by Cheryl Bolen
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.
She pressed a hand to her chest. A faint smile curving his bruised mouth, he lifted that hand and skimmed his lips 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 dashed through his bedroom door and he whirled and all but slammed it in Rex’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. Laughing had relieved her feelings, calming her nerves.
“You find this humorous?” Tris returned with mock severity. Without waiting for an 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. Though she wondered if the pressure hurt his swollen mouth, she wasn’t about to pull away. Tris-scent filled her senses: fresh air and soap and that elusive something she thought of as him. He tasted of Tris and the wine from dinner, and she thought it was the most delicious flavor she could imagine.
When he finally released her, she was unsteady on her feet.
“You’re not laughing anymore,” he said with a smirk.
“Laughing? I think I forgot to even breathe.”
The smirk 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, gracefully, so tall and striking in the wedding outfit his valet had cobbled together.
Sweet heaven, what had she done to deserve him?
“There,” he said when the room was bathed in a softer, hazier glow. “Isn’t that nicer?”
“It is.” Watching him watch her, she smoothed the white lace 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 hairs 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, girlish dreaming, to think he was really hers…
It was unbelievable. She swallowed hard—so hard she feared he’d heard it.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, sitting on the chair.
He had heard it. “Not really. Griffin told me what to expect.”
He looked a bit startled. “Did he?”
She nodded.
In truth, this wasn’t going at all the way Griffin had led her to believe. Despite her blithe words, her anxiety was returning. Her legs were trembling. She was grateful when Tris beckoned her over to take the other chair—until he pulled her sideways onto his lap.
Her brother hadn’t said anything about lap-sitting. What else had he failed to mention?
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat on anyone’s lap. Sitting on Tris’s lap, leaning into his warmth, made her feel both very childish and very adult at the same time. He began plucking the pins from her hair—which Griffin also had not predicted. “Do you know,” Tris said conversationally, “how much I’ve wanted to do this?”
“How much?” she whispered.
“Too much.” He lowered the heavy mass, finger-combing the curls down her back to her waist. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s terribly unruly.”
“I like it.”
“When are you going to leave so I can get ready for bed?” she asked, her voice coming out a bit shrill.
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. Griffin had said Tris would leave her, so she could change into her nightgown, and then he’d return wearing a dressing gown. “You’re supposed to leave so I can prepare myself and wait for you in the bed.”
His silvery eyes narrowed. “Says who?”
“Griffin. Griffin told me—”
“Griffin is a muttonhead.” With a hand on her cheek, he turned her face toward him. “Forget whatever he told you, sweetheart. He is singularly unimaginative.” Tris smiled so winningly she couldn’t help but smile back. “Besides which, we needn’t follow anyone’s directions. We’ll simply make it up together as we go.”
Still holding her face, he kissed her again—and her anxiety melted away.
Later, as she drifted off to sleep wrapped in her husband’s arms, she honestly couldn’t recall what had worried her so in the first place.
Chapter 39
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of butter rubbed in very fine, two ounces of ginger beat fine, a large nutmeg grated then take a pound of treacle, a quarter of a pint of cream, make them warm together, and make up the bread stiff. Wait a while and then make round balls like nuts and bake them on tin-plates in a slack oven.
These are reminiscent of home, and excellent with a good gossip.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1783
Alexandra woke first and watched Tris sleep in the dim early light. His lashes lay dark against his cheeks, making him look young and sweet and vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his breath drifting in and out between slightly parted lips.
She breathed along with him. She wanted to do everything with him, but for now, breathing would have to do.
When he opened his eyes, she gave him a sleepy smile. He closed the inches between them and pulled her to him. Settling her head beneath his chin, she sighed happily. “I love you.”
He pressed a slow, warm kiss to the top of her head, making her feel all melty inside. But he didn’t say he loved her.
It didn’t signify, she decided, ignoring the stab of hurt. He’d shown her how he felt last night. His wariness was an understandable reaction to his romantic history, and he certainly wasn’t the first young man who found it hard to say those three words. She’d just keep telling him, assuring him, and he’d respond in time. Soon.
He raised his head to peek at the clock on the oak mantel. “Do you always wake before six? I thought ladies all slept until noon.”
“I had a house to run for my brother. And now a house to run for you.”
“For us,” he corrected, making her heart turn over in her chest. Then he kissed her again, his body against hers still overwarm from sleep. She’d always risen immediately upon awakening—but she decided she could get used to lingering.
Sometime later, he rang for Vincent and Peggy, and by seven they were both dressed and in the dining room.
Alexandra smiled at him across the breakfast table. “I cannot believe how happy I am.”
“I’m glad.” His smile more tentative than hers, Tris sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.
“What shall we do today?” She lifted the pretty little jam pot that matched the crested breakfast service, hoping for marmalade but setting it down when she saw the contents were red.
“I believe those are cherry preserves. I asked Vincent to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries.”
“Oh!” She dipped her knife and happily coated her toast. “Would you care for some?”
“I cannot abide anything sweet in the morning.” He spread butter on his own toast, then speared a bite of eggs. “In answer to your earlier question, I’ll need to make a circuit of the estate today, having been away for a while. There are matters that will
require my attention. And I must spend some time at the new gasworks; I’ve left the builders long without my supervision. Would you care to accompany me?”
Alexandra hesitated, realizing that what happened in the bedroom might be the easy part of marriage. Finding the rhythm of their days was going to be more difficult. She had no right to expect a honeymoon following such a hasty wedding, and she suspected Tris would rather not be distracted as he went about his business. Although she wanted to see everything at Hawkridge, this house was her domain.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she finally said, “I’d prefer to stay here. I have much to learn to run this household.”
“You have Mrs. Oliver for that.”
“It’s still my responsibility to oversee everything properly.” She set down her teacup.
She had another matter to broach, and there was no sense putting it off.
But as he bit into his toast, she found herself putting it off anyway and looking about the room instead. “How unusual to see wood gilded in a mosaic pattern like that,” she said inanely, referring to the walls.
“It’s not wood.” He set down the toast and lifted his cup. “It’s gold-stamped leather.”
“Is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He sipped and gave her a wry smile. “It was all the rage a hundred and fifty years ago. I’m told it’s supposed to absorb the smells of food, but it doesn’t seem to me that it works.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. A century and a half of accumulated food scents would be a bit much, don’t you think?”
He chuckled, and she drew a deep breath. “How long will you be gone today?”
“I’m not certain. It depends upon what I encounter. Perhaps a few hours, perhaps until evening.” He sipped again, watching her over the cup’s rim. “My offer is still open for you to come along.”
Although it sounded like a sincere invitation, he didn’t look like he particularly wanted her to accept it. “I think I should stay here,” she repeated and squared her shoulders. “But when you return later, perhaps we can discuss strategy.”
“For removing scents from the walls?”
“For mounting a new search for your uncle’s murderer.”
His cup clattered back to its saucer. “No.”
“We must clear your name, Tris,” she said carefully. “For my sisters’ sakes if not our own.”
His gray gaze was resolute. “I told you before, I have no wish to reopen that coil of a case. There can be no good outcome. Either my uncle died in his sleep, in which case there’s nothing to find, or…”
His voice trailed off.
The haunted look in his eyes broke her heart. “You cannot think the only other alternative is that you killed him.”
But clearly he did think that. “Just leave this alone, Alexandra.”
She swallowed hard. She had to make him understand. “Does my happiness mean so little to you?”
“Not ten minutes ago, you told me you were happy beyond belief. Have your feelings changed that quickly?”
“For myself, I’m happy. But there are others to think of.”
“You had alternate offers,” he reminded her. “Perhaps you should have accepted Lord Shelton or Roger St. Quentin.”
A lump rose in her throat. Had he been hoping she would choose someone else, that morning they were discovered together at Cainewood?
“I apologize,” he said stiffly, watching her. “That was unfair.”
“No, you’re right. I wanted you,” she said, suddenly fearing she’d made a terrible mistake. “But I also want your name cleared. And, Tris…you’re not responsible for your uncle’s death. There’s no reason not to investigate.”
His jaw tense, he sat silent a long moment. “I must be off,” he finally said in a neutral tone. “We shall continue this discussion tonight.”
After giving her a perfunctory kiss, he left.
She sat stunned for a while, her wonderful mood shattered. She tried to finish her tea, but she couldn’t swallow past her tight throat. Finally she rose, fed the rest of her toast to Rex, and went upstairs to grab her family’s cookbook.
Then, as she often did when she was upset, she headed for the kitchen.
Unfortunately, she had no idea where it was—Tris’s tour last night hadn’t included anything as mundane as the servants’ quarters. But this morning she’d noticed a back passageway off the great hall, so she decided to try there first.
No sooner had she wandered into the gray-painted corridor than she bumped into a housemaid hurrying the other direction. “Pardon, my lady!” The girl’s cheeks turned bright pink.
“Goodness, it was my fault entirely.” Alexandra wracked her brain for the girl’s name. “I wonder, Anne, if you could direct me to the kitchen?”
Anne beamed. “Right this way, my lady.” Carrying a mop, broom, and bucket, she led Alexandra down another chilly corridor to a staircase. “It’s in the basement. Shall I show you?”
“I’m certain I can find it. Thank you, Anne.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Still smiling and juggling everything, Anne gave an awkward curtsy and walked off while Alexandra went down the stairs.
A row of leather buckets hung overhead, pointing the way to the kitchen—always the biggest fire hazard in any house. Busy plucking a chicken, Mrs. Pawley looked up when Alexandra entered her domain.
“Good morning, my lady! I wasn’t expecting you to ‘invade my kitchen’ quite so soon.” She wiped her hands on her wide, white apron. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“Very much.” The room was a hive of activity: kitchen maids chopping and slicing while scullery maids scurried here and there, hauling pans and implements off to be washed. A small boy stood turning a spit. Alexandra sighed. “I thought to perhaps make some gingerbread, but—”
“Come in, come in.” Mrs. Pawley shooed two kitchen maids away from the large central table. “Show me your book.”
Alexandra handed it over. “It’s been in my family for well over a century.”
The cook flipped several pages. “This sounds delicious. And this.” She looked up. “Are all the recipes for sweets?”
“The Chases do all share a sweet tooth.” Despite her blue mood, Alexandra smiled as she reclaimed the old book. “Each lady in the family adds a recipe every Christmas. I’ll have to return it to Cainewood, where it belongs. I’ve only borrowed it to copy my favorites, as Lord Hawkridge and I were married, ah…”
“In a hurry?” Mrs. Pawley’s blue eyes danced.
“You could put it that way, yes. Have you flour and sugar?”
Beneath her starched white cap, the blond bun at the nape of the cook’s neck bounced as she nodded. “We have everything you need, my lady. You’ve only to give me your list.”
Half an hour later, they stood companionably side by side, their hands coated in flour, forming small balls out of the gingerbread dough. Mrs. Pawley, as it turned out, wasn’t only an accomplished cook, but also an unrepentant gossip. “I did notice where your ancestor claimed these cakes are excellent with a good gossip,” she said with a laugh.
“I expect she meant eating them, not making them.” Alexandra sneaked a taste of the sweet-spicy dough. “Though I do confess some curiosity about the past happenings here at Hawkridge.”
“I remember when your husband first arrived here from Jamaica. In a bad way, he was, his father dead and not a penny to his name. The last Lord Hawkridge took him under his wing, but he weren’t in a good way, either.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. He was ill, wasn’t he?” Alexandra scooped more dough. “Do you remember the morning the last Lord Hawkridge passed away?”
“Oh, most vividly.” Having filled the first pan, the cook dusted flour on another. “We all loved the last Lord Hawkridge. Not that we don’t feel the same toward your new husband. Do you know, it was he who suggested Lord Hawkridge send me to France for training. Saved my position here, he did. And he couldn’t have been more than
ten at the time; even as a boy, he knew the way of things. Your husband has a business head on those shoulders.”
A vision of those shoulders—bare, smooth, and bathed in candlelight—made Alexandra’s face heat. “When the last Lord Hawkridge was discovered in his bed, was poison suspected immediately?”
“Mercy, no! Who would poison a fine man like him?” Mrs. Pawley plopped another ball on the pan. “He died of a broken heart, I tell you. We all know that here. No matter what the outsiders say.”
Alexandra was relieved to hear that Tris’s staff didn’t suspect him. “Were there any outsiders here at the time? Anyone suspicious?”
“No one at all. Lord Hawkridge was in the dismals—he weren’t taking visitors. Excepting your husband, of course. The house was still draped in black—”
“No one? A concerned neighbor? A salesman or tradesman?”
“Not that I remember.” Rolling dough between her plump hands, the cook eyed Alexandra speculatively. “Why all the questions, my lady?”
Alexandra made another ball before she answered. She knew Tris wouldn’t be happy she was asking questions. But did she have a choice? His fear that he’d killed his uncle was completely unfounded, and her sisters’ happiness was at stake.
She set the ball on the pan. “I’m hoping to clear my husband’s name, Mrs. Pawley. If I can prove someone else killed his uncle, he’ll be welcomed back into society.”
The cook nodded as if she’d thought as much. “I’d like to see Lord Hawkridge’s name cleared as well. But there’s no one here thinks the last Lord Hawkridge was poisoned. He died in his sleep, plain and simple.”
“Do you find it upsetting to answer questions?”
“I suppose not. I didn’t see anything that night to help you, though. ‘Course, I’m stuck down here in the basement; I’m not aware of all that goes on upstairs.” She reached over to pat Alexandra’s hand, puffing flour into the air in the process. “If you’re that determined, perhaps you should ask the others.”
