Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  But if he was hoping for an apology, he was hoping in vain. She’d had enough of other people deciding what was right for her. “Sadly, you cannot leave.”

  “You want me to leave?” He raised his gaze from the table and watched her, waited for her to answer.

  “No,” she said at last on a sigh. Suddenly, she felt beyond weary. All the fight drained out of her. The truth was, although Griffin might be a less than ideal guardian, she couldn’t imagine her life without him. She’d missed him dreadfully the years he was gone. “I don’t know what I want,” she said.

  He sighed, too. “I don’t know what I want, either.” Producing a handkerchief, he brushed the chalk dust off his fingertips. “Life hasn’t been kind to us these past few years, has it?”

  “Perhaps not, but I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself.” She gave him a shaky smile. “As concerns Lord Hawkridge, you’ve nothing to fear, I promise you. Your friend has become a proper gentleman overnight.”

  If part of her regretted that fact, a larger part knew it was for the best.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Griffin smiled back, a relieved smile, then took himself from the room.

  Alexandra sent another ball across the table with a force that outdid her brother’s. It bounced off two cushions and rolled neatly into a pocket.

  If only her life would roll into place that perfectly.

  Chapter 12

  Two days later, Griffin woke on the wrong side of the bed. Or at least that was what Tristan surmised, given his friend hadn’t strung more than three words together during their ride out to the vineyard.

  Leading their horses by the reins, they walked along the riverbank, discussing their final plans prior to setting them in motion. “We’ll site the pump here,” Tristan said, “belowground with a grating over the opening. Ten feet in depth. That will give us the drop we need to start the water flow through the mechanism.” The day before, he’d staked off an area roughly six feet square. “Four straight walls. You’ll want to line them with brick to prevent erosion, but that can wait.”

  Griffin nodded. “I’ll instruct my men to start digging the pit immediately. Is that your drawing of the pipeline?”

  Tristan handed him the sketch. “It’s a fairly straight shot from here to the top of the rise.”

  “And these dotted lines are where you’ve divided the vineyard into seven areas for irrigation?”

  “Each serviced by a section of the pipe that runs along the ridge.”

  “Capping and uncapping each section as needed.” Griffin traced a finger along the path. “The water will run straight down the slope. It should work.”

  Tristan swung up onto his gelding. “Of course it will work. I planned it perfectly,” he quipped, hoping to brighten the mood of the exchange.

  Squinting up at him in the morning sun, Griffin didn’t look convinced.

  When he held out the drawing, Tristan leaned from the saddle to retrieve it. “We’ll make it work,” he added.

  “We?” Griffin asked.

  “Think of me as your schoolmaster. Your first assignment…” Grinning, Tristan folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. “Race me back,” he challenged, taking off before his pupil was mounted.

  Long minutes later when their horses tired, they slowed to a walk. Their friendly competition had served to cut the time of their journey. Tristan had hoped the invigorating ride would also serve to end Griffin’s brooding, but as they continued on in silence, it seemed instead that his low spirits might be contagious.

  As the crenelated walls of the ancient castle came into view across the downs, Griffin’s fists clenched on his reins. “Impressive, isn’t it?” he said in a bitter tone that contradicted his words.

  “Magnificent.” Tristan slanted him a glance. “But you don’t feel like it’s yours, do you?”

  “No,” Griffin said flatly. “It was never meant to be.”

  “Hmm.” Tristan debated whether to sympathize or knock some sense into his friend. The latter was tempting. “Is that why you hesitate to learn how to manage it?”

  “I’m learning,” Griffin protested in an ill-tempered manner. They rode a while longer in silence before he added, “Very well, hang it, I’ve been hesitating.”

  The first step was acknowledging the truth, which Tristan knew because he’d climbed all the steps. Dragged himself up them, one at a time. “You haven’t been home long. I hesitated, too, when I first inherited Hawkridge.”

  “Two years, now. Tell me, do you feel like it’s yours?”

  “I do.” He hadn’t felt that way at first, but he’d made Hawkridge his, put his own brains and sweat into its improvement. “Cainewood will feel like yours, too, someday. You’ll have a family here—”

  “Whoa.” Griffin held up a hand. “I need to find husbands for my sisters before I even think about myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? A gentleman doesn’t put himself first. Besides, I’ve no interest at present—”

  “I meant, why are you set on marrying them off so quickly?”

  Griffin shifted in his saddle, staring straight ahead. “The older two should be wed already, never mind their lack of offers being no fault of their own.”

  Tristan just looked at Griffin until he turned to meet his gaze.

  “Very well,” Griffin finally admitted. “I want my old life back. And while I continue to be responsible for the three of them—”

  “You’ll never have it,” Tristan interrupted.

  “Have what?”

  “Your old life back. Your sisters have nothing to do with it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the happier you’ll be. If you would find a lady—”

  Griffin’s laugh was so harsh it was nearly a bark. “I’m too occupied figuring out how to run this hulk of a place to entertain any thoughts of marrying.” As their horses clip-clopped over the wooden drawbridge and into Cainewood’s quadrangle, Griffin shot Tristan a speculative glance. “I shall look for a lady for you instead. One who isn’t my sister.”

  “No ladies.” Since scandal had tarnished his name, Tristan hadn’t courted any girls at all. “I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to share my circumstances, let alone someone I cared for.”

  “Whatever happened to that girl you left behind in Oxford?”

  “We were talking about your love life, not mine.” When his friend remained closemouthed, Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Doubtless she’s married with several brats. She made it clear she had no interest in waiting while I gallivanted around the globe.”

  How nonchalantly he could say that now. At the time, he’d thought he’d never get over her. He’d sailed for Jamaica with an empty cavity where his heart should have been.

  “And the girl you wrote of from Jamaica?”

  “What is this, an inquisition?” They dismounted, Griffin once more expectantly silent. “She decided against leaving the islands for England,” Tristan explained in an offhand manner.

  The truth was, she’d agreed to marry him, then left him at the altar the day before he sailed.

  The women he loved always left him.

  After a while, he mused as a groom took his horse and he and Griffin crossed the lawn toward the door, a fellow grew up and realized that love was nothing more than an illusion. It wasn’t solid, binding, and secure, as Tristan had once believed. It was neither truth nor fact, but merely a fancy in one’s own mind.

  An image of Alexandra, her warm, round eyes aglow with that look of love, flashed across his vision. She was just as naive, just as vulnerable as he had been. She would blame her first broken heart on circumstances, he knew, but someday she, too, would see through the illusion.

  He could only be thankful he wouldn’t be there to witness it.

  Chapter 13

  “What’s going on here?” Griffin asked a few days later, poking his head into the drawing room.

  “We’re choosing new evening dresses.” Alexandra held up a swatch of fabr
ic. “Would you care to help?”

  “In the dark?” Entering, he blinked. “Why in blazes have you closed the draperies?” He strode toward one of the windows.

  “No!” Juliana cried. “We must see the fabrics by candlelight.”

  “Whose bacon-brained idea was that?” Griffin turned to the mantua-maker.

  Madame Rodale laid a plump hand on her ample bosom. “Not mine, my lord, I assure you,” she said in her fake French accent.

  “It was A Lady of Distinction’s idea,” Corinna informed him.

  “A lady of what?”

  “A Lady of Distinction. The author of The Mirror of the Graces.”

  “The book you bought for all of us,” Juliana reminded him as she pawed through a box of lace. “To help us catch husbands. A Lady of Distinction says we must choose our dress fabrics by candlelight, because otherwise we might select a pale yellow in daylight that appears black by night.”

  “Yellow appearing black? What swill is this? It appears I’ve bought a manual authored by a complete—”

  Griffin broke off, apparently unable to come up with a word to describe her that was acceptable in mixed company.

  “Twit?” Corinna suggested.

  “A twit, yes. Perhaps you girls shouldn’t read that book, after all.”

  “Oh, thank heavens,” Alexandra breathed.

  Juliana nodded. “That twittish Lady of Distinction also says we should never paint our faces, and we should wear only modest clothing no matter the current fashions.”

  “Does she?” Griffin smiled. “Keep reading, then.”

  All three sisters groaned.

  “What do you think of this yellow?” Corinna held a square of fabric to Juliana’s cheek.

  “Pretty, but bright,” Alexandra said. “Didn’t you tell us A Lady of Distinction favors pastels?”

  “It’s called jonquille,” the mantua-maker put in. “And it’s très fashionable.”

  Juliana gave a happy sigh. “I shall have it, then.”

  “How can you even see it?” Griffin complained loudly.

  “Griffin?” Tris barged into the drawing room. “We must leave soon, if I’m to—” Locking gazes with Alexandra, he cut off. “Pardon me,” he said quickly and turned to leave, much to her relief.

  Grabbing him by the upper arm, Griffin pulled him back into the room. “Do sit down. You, too, can help my sisters choose their new evening dresses.”

  “Choose dresses?” Tris echoed dubiously. But he sat, arranging his rangy form on a sofa.

  Alexandra would have sighed if she wasn’t afraid it would draw too much attention. In the past week, for her own comfort and to mollify her brother, she’d done her best to avoid Tris. Happily, that had proved a simple matter, since he’d been feverishly working on his scheme to save the vineyard.

  Tris had taken to rising at dawn and breakfasting before Alexandra, an early riser herself, even ventured forth from her room. He spent most of his daylight hours in the temporary workshop Griffin had set up for him off the quadrangle between the laundry and the dairy, effectively hidden from where her family lived on the two upper floors. And when he wasn’t in the workshop building his contraption, he was at the foundry visiting workmen or out in the fields directing construction. Alexandra rarely saw him except at dinner.

  Though all of that made things a little easier, she was impatient for him to finish and return to Hawkridge. For now, she decided, she would simply ignore him.

  At least he was focused on Griffin at the moment, rather than her. “It’s dark in here,” he said.

  A twinkle in Griffin’s eye was apparent even in the dimness. “Did you not know,” he drawled, “that dress material is best selected by candlelight, lest something pale yellow in the daytime appear black by night?”

  “Black?” Tris crossed his arms. “What sort of addlepated—”

  “We can open the curtains now,” Juliana interrupted. “We’ve all chosen our fabrics.”

  “Look at mine.” While Griffin went to pull back the draperies, Corinna held up a swatch of the palest pink. “It’s called blush.”

  “It’s lovely,” Tris said. Although Alexandra was busy ignoring him, she couldn’t help but observe his amusement at the goings-on.

  “And Alexandra,” Juliana announced with a long pause for dramatic effect, “will be wearing amaranthus.”

  “Amaranthus?” Tris sounded even more entertained.

  “A bright shade of purple with a pinkish tint.” As a painter, Corinna was good at describing colors. “Show him, Alexandra.”

  Alexandra didn’t want to show Tris anything. She wanted to smack her sister, but she supposed A Lady of Distinction wouldn’t approve. Instead she reluctantly held forth a piece of the silk, which shimmered in the newly admitted sunlight.

  “Hmm,” Tris said.

  Corinna grinned at her sister while addressing the room in general. “Can you believe it?”

  “Believe what?” Griffin asked.

  “That she would wear such a color. She always wears blue.”

  “Does she?”

  “Her room is blue, the ribbons on her bonnets are blue, her shoes are blue—”

  “Are they?” Griffin asked, looking perplexed. He stared at Alexandra’s blue shoes where they peeked out from beneath her blue skirts. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “He’s such a boy,” Juliana said to no one in particular.

  Corinna shrugged. “Madame Rodale showed Alexandra a stunning swatch of bishop’s blue—”

  “I’m tired of wearing blue,” Alexandra interrupted. “I wish to wear a different color. Many different colors,” she amended. “A new color every day.”

  The old Alexandra would have opted for blue, but then the old Alexandra would have spent weeks or months languishing after Tris as well. And she was quite over him.

  She just wished he’d go home.

  “You all made lovely choices,” Tris said. “But, Griffin, we really must be off.”

  “Tristan has finished the pump,” Griffin explained. “We spent the morning overseeing its installation. A perfect installation, I might add.”

  “We hope.” Tris didn’t look quite as confident as her brother. “Now that it’s been running a few hours, I’d like to inspect it once again before I leave.”

  “You’re leaving?” The words tumbled out of Alexandra’s mouth before she had a chance to think.

  “This afternoon, assuming everything continues well.”

  “Oh,” she said. He was leaving. Her wish was coming true.

  So why did she feel as though all the air had quite suddenly been sucked right out of her?

  Juliana slanted her a glance. “The pump must be very impressive,” she said to Tris. “May we all come along and see it?”

  His gaze slid to Alexandra and back before he answered. “There’s really not much to see.”

  “We could bring a picnic!” Corinna gestured outside the bright windows. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yes, please.” Juliana turned to Griffin. “We haven’t picnicked in months. As a matter of fact”—she paused for effect—“we haven’t done anything at all as a family in months.”

  Juliana sounded so sincere, Alexandra wondered if perhaps she truly did want to picnic, rather than just wanting to throw her together with Tris for an afternoon.

  But on second thought, both her sisters looked entirely too expectant. It was definitely a ploy.

  A ploy their brother was falling for.

  “Perhaps we could picnic,” he said, looking to Tris.

  Tris raked a hand through his hair, messing it up as usual. “I was planning a quick ride out, a quick look, and a quick ride back.” A picnic would mean a carriage, considering they’d have to bring baskets and blankets and other assorted paraphernalia. None of which brought to mind the word quick. “I was hoping to get home before dinner.”

  “You could have dinner back here before you leave.” The look Griffin shot his friend was a mixture of pleadi
ng and apologetic. “The days are long this time of year, so you’ll still have sunlight should you ride home later.” When Tris shrugged, Griffin turned to Alexandra. “What do you think?”

  Her poor, misguided brother was just trying to make his sisters happy. Which meant there was no way she could get out of this without looking like a cantankerous crab, even though agreeing would mean hours shut up in a carriage with Tris.

  Well, at least they wouldn’t be alone, she told herself, forcing a smile to curve her lips. “Why, I think it sounds delightful.”

  “Mesdemoiselles.” Madame Rodale cleared her throat and held up a large scrapbook filled with fashion plates. “You have yet to select your designs.”

  Griffin strode over and took the book from her hands. “They can choose during the drive. You won’t mind, will you, Madame?” He unleashed his charming, crooked grin. “If you’ll but wait a few hours, I should be tremendously grateful.”

  Madame, who was old enough to be his mother, blushed to the roots of her graying hair. “Very well,” she murmured, forgetting her fake French accent.

  Griffin’s charm could be lethal. No wonder he had so many friends.

  “It’s all settled, then.” He turned his smile on the rest of them. “Girls, you have half an hour to wheedle a picnic lunch out of François and change your clothes should your feminine sensibilities require that. What does one wear to a picnic? A carriage dress? A walking dress?”

  “A garden dress,” Alexandra informed him, forgiving him his masculine ignorance.

  When he was nice like this, she wanted to kick herself for telling him he should leave.

  Chapter 14

  “That was delicious.” In the shade of a large elm atop a rise overlooking the grapevine-covered slope, Tristan leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out on the red blanket Griffin’s sisters had packed along with the picnic lunch. He glanced into the empty basket and feigned good-natured surprise. “What, no famous Chase sweets to complete the meal?”