“Ernest,” the man said, looking at the biscuit in his gloved hand as though he’d never seen one before. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Thank you, Ernest.” She started up the wide stone steps, where the butler waited, looking very stiff and serious.
Tris came up beside her, taking her arm. “This is Hastings,” he said by way of introduction. “I couldn’t run this place without him.”
Gray-haired Hastings was older than Boniface and not nearly as pretty. But hearing Tris’s praise, his stern features relaxed, revealing a pleasant face with brown eyes. “Welcome, my lady.”
“Why, thank you, Hastings.” She smiled, handing him a biscuit before heading for the first of a half-dozen footmen lined up beside him, all dressed in blue livery. “And your name is?”
“Will. Welcome, my lady.”
“I’m so pleased to be here, Will.” She handed him a biscuit and moved on. “And you are…?”
“Ted. Welcome to Hawkridge Hall.”
She reached for another biscuit. “Thank you, Ted.”
“John,” the next man said. When she gave him a dubious glance along with his biscuit, he added, “It truly is John, my lady. My father was John, and his father before him.”
“A fine name,” she assured him. “So long as it belongs to you.”
It turned out there were two Johns among the footmen. After Alexandra met the rest of the butler’s staff and a complete set of outdoor servants, another man stepped out of the house. Dressed like a perfect gentleman, he was tall and big boned. He had a wide nose, full lips, and skin the color of a moonless night.
“My valet,” Tris said quietly, obviously noting her surprise.
Though she’d never spoken with a black man before, she went up to him unhesitatingly. “Would you care for a coriander biscuit, Mr….?”
“Vincent. Just Vincent. I have no second name.” His deep voice and musical accent made her think of palm trees swaying on a beach. “Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady. My master is bound to be in better spirits with you here.”
“I hope so,” she told him, mentally filing the interesting tidbit that Tris’s valet thought he’d been in poor spirits of late. “Thank you.”
Vincent smiled, displaying a mouth full of large, white teeth. He was impeccably groomed and well mannered, and she liked him very much. But although it was common for servants to call their employers master and mistress, his use of the term, coupled with his lack of a surname, made her wonder if he was a slave.
She turned to Tris, unable to picture him as a man who would own another. With a cryptic smile, he took her arm to cross her over to the women’s side.
Her questions would have to wait for later.
“My indispensable housekeeper,” he said. “Mrs. Oliver.”
A short, slight older woman with pink cheeks and sparkling chocolate eyes, Mrs. Oliver bobbed Alexandra a curtsy. “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady, we’re so pleased that Lord Hawkridge has wed.”
“He was lonely,” Alexandra said softly.
Mrs. Oliver darted Tris a glance. “Yes.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
She beamed. “I expect you’ll do that now.”
“I’m going to try my best.” Alexandra handed Mrs. Oliver a biscuit and moved on.
Although the housemaids had all been called Mary, only one bore that actual name. There were so many that Alexandra despaired of remembering them all as she worked her way down the line, smiling and exchanging pleasantries.
A middle-aged maid named Peggy bobbed a curtsy as she accepted a biscuit. “Will you be needing a lady’s maid, my lady?”
She looked kind and friendly, with pale green eyes and a mop of slightly graying brown curls beneath her starched cap. Alexandra returned her smile. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I shared my maid with my two sisters.” She looked to Mrs. Oliver for approval, and when the older woman nodded, turned back to Peggy. “Would you like the position?”
“I should be honored, my lady. I served the last Lady Hawkridge. I’m very good with hair.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Alexandra assured her and moved on to meet everyone else.
When the introductions were finally complete, she handed her basket to the cook, a plump woman in her forties with a button of a nose and pale blond hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Will you all share the rest, Mrs. Pawley? And I hope you won’t mind me invading your kitchen now and again. I do adore making sweets.”
Mrs. Pawley’s merry blue eyes looked surprised, but she quickly hid that with a smile. “I do adore eating sweets, my lady.”
“Then we should get along famously,” Alexandra said.
Tris took her by the hand. “Shall I show you the house?”
She’d forgotten to replace her gloves, and her fingers tingled in his, reminding her of what was to come tonight. The servants hurried past them, returning to their tasks as she stepped into her new home for the first time.
The entry led straight into the great hall, a beautiful rectangular room with a floor of black and white marble squares. Above Alexandra’s head, a large octagonal opening in the ceiling was railed all around, so those standing above could see down to where she stood. It lent a height and grandeur to the room that made it that much more impressive.
Before she could say as much, though, a huge dog came bounding down the stairs. It slid across the marble floor, jarring their hands apart as it rammed straight into Tris.
“Oof!” he said with a laugh. “This is Rex. Rex, your new mistress. Shake.”
Fawn colored with a black mask and ears, Rex obediently raised the most enormous paw Alexandra had ever seen. She shook it, wondering if it were her imagination or if the canine looked mistrustful. “He must be twice my weight! You never said you had a dog.”
“He’s not my dog. He came with the house.”
Rex was trotting happy circles around him. “He seems to have adopted you. Did your uncle name him, then?”
“Yes. But it’s not as though he had a choice. According to family lore, there has always been a mastiff named Rex at Hawkridge Hall.”
“And why is that?”
“I asked the same question, but Uncle Harold didn’t know. That didn’t stop him from naming this one Rex, though. The Nesbitts are big on tradition.”
Looking around the room, she could see what he meant by that as well as his earlier comment that the house was seventeenth century down to the furniture. Indeed, although the various tables and chairs were lovingly cared for—beautifully carved, polished to a high sheen, and reupholstered in rich fabrics—they were heavy pieces compared to modern furniture. And the gorgeous paneling on the walls, though recently refinished, obviously dated from earlier times as well. “Goodness. Is everything just the same as when the house was built?”
“Tradition,” he repeated with a smile. “But if you look carefully, you’ll see some recent improvements.”
Alexandra’s gaze followed his gesture to a lamp attached to the wall, containing a yellowish open flame protected from drafts by a glass chimney. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Gas lighting? Indoors?” Although gas was increasingly being used to illuminate London’s streets, she’d never seen it in a house.
“Yes,” Tris said proudly. “Installed it myself. With help from two of the Johns.” He shook his head. “Make that one John and Ted.”
She smiled, appreciating his willingness to adapt—not just his attitude toward the servants, but to the latest advancements. She supposed she shouldn’t find it surprising that a man who employed progressive farming techniques, a man who built things like pumps, would also implement gas lighting. “Did you design the lamps yourself, too?”
“No, but I believe I’ve improved on the original design some.” He showed her the key mechanism by which she could turn the gas on and off or adjust the height of the flame, and he watched her practice until he was satisfied she understood. “You catch on quickly.�
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“It’s not difficult. Where does the gas come from?”
“I’m burning coal in a closed iron vessel outdoors, a safe distance from the house. The resulting gas is piped inside.”
“How very clever.”
He shrugged. “This is a small system, conceived as an experiment. Now that it’s proved successful, I’m currently building a large gasworks that will be used to supply the entire village. When it’s finished, all the streets and businesses—and homes, should people like—will be lit by gas. And once that’s complete, I hope to form a group to pursue an enterprise wherein we approach larger towns and cities to build gasworks and supply them via gas mains.”
He was so different from the other men she knew. “A gentleman doesn’t aspire to enterprise,” she teased. “Such an undertaking would limit his time for amusements.”
Too late she realized he wouldn’t be welcome in any gentlemen’s clubs or the other places men frequented to amuse themselves. But he seemed as determined as she was to avoid thinking of such unpleasantness tonight, because he just shrugged again in a genial manner. “I’m afraid I’m tainted by my common roots.”
Though she loved his dry humor, her smile was mostly one of relief. “You do like having the newest, don’t you?”
“Tradition is fine, but progress can also be good. And progress will march on regardless, so we may as well make ourselves part of it.” He took her hand again. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
While Rex followed at their heels, Tris led her through the ground-floor rooms, teasing her palm with his thumb all the while so she could hardly pay any attention. She gleaned little more than general impressions, and even those were muddled. The main parlor looked pretty and comfortable, the dining room had a beautiful two-toned parquet floor, and the study—which, oddly enough, was accessed through the dining room—had a heavy, ancient-looking desk. There were also some lovely guest rooms and Tris’s uncle’s rooms—which Tris seemed reluctant to go into.
“I can see them later,” she told him. “Where am I going to sleep?”
For truly, beautiful as the house was, having blanked her mind of worrisome concerns she could think of little else besides sharing one of these rooms with him tonight.
Finally he led her up the massive oak staircase, a feature clearly built to impress. Rex bounded up ahead, his huge body taking the wooden steps with amazing ease. Alexandra skimmed her free hand along the polished wood handrail, the panels beneath composed of boldly carved cannons, muskets, lances, and other trophies of war, all highlighted by sparkling gold leaf.
“Goodness,” she asked Tris, “were your ancestors very savage?”
“Not that I’m aware,” he said with a laugh as they reached the landing. He rubbed the dog’s giant head. “Although I understand this house was used as a base of operations to plot against Cromwell in the Civil War.”
The next room looked to be a gallery of sorts. “The round gallery,” Tris clarified.
It wasn’t really round, but a long oval. It was a room mainly used to access others, sort of a very wide corridor with a hole in the middle of the floor—a large, railed octagonal opening where one could see down to the great hall below. But she didn’t take time to look, as she was gaping at the paintings on the walls.
“Corinna is going to die when she sees these,” she said.
He brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek. “Hmm?”
“You know she paints. I cannot believe what you have here.” She gestured to the many gilt-framed canvases. “Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Rubens—”
“That one was painted by one of Rubens’s students.”
“Regardless. She’ll sit here and study these for hours. She’ll forget to eat.”
“Like you at our wedding breakfast?” he asked with a tender smile. “What were you studying, sweetheart?”
You. But she wouldn’t say that, even though he’d just melted her heart by calling her sweetheart. “I simply have a ladylike appetite,” she informed a staid Dutch woman in one of the paintings.
Laughing, he took her elbow to guide her into a corridor, Rex following close behind.
Peggy was in the next room, already unpacking Alexandra’s things. “Enjoying your tour, my lady?”
“Very much.” Alexandra blinked at the sumptuous furnishings. Behind a balustrade in the French style, an enormous state bed sat on a raised parquet dais. Hangings of rich turquoise were heavily embroidered with gold thread, and great poufs of matching ostrich feathers crowned the bed’s four corner posts. The ceiling was elaborate painted plasterwork, the walls hung with heavy, old tapestries.
“It looks fit for a queen,” she breathed.
“Queen Catharine of Braganza, Charles II’s wife,” Tris confirmed. “It was decorated for her visit.”
That was easy to believe. The streaked marble fireplace was adorned with gold crowns. “Is this to be my room?”
“Hell, no,” Tris said.
Peggy didn’t even hesitate, let alone cease unpacking. “My lord, Mrs. Oliver wanted your new lady to have the best Hawkridge has to offer. The last Lady Hawkridge enjoyed this room very much.”
What a saucebox, Alexandra thought, although she supposed that if Peggy were a shy one, she wouldn’t have so boldly asked for the position of lady’s maid. But although the chamber was gorgeous, she couldn’t imagine being comfortable here. Goodness, what if she spilled something on Queen Catharine’s antique counterpane? “It’s lovely,” she said tactfully, “but—”
“Lady Hawkridge will be sharing my rooms,” Tris interrupted. “While we dine, please move her things.”
Peggy blinked. “But—”
“You may ask two footmen to assist you with the trunks. While you’re downstairs, please inform Mrs. Pawley that we’d like a light supper in half an hour.” He took Alexandra’s hand to draw her from the room.
“That was a bit harsh,” she said once they were out of earshot. “I know she defied you, but—”
“I’ve never liked that one.”
“Why have you kept her on, then?”
“She came here as a young girl. What kind of man would I be if I turned her out?” He drew her down the corridor, Rex trotting by his other side. “Are you certain you want her for your maid?”
“Since I’ve already given her the position, I’ll wait and see how we get along. As long as you don’t mind.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Stay, Rex.” As they entered another chamber, he closed the door behind them. “My rooms,” he announced. “And yours, too, as soon as Peggy moves you in here.”
A huge bed dominated the space—an old-style four-poster hung with dark blue velvet bordered in yellow silk. The walls were hung with blue velvet panels on a yellow background, and, set before the fireplace, two cushioned armchairs were upholstered in blue-and-yellow striped fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “And much cozier than the Queen’s Bedchamber.”
“I didn’t want you in separate room,” he said low, making butterflies flutter in her middle. Then he grinned. “Although I was half tempted to leave you there as revenge for putting me in your Gold Chamber.”
“Thank you for resisting.” She heard the heavy thumps of Rex padding away down the corridor. “If you don’t allow him in here, where does he sleep?”
“Given his size, I’d say anywhere he wants. But a man is entitled to a bit of privacy, don’t you think?” He pulled her closer. “Besides, he snores something terrible.”
She began to laugh, but stopped when he gathered her against him. Heat erupted inside her, spreading through her body as his lips descended on hers. He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness before settling into place like he belonged there.
Clearly he did.
He’d kissed her before, of course—several times. But until today, they’d been stolen, forbidden kisses. And the two today—during their wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been barely more than a whisper of l
ips.
This time there was no one watching. This time there were no nagging feelings telling her it was wrong. This time there was blessed solitude, the sanctity of marriage, and the thrilling, compelling pressure of Tris’s mouth claiming hers.
She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossibly wonderful truth that he was hers.
He kissed her lower lip, her upper, then traced a line with his tongue between them. She sighed and opened her mouth, inviting him in. His hands wandered down her back and settled on her bottom, feeling oh so scandalously warm as he drew her more snugly against him.
A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.
“In here,” Peggy directed.
Her head swimming with desire, Alexandra struggled to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.
“Through the sitting room to the dressing room,” Peggy added briskly.
Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn’t even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She gazed at him now, breathless, her body still yearning for something she couldn’t put a name to.
Her new husband’s eyes reflected her own frustration. He sighed and took her arm. “Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
*
LIGHT SUPPER AT HAWKRIDGE turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. She was still reeling from the hasty events, and hunger seemed the last thing on her mind.
Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate’s surprisingly fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfish soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room’s long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn’t snap off her fingers along with the food.
While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn’t the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver’s mother had held the housekeeper’s keys before her; and the groundskeeper’s great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants’ families had served Hawkridge for years.
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