Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  She yawned, daintily covering her mouth with a gloved hand.

  He took it to draw off the glove. “You’re sleepy,” he said, keeping his voice low so Griffin’s coachman couldn’t hear.

  She swallowed nervously as he slipped the silk from her fingers. “I was up most of the night.” With her free hand, she motioned toward a covered basket perched carefully on top of her other belongings. “I made coriander biscuits for your staff.”

  Removing her second glove, he stifled a smile. Such a gesture was all but unheard of, but so very Alexandra. “They’re certain to be surprised.”

  “Pleasantly surprised, I hope.”

  “I have no doubt.” He pressed a kiss to her bare palm. Carefully, because his bottom lip was still tender where Griffin had bashed him in the teeth. But he’d have endured any pain to hear the little gasp that escaped her.

  Smiling into her palm, he kissed it again. “I wish I’d known you were baking. I would have kept you company.”

  “Griffin did, instead,” she told him, obviously struggling to appear unaffected. “He was rather cheerful despite the blood and bruises.”

  Tristan shrugged. “In an odd way, it felt good to fight.”

  She shook her head. “Heaven help me, I’ve married a lunatic.”

  Chuckling, he kissed her palm once more and felt her shiver.

  After composing herself, she slanted him a curious glance. “He said he hit you first.”

  His smile spread into a grin. “But I got the better of him, didn’t I?”

  “You look rather the worse for wear yourself.” She ran gentle fingers over his bruised jaw and across his sore lip, then blinked and snatched her hand away, apparently surprised to find herself touching him so boldly in public. “But the black eye Griffin woke up with this morning was more colorful.”

  “He was suffering from the headache this morning, too, I do believe.”

  “That was because he drank most of a bottle of Madeira.” Her smile was the fond smile of a sister. “Why did he hit you?”

  “Because I told him to.”

  She blinked up at him. “Whyever would you do that?”

  “More evidence of my lunacy.”

  Shaking her head, she looked back toward the road. Her hair, which had been covered by a lace veil for the ceremony, was very simply dressed. Several strands had blown loose. Sweeping the baby hairs off her neck, he leaned closer to kiss her nape.

  She shivered again, not hiding it this time. He laid a hand on her cheek to turn her face toward him and brushed his lips across hers.

  “The coachman,” she whispered.

  “He’s not watching.”

  “He has only to turn his head.”

  “We’re allowed to kiss. We’re married.”

  She blushed and looked down. “Yes, we are,” she said, twisting the wide gold band on her finger. “I didn’t expect you’d have a ring on such short notice.”

  “On the way back from London, I stopped at Hawkridge to pick it up.”

  “It fits me perfectly.” She rubbed the plain surface, burnished from years of wear. “Is it old?”

  “Very. A family heirloom,” he said, reaching to gently pull it off. “There are names and dates inside.” He handed it to her so she could see.

  “So many!” She held it up to the setting sun, squinting at the tiny, engraved letters. “Henry and Elizabeth, 1579. James and Sarah, 1615. William and Anne, 1645. Randal and Lily, 1677.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. “And more. So many generations.”

  Such a long, noble line whose reputation he’d destroyed. And now, Alexandra’s and her family’s, too.

  He wouldn’t think about that, he decided as he watched her admire the ring. Maybe tomorrow he would think about those things, but not tonight.

  Their wedding night.

  He smiled. ”I’ll have our names and year added the next time we’re in London. You don’t mind that it’s old?”

  “Heavens above, no.” She slipped it back on her finger possessively. “I cannot imagine a more perfect ring.”

  Knowing how she valued tradition, he’d hoped she’d feel that way. But he hadn’t been sure. “I’m glad,” he told her.

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you suppose all the other wearers were happy?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I think they were,” she said decisively. “And we will be, too,” she added through a yawn.

  He wished he could be so confident.

  He wasn’t at all sure that she’d adjust well to his isolated life. That she wouldn’t come to resent him. That she’d retain her calm assurance without society’s stamp of approval.

  That he wouldn’t unknowingly do her harm.

  That, in the long run, he wouldn’t lose her.

  Her family would always be there for her, and she could at any time decide to run back into their comforting arms. There she could make a different life for herself. Husbands and wives who lived apart were all too common among the aristocracy.

  Her head felt heavy against his sore shoulder. He reached up to stroke her hair, welcoming the dull ache, because it reminded him that she was his, at least for now. Because, anxious as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry they’d married. Not now—not with the sun sinking quickly and their wedding night just over the horizon.

  “Tris?” she murmured sleepily.

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you.”

  His stomach clenched. His fingers tangled in her tresses and stilled. Not I think I’m in love with you, but I love you. Three simple words said with a quiet conviction he could never, ever return. Such was beyond him.

  She fell asleep waiting for the response he couldn’t give.

  Chapter 37

  “We’re almost home,” Alexandra heard softly in her ear.

  She startled awake, lifting her head to look around. The road they were on followed the Thames, and as they turned off it and started up a wide drive, Hawkridge Hall came into view. Although it wasn’t a castle like Cainewood, the symmetrical H-shaped building looked large and imposing, three stories of red brick.

  The sight of it brought her crashing down to earth. She’d spent the past day in a haze of disbelief, but now her new home loomed before her. A new place. A new life…one that had cost her family dearly.

  Tris squeezed her hand as they approached. “What do you think?”

  Sweet heaven, she loved him. She swallowed hard, resolving to tuck the negative thoughts away—at least for today. It was her wedding day. How long had she dreamed of this day with Tris, never daring to hope it might actually happen?

  Besides, she was going to prove he was innocent—so her family’s reputation would be saved.

  “Very impressive,” she replied with a smile. She was not taking her happiness at the expense of her family. Not in the long run, anyway. She just needed a week or two to set everything to rights. “Is the house very old?”

  “Seventeenth century, down to the furniture.” He smiled at her bemused expression. “You’ll see when we get inside.”

  As they skirted the old stone statue in the center of the circular drive, the arched front door opened. Servants poured out onto the two sets of stone steps, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and welcome.

  Alexandra watched as they arranged themselves carefully, men along the left and women on the right. “They knew we were coming?”

  “I told them yesterday, when I stopped by to get your ring and my wedding clothes. I suspect they’ve been in a frenzy since then, getting the house all ready for a new mistress.”

  She disengaged her hand to reach forward and grab her basket. “I hope they’ll like me.”

  “They’ll love you.” He turned her face toward him and pressed a kiss to her lips, quick but heartfelt. “They won’t be able to help themselves.”

  Seeing grins spread on several of the staff’s faces, she blushed wildly. And wished he’d said he would
n’t be able to help loving her. She’d have to give him time. Though she was determined to knock down that wall around him, it was looking like she’d have to do it brick by brick.

  Another project for the coming weeks.

  Directly in front of the door and all those smiling faces, the carriage rolled to a halt. A footman rushed to help Alexandra down. “Welcome to Hawkridge Hall, my lady.”

  “Thank you,…?”

  “John,” Tris provided as he climbed out behind her. “Uncle Harold called all the footmen John.”

  “Well, that’s just plain silly.” Here, finally, she felt in her element. With two years’ experience running Cainewood Castle, she knew how to handle a household staff. She reached into her basket. “Would you care for a coriander biscuit? And pray, what is your given name?”

  “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 an array 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 wasn’t uncommon 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 looked at Tris, unable to picture him as a person 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 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 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 an impressive height and grandeur to the room.

  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 young man who employed progressive farming techniques, 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.”

  “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 young 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 young men frequented to amuse themselves. But he seemed as determined as she was to avoid thinking of such unpleasantness, 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 seem to like having the very best and newest, though.”

  “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.”