Alexandra (19 page)

At the sight of them, his eyes all but popped out of his head.

“Aren’t our dresses exquisite?” Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle.

“Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?”

She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. “They won’t go.”

He eyed their dresses’ high waistlines and scooped necklines, designed to accentuate the bust. “You’re all going to cover”—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—“with one of those scarf things, right?”

“A fichu?” Madame sniffed. “I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord.”

“They don’t look like the pictures my sisters showed me.”

“The pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they’re already beginning to pass out of style.”

“We shall not be caught in last month’s fashions,” Juliana added. “These gowns are the thing.”

“Not in this house, they aren’t!”

“Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day.” Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. “By George, you ladies will put every other girl to shame.”

“My sisters won’t be wearing these dresses,” Griffin said.

“Of course they will.” Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. “While I take apart the pump, you’ll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed.”

“Very well.” Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. “I’m not paying for those dresses,” he warned. “Not until they’re made decent.”

Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding “hmmph.”

Tris laughed. “Listen to yourself, old man. You’ve been on campaign far too long. Don’t you want men to find your sisters appealing? Irresistible?
Marriageable?
”

“Not if they’re men like…”

“Like us?” Tris suggested helpfully.

Griffin’s “hmmph” put the mantua-maker’s to shame. “I need to get to the vineyard,” he muttered and left.

“Madame has finished with my dress and Corinna’s,” Juliana announced. “We’ll just go to our rooms and take them off.” Grabbing Corinna’s hand, she pulled her out the door.

Madame’s two pasty-complexioned assistants fluttered around Alexandra, pinning her dress here and there. Tris stood watching. Wondering what she should say now that they’d kissed again—wondering if they’d kiss yet more—she shifted uncomfortably.

“Stand still,” Madame said. “Else Mariette might poke you.”

She stiffened and met Tris’s gaze. “Don’t you need to work on the pump?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Of course, you’re always beautiful—it has nothing to do with the dress.” He spoke conversationally. “You’d be beautiful in a shapeless burlap bag. And you’ll be beautiful when you’re a hundred years old, because your beauty comes from inside.”

She didn’t say anything, because she didn’t know what to say.

“I want to apologize,” he went on, “for the way I treated you the last time we were together—”

“Are you finished?” she interrupted, addressing the assistants. The two girls were standing back, watching her and Tris as though they were performing a most fascinating play.

“
Oui
,” Madame said briskly. “Remove the dress carefully, please, and bring it down the corridor to the armory, if you will.” Since the armory was just an empty room with rusty weapons all over the walls—Alexandra figured it hadn’t been renovated since before the Civil War—Griffin was allowing them to use it as their sewing room. “Come along, Mariette, Martina. We have much to do before tomorrow.”

Tris waited until their footsteps had receded down the corridor. “Do you expect their names are really Mariette and Martina?”

She laughed. “No, I think their names are Mary and Martha.”

They shared a smile before he sobered. “As I was saying…”

“Yes?” She’d never seen him look quite so uneasy.

“The last time we were together, I didn’t treat you much like a friend.”

“No, you didn’t,” she agreed quietly. He’d treated her as much more.

And they’d kissed.

“I didn’t look at you the way one looks at a friend.”

“I didn’t look at you like a friend, either.” They’d looked at each other like two people in love; there was no other way to put it.

And they’d kissed.

“I held you too close.”

He certainly had; she could still feel his body against hers.

And they’d kissed.

“I’m sorry for all of that,” he concluded. “I still wish, more than anything, to remain friends.”

She blinked. That was it? He still wanted to be friends? Nothing had changed for him last night?

Of course, nothing had changed for her last night, either—on the surface, that was. Marriage still wasn’t an option. But clearly they’d crossed some sort of line. Surely, regardless of the fact that they couldn’t act on their mutual feelings, they could acknowledge them and admit that they were more than simple friends.

“I can scarcely even imagine going back to a distant, polite friendship,” she said carefully.

“I’m so pleased you agree,” he said, looking relieved. “The hours and days we’ve spent avoiding each other…I shouldn’t like to go back to that ever again.” He released a pent-up breath. “There are many definitions of friendship. We’re both sensible people. Certainly we can control—”

“What about the kiss?” she burst out.

He blinked. “That was weeks ago. More than a month. I thought we’d agreed to forget it.” Watching her, his gray gaze narrowed warily. “What about it?”

“What have you been talking about, then?”

“What do you mean, what have I been talking about? The dance lesson, of course. I held you too close, and that precipitated our latest—”

“What about last night?”

“What
about
last night?”

“We kissed again last night,” she said, exasperated. “Am I expected to forget about that, too? Or shall I assume kissing is part of your definition of friendship?”

He visibly paled, his jaw going slack. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Evidently he
had
expected her to forget it.

“What do you mean, am I sure?” Every minuscule detail of that kiss was burned into her memory. Just thinking about it, she could feel his arms around her, his lips slanting over hers. She could taste the hint of chocolate. “How could I forget such a thing?”

“I meant…” He hesitated, apparently fumbling for words. “I meant, are you sure you wish that to be part of the definition? Because frankly, I don’t think it should be.” The color had returned to his face, and unlike a moment ago, he sounded quite certain. “I don’t think I could handle that. I don’t think I could stop with kissing.”

Part of her was shocked at the implication, but she couldn’t help being flattered, too. And although she’d never considered kissing to be part of friendship, she had to admit the idea was tempting. After all, despite his stated opinion, kisses didn’t
have
to go further. Hadn’t she told her sisters they were “only kisses,” not meaningful in and of themselves? And Rachael had said the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, interrupting her musings. “I seem to be apologizing quite often these days, but I assure you, I mean it. I’ve no idea what came over me, but I hope to remain friends. I won’t be kissing you again.”

“I wish you would,” she said under her breath as he walked out.

FOR PITY’S SAKE,
he’d kissed her in his sleep!

Descending the stairs two at a time as he headed for the workshop, Tristan couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact that he’d done such a thing, or the fact that he’d missed out on really experiencing it.

The only thing he was certain of, he thought as a footman threw the front doors open wide, was that he needed to go home. He’d take the pump apart today and put it back together with the new piece tomorrow. Adjusting the blasted thing again would eat up the better part of the day, but that would keep him busy while everyone else was occupied with the ball. Saturday morning he’d install the pump and leave with a sigh of relief. He was counting the hours.

And hoping he’d find the strength to keep away from her.

I wish you would.

Had she meant him to hear that? No matter—he had. And—friendship aside—the thought that she might want him regardless of his reputation was enough to make him run the opposite direction.

Anything beyond friendship would prove a disaster for them both—there was no disputing that fact.

“My lord? Are you in need of something?”

Tristan blinked, realizing he was standing stock-still in the middle of the quadrangle. Servants crisscrossed the lawn, carrying baskets of laundry and buckets of water, slanting him curious glances as they went about their business.

“No,” he told the footman. “Thank you for your concern.”

He headed for his temporary workshop, a dim, doorless room meant for storing lumber, but empty this time of year. After lighting a few candles around the pump, he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust.

No wonder she’d put on his cameo this morning—she thought their relationship had changed. To her, that kiss had meant something.

He wished he could remember it.

And he wished, more fervently still, that their circumstances were different. Because a tiny part of him was beginning to wonder, despite past experience, whether marital happiness—if not true love—might be possible with a girl like Alexandra. A girl who seemed to complement him in so many ways.

But all the sorrow she’d endured didn’t change the fact that she’d grown up in the bosom of a large, loving family—a family that was unquestionably part of society’s elite. She’d never known isolation, never faced disapproval, never walked into a room and felt the chill of icy gazes that stared right through her. Never had whispers behind her back sound louder than the thoughts in her own head.

And now that they’d kissed again, he feared the thoughts in her head might be telling her an alliance between them could somehow take place.

Well, he’d have to nip that in the bud.

Cursing under his breath, he set to removing the first bolt. Blast this peculiar affliction. Not only had it suddenly reappeared, it seemed to be getting worse. He’d never before kissed anyone while sleepwalking—at least as far as he knew. Usually he just ambled around for a bit, although he’d been known to dress himself and go outdoors on occasion. Once in a while he’d heard reports of other activities, but he’d never done anything in his sleep that wasn’t a trivial, everyday action.

At least…as far as he knew.

Sometimes he wondered.

MARCHPANE FRUITS

Take a Pounde of almonds, Blanched and Beaten in a stone mortar, till they begin to come to a fine paste, and then add a Pounde of sifted Sugar and make it into a perfect paste, putting to it now and then the white of an egg and a spoonful or two of rose-water. When you have Beaten it sufficiently, separate into balls and colour as for fruit, red for apples and cherries, yellow for lemons, orange for oranges, purple for grapes, and the like. Shape small pieces of your coloured Paste into fruits and leave out to dry.

These festive fruits are lovely for parties and elegant enough for a ball. Or anytime at all, for like all sweets, they are truly delicious.
—Kendra, Duchess of Amberley, 1690

THERE WERE NO
wallflowers at Cainewood Castle’s ball.

Griffin’s strategy had proved an unqualified success. So many more gentlemen than ladies were in attendance that even the plainest girl had barely a moment to sit and rest. And in their fashionable new dresses, the Chase sisters were anything but plain.

The three of them had been claimed for every dance, and though it was barely two hours into the long evening—only ten o’clock—Alexandra’s feet were already beginning to ache. Since she was now engaged in a rather staid country dance, she tried her best to ignore the pain—and the dull gentleman who was her partner—and take a moment to savor the results of her hard work.