves were wilted, and there was no fruit in sight. He swung off his mount and crouched by a particularly pathetic example, digging his fingers into the soil.
“You’re getting dirty,” Griffin said.
“You never got dirty fighting a war?”
“I wasn’t a marquess then.”
“Bloody hell, you’re turning into your brother.”
“That didn’t come out right,” Griffin protested. “I only meant that I didn’t ask you here to do manual labor.”
“You want to grow crops, you have to expect to get a little dirty.” Tristan scraped away at the roots. “I may be a marquess now, but I was a land manager first—and always will be.” He stood, pulling the whole vine up with him.
They both stared at the scrawny thing.
“The roots are stunted,” Tristan finally said, stating the obvious.
“Do you expect Charles planted them the wrong time of year?”
“We’ll never know. You say these are three years old?” Tristan thought back. “There may have been drought conditions the season they were planted.”
“Drought? Here in England?” Griffin gestured to the blue sky, where seemingly ever-present rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.
“If you’re unaware of the reality of drought, you clearly weren’t trained to farming.”
<
br /> “You can say that again,” Griffin muttered dryly.
“Those clouds?” Tristan flung a hand in their direction. “They may dump several inches on the next town yet leave the ground here bone-dry. English weather is nothing if not random and unpredictable. And drought or not, it seems Charles neglected to see his new vines received enough water.”
The look on Griffin’s face showed plain disbelief that his brother could have done wrong. “I’ve never heard of irrigating vineyards.”
“Established ones, no. It’s commonly held that some water stress is optimal for producing fine wine. Irrigation affects both the size and the quantity of the fruit, but wine grapes shouldn’t be allowed to grow as large as table grapes—the sugar concentration is more important than overall yield.”
“Well, then…”
“That has nothing to do with cultivating young vines. The soil surrounding new roots should be kept damp until they’re deep and established. My best guess is Charles neglected to do that here.”
“Is it too late to do something to save them?”
Tristan considered. “Perhaps,” he decided. “But maybe not. Deep watering may cure the shallow roots even now. The vines are still young—it’s worth an attempt.” He scanned the landscape, focusing on a glistening ribbon in the distance. “We can pipe water from the River Caine.”
Griffin shook his head. “The river is lower than this hill. Even I know that water runs down. Logistically—short of carting it by hand—there’s no way to get it up here.”
“Have faith, my friend.” Tristan grinned. “You’ve summoned the right fellow.”
“Come again?”
“I’ve just built a hydraulic pump to supply my new gasworks direct from the Thames. A water ram pump. You’ve heard of them, I presume?”
“Of course. We often talked of mechanical pumps while on campaign.”
Already deep in thought, Tristan ignored the good-natured sarcasm. “We’ll need a drop,” he mused, embracing the challenge. “If there’s no waterfall nearby—a few feet is all that’s required—we’ll have to situate the pump in a pit and pipe the river water down to it.”
“And the pump will force the water back up?”
Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set Page 69
