Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  “Positive ones, I believe.” Tristan was very happy to hear Alexandra had followed his directions. He didn’t know if he could handle any more excitement today. Now that her damned investigation was over, he just wanted to see if they could settle into something resembling a marriage.

  He turned and twisted the knob.

  “She’s not questioning anyone, either,” Vincent added. “I know you were concerned about that, so you’ll be pleased to hear that Peggy is doing it instead.”

  Tristan turned back. “Doing what?”

  “Questioning the staff. Peggy came to me an hour ago, asking if I recalled anyone who might have worked here four years ago but has since left. She’s compiling a list for your lady.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it clever of your wife to widen the search?”

  “Quite.” No one had ever accused Alexandra of being dullwitted. To the contrary, it seemed she was too bright for her own good. “She’s not going to find anything, though. My uncle died in his sleep. Of a broken heart.”

  “Of course he did. But I find it endearing that your lady wishes so much to prove otherwise.”

  Endearing , Tristan thought as he cracked open the door and slipped inside. That wasn’t the word he would have chosen. Exasperating was more like it.

  Why couldn’t she understand that he wanted her to stop poking around where she didn’t belong?

  She slumbered, huddled on her side beneath the covers, a small lump in his big bed. It occurred to him that now was his chance to dump her onto the floor. But he couldn’t do it. Upset as he was to learn she was still pursuing her damned investigation, after nearly losing her this morning he couldn’t summon the anger he’d felt last night.

  But dread of what she might find…that he could summon well enough.

  The room was dim but not yet dark. He walked over and stood by the bed. Her even features were outlined against the white sheets like the profile portrait she’d made of him so long ago.

  “Alexandra,” he called softly, half expecting her to sleep on like she had earlier. A hint of that panic came back, the blind fear he’d felt when he couldn’t awaken her.

  This time, though, she opened her eyes and yawned. “Tris?” she said in a sleepy murmur.

  She would never know how endearing he found it when she called him that. Endearing. He was so relieved to see the gas hadn’t seriously harmed her.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Not really.” She struggled to sit up against the pillows. “How did everything go at the gasworks?”

  “Very well. The construction is back on track.” He sat beside her on the mattress, his weight on the featherbed making her tilt toward him. “How was your day, then?”

  “Disappointing.” She sighed. “Mrs. Pawley recollected a scullery maid who’d left for Armstrong House to take a better position. I went—”

  “You went to Armstrong House?” He blinked. “I thought you were going to the village.”

  “I was going to the village—I even made sugar cakes to take with me—until I learned about Beth.” He thought he saw guilt cloud her features, but it was immediately replaced by other emotions he couldn’t read. “Then, when I got to Armstrong House, Miss Armstrong wouldn’t let me in the door. Peggy had to talk to Beth instead.” She swallowed hard. “I must confess, I didn’t like your Miss Armstrong much.”

  “I don’t care for her much anymore, either,” he assured her, noting her furrowed brow and haunted eyes. She was more upset by the rejection than she was letting on. It was on the tip of his tongue to soothe her by suggesting Leticia’s attitude could have stemmed as much from his past history with her as from true outrage at his disgrace, but he decided there was no point.

  This would happen over and over, and he wouldn’t be able to shrug off the next incident as easily.

  Though he’d known the isolation and disapproval would hurt her, seeing her suffer ripped him up inside. It was why he hadn’t wanted to marry. And why he feared she would leave him when she decided she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “You shouldn’t have gone there,” he said.

  Guilt flashed again, this time replaced by determination. “I had to find out if Beth had any information, Tris, don’t you see?”

  He didn’t see. Or rather, he saw all too well that she wouldn’t stop digging in his past, threatening his hard-won equilibrium. He scooped a hand through his hair, fighting to maintain his even temper. “I thought you said it was over.”

  “You cannot expect me to ignore new information. I’ve asked Peggy to find out if there are any more servants who have left as well. If there’s any chance—”

  “I want you to stop this.”

  “I cannot.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s too important. This is our life and the lives of my sisters. We’re married for better or worse, but I cannot help trying to make it better.”

  He sat silent for a moment, trying to accept that. It wasn’t easy. If she continued asking questions, neither of them were going to be happy with the answers. But he consoled himself that at least she had told him the truth. He hadn’t known she’d been to Armstrong House, and she’d volunteered the information. She wasn’t trying to hide anything, wasn’t sneaking around behind his back.

  Of course she wasn’t. She was Alexandra.

  “I don’t want to fight,” he said finally, determined to regain his earlier mood. When he rode up to the house, he’d been so eager to see her. There was no sense ruining the entire evening. If she was going to leave him someday—when society got the best of her—he wanted to enjoy their time together. “I’m disappointed—very disappointed—that you’re not willing to let go of this. But I don’t want another fight.”

  Her eyes grew misty, which cut him to the core, because he’d never seen Alexandra cry. “I don’t want to fight, either.”

  A knock came at the door, and Vincent entered with their dinner tray. Or rather, two trays. And then he brought in a third. Mrs. Pawley had sent up a veritable feast. Alexandra composed herself and Tristan lit the gas lamps while Vincent put everything in the sitting room. The valet ducked back into the corridor to fetch a fourth tray holding a bottle of Hawkridge’s wine, two glasses, plates, and utensils. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “Thank you, Vincent.” Tristan saw him back to the door. “This will do.”

  “This will do?” Alexandra asked when they were alone again. “There’s enough food here to feed the entire household!”

  “Well, come fix yourself a plate.”

  Shaking her head, she slid out of bed and started for the sitting room.

  He stared, incredulous. “What are you wearing?”

  “I borrowed it from Juliana.” She stopped and twirled in the monstrosity, making yards and yards of white fabric and lace bell out and swirl about her. “Do you like it?” she asked, sounding a bit hesitant. “I know it’s a little short on me, but my own nightgowns are so plain, I thought you would find this much prettier.”

  His gaze traveled from the frilly ruffle under her chin to the four rows of tiered lace skimming her ankles. The wide sleeves were gathered at the wrist with a six-inch spill of froth that completely concealed her hands. But the worst of it was the body of the gown—there was so much material, he wondered if he’d even find it possible to work his way underneath it.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to tell her how much he hated it. “I like you better in nothing,” he said tactfully.

  She blushed. “Oh. I’m not certain that’s proper.”

  “There hasn’t been much proper about our relationship, has there?” She looked so flustered he couldn’t help but smile as he led her through to the sitting room. “Here’s a plate.”

  Vincent had brought fish, roast duck, lamb cutlets, artichoke bottoms, mushrooms, green peas, boiled cauliflower, plum pudding, apricot fritters, and bread. Alexandra took an artichoke bottom, three mushrooms, a small piece of bread, and some butter.

&nbs
p; “That’s all?” Tristan asked.

  “I told you I’m not hungry.”

  Setting his plate aside, he laid a hand on her forehead. “Are you ill?”

  “No. Just tired.”

  “Get in bed.”

  “With my food?”

  “People eat breakfast in bed, don’t they? Why not dinner?”

  After she was settled against the pillows, he poured two large glasses of wine and handed her one. She sipped it while he undressed.

  “I’m going to stay home tomorrow,” he said, divesting himself of his coat and cravat.

  “Hmm,” she said pleasantly, sipping again.

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it. “I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. And journal entries to record.” He made short work of removing his braces, then loosened his cuffs and undid the buttons at the top of his shirt. “I’m weeks behind on that sort of business.”

  She licked her lips as he stripped the shirt off over his head. “I suppose that’s Griffin’s fault.”

  “I’m not placing blame.” He couldn’t help but notice her watching him. Smiling to himself, he sat beside her on the bed to remove his boots and stockings. “It’s just something I need to do.”

  “It shall be nice to have you here,” she said while he unbuttoned his falls and untied the ribbon securing his short drawers.

  He felt, rather than saw, her avid gaze on him as he stood and pushed everything down and off. His body reacting to that gaze in a very obvious way, he turned to her and grinned. She gulped the rest of her wine, licking her lips again while he took the glass from her hand and set it on the bedside table.

  “Eat,” he said, pointing to the untouched plate in her lap. She nodded and reached blindly for her fork.

  He knew she watched as he walked through the sitting room to the dressing room. A man appreciated that admiring look on a woman’s face. Assuming he could find his way under her hideous nightgown, this promised to be a fine evening after all.

  But first things first. His stomach was rumbling, and Mrs. Pawley’s lovely dinner was going cold. Tamping down his ardor, he hurried into a dressing gown and returned to the sitting room to fill a plate for himself. A little of everything, with some extra meat for good measure. It was supposed to lend a man sexual strength.

  He turned and walked toward the bedroom, thinking to tell Alexandra as much and enjoy her reaction.

  She was sound asleep, her head lolling on the pillows.

  “Alexandra?” She slumbered on. He took the tray off her lap and set it aside. “Alexandra?” She was out so cold, if he didn’t know better, he might fear gas poisoning again.

  He ate his dinner and tried again, shaking her shoulder a little this time. “Alexandra?” Still no reaction.

  He turned off all the gaslights. Then went back and double-checked them all. And a third time. “Alexandra?”

  Quite obviously, she was out for the night.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to sleep this early—to bed perhaps, but not to sleep. Yet he climbed up beside her, pulled her into the curve of his body, wrapped an arm around her…and held her all night.

  Chapter Forty

  *

  “SWEET HEAVEN, WHAT IS that noise?” Alexandra asked the next morning at breakfast.

  “Rex. I left him asleep in the study.” Her husband gestured toward the connecting door. “I told you he snores.”

  “He’s louder than your ram pumps,” she marveled as a footman poured her tea. “I’m surprised he hasn’t wakened me in the night.”

  “Nothing would have wakened you last night.” She’d never before seen Tris roll his eyes. “I won’t ever again serve you wine at bedtime,” he declared in a failed attempt to sound serious.

  “I cannot blame you for that.” She didn’t remember falling asleep, and she’d awakened to find herself alone. But the sheets had still held the faint scent of him, and she’d been aware all night of him holding her, curled against her back like two spoons nestled together. “I was sorry to see you gone when I woke.”

  He sipped his coffee, looking disgusted. “I woke to find myself in the kitchen.”

  “On the floor?”

  “No. Just standing there, eating one of your sugar cakes.”

  “Stealing sweets in the night again?” she teased over the continuing rumble of the mastiff’s snores. “See, you sleepwalked, and nothing bad happened.”

  Tris ignored her subtle dig. “We were talking about you falling asleep on me,” he said instead, his tone implying he wished she hadn’t.

  She felt her cheeks warm. From time to time during the night, she’d been aware of the aroused state of his body pressed against hers. But for the life of her, she’d been unable to bestir herself enough to take advantage of it. “I can only drink half a glass of wine. Any more and I—”

  “Fall asleep?” he provided with a raised brow. He cut a bite of ham.

  “Or get very, very silly.”

  He looked thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “I cannot imagine you silly; that would truly be a sight. However, I’m not sure I’m willing to risk you falling asleep in order to see it.”

  Two thunderous snorts came from the adjoining room, followed by blessed silence. Rex must have rolled over. Smiling, Alexandra reached for the jam pot. “Did you make a dent in the work in your study this morning?”

  “A rather large dent, as a matter of fact. I may even find time to get out and take care of some business later in Windsor.” He sprinkled salt on his eggs, watching her spread jam on her toast. “It won’t take long. I promise to be back in time for dinner.”

  “I’m not passing judgment on you. I know you have much to do, thanks partially to my brother.”

  She also knew she wasn’t offering him much incentive to remain home, given the way she insisted on going against his wishes. It was almost as though she could feel him pulling away, distancing himself from her emotionally.

  She set down her knife. “I have much to do as well,” she said, watching him pick up the jam pot and wondering why he was frowning. She was trying her best to be cooperative. “I’m meeting this morning with Mrs. Oliver to go over—”

  “No!” He dropped the jam pot, reached across the table, and snatched the bread from her hand.

  She blinked. “Tris?”

  “It’s strawberry.” He swiped a finger across her toast and licked, turning ashen as he confirmed it. “Strawberry preserves, not cherry.”

  “Dear God in heaven.” Her heart pumping wildly, she realized the skin on the side of her index finger felt prickly. Looking down and spotting a telltale streak of red preserves there, she quickly wiped it off. “I should have looked,” she said, searching her hands for other traces of jam. Finding none, she released a tense breath.

  When she glanced up, Tris had gone even whiter beneath his tan. “I must have switched the preserves in the jam pot.” He scraped rigid fingers through his hair. “I’ve done it again. I’m harming you in my sleep.”

  “You are not.” She didn’t know which she found more disturbing: discovering strawberries on her toast, or his assumption that he was at fault. “It’s a long way from eating a sugar cake to switching the contents of a jam pot. I’m certain this was an honest mistake. A kitchen maid who didn’t know better must have refilled the pot.”

  “No. Mrs. Pawley assured me she would tell everyone you cannot eat strawberries. It was no mistake. I—”

  “Do you even know where the jam pot is kept?” she interrupted. “Or the preserves?”

  He paused a moment. “I must have hunted around.”

  “In your sleep? I think not. Mrs. Pawley must have neglected to inform someone—not deliberately, of course, but in error.” Who knew how often the woman nipped from the sherry bottle? “Let’s call in the kitchen staff and get to the bottom of this.”

  A few minutes later, the dining room was crowded with kitchen maids, scullery maids, and the small boys who did odd jobs belo
wstairs. Mrs. Pawley looked perfectly sober—and extremely concerned. Hastings stood solemnly in the back, watching the proceedings. Mrs. Oliver did the questioning.

  “Did you know Lady Hawkridge cannot eat strawberries?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “I did, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Mrs. Pawley made that clear, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “And did you refill the jam pot or see anyone else do so?”

  “No, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “I didn’t, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  It went on and on, so long that Alexandra began to suffer from the headache, especially because all the denials weren’t solving anything. When at long last everyone shuffled out, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I must have done it,” Tris said in a dull, resigned tone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she returned crossly, rubbing her temples. “One of them refilled the pot. I’m not surprised no one would own up to it and risk being dismissed.”

  Someone else had to have done it. She knew, deep in her bones, that a man as good as Tris couldn’t do anything to harm her—or anyone else. Not even in his sleep.

  Struggling for composure, she reached across the table to lay her hand over his. “You’re only sleepwalking because you’re anxious. You said that’s when it happens, didn’t you? It’s a pattern. And I think there’s another pattern at work here as well. You do things when you sleepwalk that you wish you could do while awake. Like make love to me”—she blushed—“or steal more sweets than you’re entitled to.”

  It was a pretty theory, but Tristan wasn’t convinced, let alone at all mollified. “You can argue that I went to the kitchen in the night for sweets. But your pattern theory doesn’t explain why I would leave a gas line open.”

  “You didn’t. Or at least, not on purpose. You got up—and perhaps dealt with the gaslight in some way since it had been left on—and took yourself downstairs to sleep in your study. I had angered you by questioning your staff when you didn’t want me to, so you were separating yourself from me in the night.”