“Tradition,” Alexandra said with a smile.
“Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge’s first female cook in generations, however.” Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a man’s appetite. “Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that.”
So Mrs. Pawley wasn’t married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father’s name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. “Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?”
“During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became evident her father’s retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under an acknowledged master.” Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. “Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender.”
“Her food is delicious.”
“I’m sure Rex thinks so,” he teased with a grin.
The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.
“I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries,” Tris said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, in any case.” He was almost finished, and she still hadn’t brought up the servant she found most curious. “Tell me about Vincent.”
He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass’s rim. “Do I strike you as a man who would own a slave?”
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. “You cannot blame me for wondering.” Though new slave trade had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to prevent one man from owning another. Many in England still did, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.
With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. “Vincent served me well during the years I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left.”
She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was a wonderful thing to do.”
“Merely decent. He was the best valet I’d ever had, and I cannot countenance one man owning another.”
“But your uncle could.”
He shrugged, clearly ambivalent. “Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife’s dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn’t particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation was enacted that would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point.”
“There has been no legislation.”
“There will be. Soon.” He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. “Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves’ plight, but he feared they’d be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace.”
“And you agreed.”
“In theory, perhaps. In practice, no.” He paused for a long swallow of the rich wine. “The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica. I wished the ship carrying the missive strong winds and smooth seas. I couldn’t stand the thought of owning men—regardless of the consequences.”
She’d known he was a good man. Feeling a tightness in her chest, she reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. “And what have those consequences been?”
“Making a profit has proven difficult,” he admitted quietly. “But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income. My honor and integrity come first.” He squeezed her fingers. “A man has to live with himself if he’s to sleep at night.”
Sleep. She’d wager he hadn’t noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, wasn’t a man who would murder his uncle. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.
He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. “Are you finished?”
She nodded, wondering why she felt so unsettled. She knew she’d made the right choice in marrying this man. She’d firmly put off any thoughts of the repercussions it would have on her family. And she couldn’t be worrying about the evening. Griffin had made what would happen sound very simple and straightforward.
But she found herself unaccountably relieved when Tris stood and asked, “Would you like to see more of the house?”
“That would be lovely,” she said with a grateful smile.
As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.
“The north drawing room,” Tris said.
“It’s beautiful.” She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. “Johannes Ruckers,” she read out loud from where the maker’s name was painted above the keyboard.
“Has he a good reputation?” Tris asked from behind her.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don’t expect his company is making instruments anymore.”
“Can you play it?”
“Probably.” Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. “I shall enjoy trying it, but is there no pianoforte?”
He shook his head. “I’ll get one for you.”
“There’s no need—”
“I want you to be happy here.” He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.
Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.
“I don’t think he likes me kissing you,” Tris observed.
“He’s jealous. Until now you were all his.”
“He’s not mine. I told you—”
“That’s not what he thinks.”
Tris stared hard at the dog, opened his mouth, then shut it. “Well, he’s going to have to get used to sharing me. Come see the long gallery.”
Rex followed them through another door into a lengthy tunnel of a room. A room that called for quiet. Woven matting on the parquet floor muffled their footsteps. Large paintings in heavy gilt frames were spaced evenly along the dark paneled walls.
Even Rex kept quiet as they walked along slowly, gazing at the pictures. The painters here weren’t important; this gallery was all about their subjects. Gentlemen in silks and velvets, ladies in stiff white neck ruffs.
“Some are older than the house,” Alexandra observed softly. “Are they family?”
“Nesbitts, one and all.”
A few of the names were familiar from inside her ring. Henry and Elizabeth. James and Sarah. She stopped to study a canvas whose brass plaque read william and anne. The painting showed that particular Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Alexandra could almost see her graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat.
“They look happy,” she decided.
The next couple, Randal and Lily, looked happy as well. “1680,” she read off the plaque. The man had gray eyes, like Tris’s. His hair looked like Tris’s, too, but longer, and a huge dog that looked just like Rex sat at his feet. A small child stood at his side, still in skirts so she couldn’t tell its gender. The man’s hand rested on the sho
ulder of his pretty, dark-haired lady, who beamed a smile at the baby in her arms.
Alexandra smiled in response. “Everyone here has been happy. I can feel it, can’t you? This is a good house. A real home.” History and tradition fairly oozed from the walls.
“My uncle wasn’t happy,” Tris disagreed quietly.
“Not after his family died, of course. But before?”
“He was happy,” Tris conceded. Clearly unwilling to promise that they would be happy too, he gave her another kiss, short but heartfelt.
She would swear she heard Rex snort.
“The library is through here,” Tris said.
It was a lofty, two-story chamber with dark shelving crammed with important-looking books. Alexandra walked over to pull one out and flip idly through it, the old pages crackling as she turned them.
“You don’t want to read now, do you?” Stepping up behind her, Tris bent to kiss the side of her neck.
“Not really.” Tingling warmth spread from where his lips met her skin. He reached around her to take the book from her hands and set it on a small table, and she turned in his arms to meet his mouth.
Rex’s bark echoed up to the laurel wreath in the center of the high ceiling.
“See why I lock him out of my rooms?” Tris asked with a sigh.
“I hope it’s not because you like to kiss women in there.”
“Only one,” he said with a soft smile that made something kindle deep in her belly. “Shall we escape the beast and go there now?”
Her heart thumped harder than Rex’s tail. “Aren’t there more rooms I haven’t seen?”
“None that cannot wait until tomorrow.” He skimmed his fingertips over her cheek, ignoring Rex’s protest. The pad of his thumb brushed her lips. “And I cannot wait any longer.”
That simple statement made her heart give a little leap. She pressed a hand to her chest. A faint smile curving his bruised lips, he lifted that hand and brushed his mouth over the knuckles before lacing his fingers through hers.
Rex dogged their steps all the way back through the long gallery, the north drawing room, and the round gallery. Tris quickened their pace into the corridor and past the Queen’s Bedchamber. By the time they reached his rooms, they were running. Alexandra laughed at the absurdity. When they finally darted through his bedroom door and he whirled and all but slammed it in the dog’s face, she laughed even harder.
Rex whined once, barked three times, then padded away, his big feet thudding with each step.
“He knows when to give up,” she observed with more giggles.
“You find this humorous?” Tris returned with mock severity. Without waiting for her to answer, he dragged her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss.
It was a kiss of desperate tenderness, a kiss that quickly escalated, igniting heat with its demand. Though she wondered if the pressure hurt his swollen mouth, she couldn’t bring herself to care. The scent of him filled her senses: fresh air and soap and that elusive something she thought of as him. He tasted of Tris and the wine he’d drunk with dinner, and she thought she’d like to taste him, to kiss him, forever.
When he finally released her, she just stood and gazed at him, unsteady on her feet.
“You’re not laughing anymore,” he said with a smug smile.
“Laughing? I think I forgot to even breathe.”
The smile widened as he walked away to turn down the gas lamps. There were four of them mounted on the walls, two on each side of the room. Even battered and bruised, he moved easily, with an innate grace, so tall and handsome in the wedding outfit his valet had cobbled together, the white breeches hugging his muscled thighs.
She could scarcely believe he was hers.
“There,” he said when the room was bathed in a softer, hazier glow. “Isn’t that nicer?”
“It is.” Watching his gaze roam over her, she smoothed the white lace skirt of the dress she’d borrowed from Corinna. “Thank you.”
He shrugged out of his black tailcoat and draped it over the back of one of the striped chairs before he began untying his cravat. As his long fingers worked at the knot, she noticed his tanned hands, their backs lightly sprinkled with hair that glowed golden in the gaslight. She wanted to walk closer and help him, but she didn’t trust her knees. She was forgetting to breathe again. After all those years of hopeless dreaming, to think he was really hers…
It was incredible. She swallowed hard—so hard she feared he’d heard it.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, sitting on the chair.
He had heard it. And misunderstood. “Not really. Griffin told me what to expect.”
He looked a bit startled at that news. “Did he?”
“Oh, yes.”
He tugged off his black pumps and peeled off his white stockings, leaving his feet and well-defined calves as bare as the day he was born. Sweet heaven. If she had to watch him anymore in the act of undressing, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. “When are you going to leave so I can get ready for bed?” she asked a little shrilly.
He gave her a puzzled smile. “I was planning to get you ready for bed myself.”
“Pardon?” That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to leave her, so she could change into Juliana’s pretty nightgown, and then return wearing a dressing gown himself. One that went to the floor and covered all of him. Including his legs, where her gaze seemed to be permanently fastened. “You’re supposed to leave so I can prepare myself and wait for you in the bed.”
He rose and came close, his silvery eyes narrowed. “Says who?”
“Griffin. Griffin told me—”
“Griffin is a muttonhead.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Turn around.”
She did, her gaze falling on the bed. It looked big and soft, and someone had already turned the covers back invitingly. And by all indications, he wasn’t going to let her get in it without him.
After he untied her sash, she felt his fingers freeing the buttons down her back. Practiced fingers. “You’ve done this before.”
“I have buttons on my own clothes, you know.” He managed to sound both amused and evasive. “What else did Griffin tell you?”
“He said it’s not like horses—we will do it face-to-face.”
“Yes, usually,” he said, and before she could ruminate on that, added, “What else?”
Her bodice loosened, and she crossed both hands over her bosom to hold it in place. “He said it would hurt. But just a little, and only the first time.”
He swung her back around, his eyes searching hers. “Are you worried about that?”
“Not really.”
“Good. I’ll go slowly, I promise. If it hurts, just tell me, and I’ll stop.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
He raised her hands from her chest to his mouth and placed a warm kiss to the back of one and then the other.
And her dress fell to the floor, revealing her sleeveless linen chemise.
He stepped back, his gaze roaming hungrily over her half-clothed body. The possessive look in his eyes was more exciting than she could have imagined.
The shiver that ran through her was not from a chill.
When he reached for her, she moved closer, raising her face for his kiss. As his mouth claimed hers, she pressed herself against him, feeling all the hard small buttons that ran down the front of his waistcoat.
He was entirely too clothed compared to her. It wasn’t fair. Maybe she should do something about that. But that would mean drawing away and perhaps even breaking their kiss, which was making her head swim in the most lovely manner.
She sighed into his mouth as he ran his hands over her back, learning her body through her chemise. Her skin prickled pleasurably everywhere he touched. When his hands drifted lower, skimming her bottom, it took everything she had not to squirm in response. His fingers molded themselves to her rounded curves, cupping to pull her closer—
And froze.
“Tris?” she murmured against his mouth.
“Holy Christ.” His voice a husky whisper, he moved his hands experimentally. “Sweetheart, what happened to your drawers?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
*
OBVIOUSLY SURPRISED AT THE question, Alexandra pulled away. “Drawers would ruin the lines of my dresses. I never wear them.”
“Never?” Tristan imagined all the times they’d been together the last few months, going all the way back to their first kiss up on Cainewood’s wall walk. Had she not being wearing drawers then? He remembered all the meals when she’d sat beside him, bare bottomed and mere inches away. That time in the library when he’d reached around her, her backside against his front. Walking alone together after the picnic, teaching her to waltz, dancing with her and reaching to kiss her in the minstrel’s gallery…
Had she never been wearing drawers?
His body reacted to that thought with such violence, it took all he had not to throw her on the bed then and there.
“How about your sisters? Your cousins? The other women of your acquaintance? Do they never wear drawers, either?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”
The last thing he needed now, when he’d promised to take things slowly, was visions of being surrounded by women who went without drawers.
No, forget being surrounded—the thought of Alexandra alone was enough. More than enough. Forget the recollections of the past—how about all the times they’d be together in the future? Would he ever be able to think straight again in her presence?
“A lot of ladies don’t wear drawers,” she said. “Current fashion being as it is, they would show. And they’re still rather new, you know. Some women consider them scandalous. And—”
He stopped her with a kiss. He couldn’t stand hearing any more about drawers. Not without finishing this evening a lot sooner than he’d expected.
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