Alexandra (29 page)

While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn’t the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver’s mother had held the housekeeper’s keys before her; and the groundskeeper’s great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants’ families had served Hawkridge for years.

“Tradition,” Alexandra said with a smile.

“Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge’s first female cook, however.” Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a young man’s appetite. “Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that.”

So Mrs. Pawley wasn’t married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father’s name, the
Mrs.
only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. “Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?”

“During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became clear her father’s retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under a master.” Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. “Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender.”

“Her food is delicious.”

“I’m sure Rex thinks so,” he teased with a grin.

The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.

“I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries,” Tris said.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, in any case.” He was nearly finished, and she still hadn’t brought up the servant she found most curious. “Tell me about Vincent.”

He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass’s rim. “Do I strike you as someone who would own a slave?”

Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. “You cannot blame me for wondering.” Though trade in new slaves had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to liberate those already in captivity. Many in England still owned slaves, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.

With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. “Vincent served me well during the year I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left.”

She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That was a generous thing to do.”

“Merely decent. I cannot countenance one man owning another.”

“But your uncle could.”

He shrugged his ambivalence. “Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife’s dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn’t particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point.”

“There has been no legislation.”

“There will be. Soon.” He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. “Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for the slaves’ plight, but he feared they’d be in a worse situation as free men on a plantation that could no longer compete successfully in the marketplace.”

“And you agreed.”

“In theory, perhaps. In practice, no.” He paused for a sip. “The first action I took upon inheriting the marquessate was freeing all our slaves in Jamaica.”

She’d known he was kind. She reached across the corner of the table to take his hand. “And have there been consequences?”

“Making a profit has proven difficult,” he admitted quietly. “But does it matter? There are more important things than property values and income.” He squeezed her fingers. “A fellow has to live with himself if he’s to sleep at night.”

Sleep. She’d wager he hadn’t noticed his own reference, but this, she knew, was not a man who could commit murder. Not even unknowingly in his sleep.

He drew a deep breath and released it, setting down his wineglass. “Are you finished?”

She nodded, suppressing her discomposure. There was no reason to fret, she told herself sternly. She had no doubt she’d be happy with Tris—being a wife was a big change, to be sure, but his home, his disposition, and his values were all more than she could ask for in a husband. Not to mention, he was more than attractive—why, she could happily do nothing but kiss him for the rest of her life! The marriage bed was a normal part of every marriage, and Alexandra was ready for it.

Wasn’t she?

She found herself inordinately relieved when Tris stood and asked, “Would you like to see more of the house?”

“That would be lovely,” she said with a grateful smile.

As they exited the room, Rex rose with a gigantic yawn. He trotted after them across the great hall, up the stairs, and through the gallery with the open floor. Alexandra resisted pausing to gawk again at the famous paintings. At the other end of the gallery, a door led to a large, square room with gilded paneling on the walls and various chairs and sofas set about.

“The north drawing room,” Tris said.

“It’s beautiful.” She walked over to an exquisite harpsichord, its case inlaid with multicolored woods. Sitting on the petit-point stool, she hit a few keys experimentally. “Johannes Ruckers,” she read out loud from where the maker’s name was painted above the keyboard.

“Has he a good reputation?” Tris asked from behind her.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. This looks very old. I don’t expect his company is making instruments anymore.”

“Can you play it?”

“Probably.” Since the harpsichord was much narrower than a pianoforte, the keyboard was split in two, with one half over the other. She swiveled on the stool to face him. “I shall enjoy trying it. But is there no pianoforte?”

He shook his head. “I’ll get one for you.”

“You needn’t go to so much trouble—”

“I want you to feel at home here.” He raised her to stand and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.

Rex barked. His tail thumped the wooden floor, sounding much like a slap.

“I don’t think he likes me kissing you,” Tris observed.

“He’s jealous. Until now you were all his.”

“He’s not mine. I told you—”

“That’s not what
he
thinks.”

Tris stared hard at the dog, opened his mouth, then shut it. “Well, he’s going to have to get used to sharing me. Come see the long gallery.”

Rex followed them through another door into a lengthy tunnel of a room. A room that called for quiet. Woven matting on the parquet floor muffled their footsteps. Large paintings in heavy gilt frames were spaced evenly along the dark paneled walls.

Even Rex kept quiet as they walked along slowly, gazing at the pictures. The painters here weren’t important; this gallery was all about their subjects. Gentlemen in silks and velvets, ladies in stiff white neck ruffs.

“Some are older than the house,” Alexandra observed softly. “Are they family?”

“Nesbitts, one and all.”

A few of the names were familiar from inside her ring. Henry and Elizabeth. James and Sarah. She stopped to study a canvas whose brass plaque read
WILLIAM AND ANNE
. The painting showed that particular Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Alexandra could almost see her graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat.

“They look happy,” she decided.

The next couple, Randal and Lily, looked happy as well. “1680,” she read off the plaque. The man had gray eyes, like Tris’s. His hair looked like Tris’s, too, but longer, and a huge dog that looked just like Rex sat at his feet. A small child stood at his side, still in skirts so she couldn’t tell its gender. The man’s hand rested on the shoulder of his pretty, dark-haired lady, who beamed a smile at the baby in her arms.

Alexandra smiled in response. “Everyone here has been happy. I can feel it, can’t you? This is a good house. A real home.” History and tradition fairly oozed from the walls.

“My uncle wasn’t happy,” Tris disagreed quietly.

“Not after his family died, of course. But before?”

“He was happy,” Tris conceded. Evidently unwilling to promise that they would be happy too, he gave her another kiss instead, short but heartfelt.

She would swear she heard Rex snort.

“The library is through here,” Tris said.

It was a lofty, two-story chamber with dark shelving crammed with important-looking books. Alexandra walked over to pull one out and flip idly through it, the old pages crackling as she turned them.

“You don’t want to read now, do you?” Stepping up behind her, Tris bent to kiss her neck.

“Not really.” Tingling warmth spread from where his lips met her skin. He reached around her to take the book from her hands and set it on a small table, and she turned in his arms.

Rex’s bark echoed up to the laurel wreath in the center of the high ceiling.

“See why I lock him out of my rooms?” Tris asked with a sigh.

“I hope it’s not because you kiss a lot of girls in there.”

“Only one,” he said with a soft smile that made her skin tingle even more than the kiss. “Would you like to escape the beast and go there now?”

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—”