Alexandra (37 page)

“I know.” Somehow she managed to look both sorry and determined at the same time. “If it’s any consolation, there’s only one name left. A woman in Swangate. Unless she astounds me by being the only one to have seen suspicious dealings, I’ll be finished after I talk to her.”

Although she sounded mournful, he couldn’t help celebrating privately. And he certainly didn’t want to argue and ruin the night ahead. Instead, he made light conversation through the next two courses, his blood humming with anticipation.

At last the table was cleared. Hastings brought in and opened a bottle of port. A footman presented a platter of fruit and biscuits. No sooner had they departed when Mrs. Oliver walked in, placed the box—now gaily wrapped and ribboned—at the far end of the table, and promptly left.

Tristan poured Alexandra a very tiny glass of port—he didn’t want her falling asleep tonight. He poured himself a larger one.

Alexandra glanced at the box, then lifted his empty dessert plate. “Grapes? Biscuits?”

“Surprise me,” he said, impatient to surprise
her
. He sipped, savoring the heady flavor of the fine, sweet wine and enjoying the poorly concealed curiosity on his wife’s face.

She filled his plate and took a single biscuit for herself. “How was your afternoon?” she asked, her gaze drifting again to the box.

“Extremely successful.”

She took a small sip of the deep red port. “Your business in Windsor went well?”

“Exceedingly.”

She hadn’t touched her biscuit. “Would you mind if I asked what you did there?”

“Not at all.” He popped a grape into his mouth, enjoying this exchange immensely. “I visited the shops.” Seeing her startled gaze fly toward the box once more, he smiled to himself again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. “Would you like to open it?”

“Is it for me?” A tinge of excitement threaded her voice. “This was your business?”

He loved seeing her transparent joy. He hadn’t given her enough since he’d brought her home. “Part of my business. Another parcel will arrive tomorrow.” He moved the platter to make more room near her on the table, then rose, fetched the box, and placed it in the space he’d created. “Open it,” he said, lifting his glass as he sat again.

The box was so large she couldn’t see into it while seated. Slowly she pushed back her chair, stood, and untied the ribbon. The paper fell open, and she raised the lid, set it aside, and reached inside with both hands to part the tissue that protected the contents.

“Ooooh,” she breathed.

“Take it out.”

She did, lifting it by its handle. Polished silver gleamed in the gaslight. “A basket,” she said reverently. “A…basket of silver?”

“Pure sterling,” he confirmed. “For your sweets. The Marchioness of Hawkridge’s specialties deserve much better than wicker.” He sipped, watching her marvel at the gift. “It won’t be too heavy to carry with you when you go visiting, will it?”

“No.” She clutched it like she might never let it go. “It has a glass liner,” she informed him as though he might not know.

“You wouldn’t want to be trailing crumbs.”

She still stood there, slowly turning it this way and that, watching the light bounce off. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, although
glad
seemed a very tame word.
Thrilled
would be more accurate. He’d wanted so much to find the perfect gift. He
hated
visiting shops—Vincent ordered all his clothes—but he’d walked round dozens of them all afternoon, being fussed over by every shopkeeper in Windsor. It had been his worst nightmare come true.

But her reaction made it worth it.

She was looking a bit overcome, so he rose and moved behind her to scoot her chair toward the back of her knees. “Sit!”

She lowered herself gingerly, holding the basket on her lap, her fingers tracing the chased and pierced embellishments, the floral swags and raised ribbons and bows all fashioned out of fine, delicate silver.

He moved the box from the table to the floor by her chair, where she could reach into it. “There are more gifts inside,” he announced gleefully.

She was testing the basket’s fancy handle, folding it down and back up. “There’s more?“ She looked up, dewy-eyed. “Why…when you have so much to do, why would you spend your day doing this for me?”

Because he wanted to give her a perfect night.

Perhaps that was an oversimplification.

Because he’d do whatever he could to make her happy, but he couldn’t say the words she needed to hear. Because he’d do anything to make her stay, but his own deficiencies were the reason she should go. Because some foolish part of him was hoping against hope that a silly little trinket and and one nice evening would be enough to make up for everything else.

But he couldn’t say any of that. Not tonight.

“Because you deserve it,” he said instead.

“I do not,” she said, her voice thick. “I defy you at every turn.”

“Every other turn,” he disagreed agreeably. “At the alternate turns, you delight me.”

She sighed and reached into the box, pulling out a book bound in fine leather dyed robin’s-egg blue. The cover was embossed with gold designs, the pages edged with gold leaf. “This is lovely,” she said through an obviously tight throat.

“It’s blank inside. For your recipes. After you copy the ones you like, I thought you could start your own tradition. Our family could add to it every year.”

“Our family,” she echoed softly, not quite meeting his gaze. She set the book aside and pulled the next item from the box, her eyes widening as the fabric unfolded. “Heavens above, what is this?”

“A nightgown,” he said.

At that moment, two footmen returned to clear their dishes. Her cheeks burning, she stuffed the garment back into the box and plopped the book on top. “It’s lovely, too,” she said quickly, sounding uncertain.

It took everything he had not to laugh. “Shall we take it upstairs and have a closer look?”

He couldn’t wait to see her in it.

THE NIGHTGOWN
was only the first of the garments in the box. There were
seven
nightgowns, in fact—one for each day of the week—of delicate silk, lovely georgette, and beautiful tiffany. As Alexandra pulled them out, she draped them on the bed. She’d never seen a nightgown that wasn’t white, but these were almond and pale blush pink, powder blue and soft peach, with delicate edgings of lace and intricate, exquisite embroidery.

“They’re stunning,” she said. “Madame Rodale has nothing like them in her book of fashion plates.”

Tris just grinned.

He seemed different tonight. More relaxed, less worried. She didn’t know what had prompted his sudden good humor, but she didn’t want to question it. She’d rather enjoy it instead.

After the afternoon she’d had—starting with Elizabeth’s letter and ending with three fruitless interviews—she wasn’t about to risk the one thing that seemed to be going right.

“Are you going to try one on for me?” he asked.

Her face heated.

He chose a nightgown off the bed, palest lavender with black lace and violet embroidery. “This one,” he said, handing it to her. “Do you require assistance with your dress?”

“Just the buttons,” she said, and turned to let him unfasten them. She shifted the nightgown in her hands. It felt so light.

“There,” he said when the back of her green dress gaped open. He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck, then settled on one of the striped chairs, sipping from the glass of port he’d brought upstairs with him. “Use the dressing room. I’ll be waiting.”

In the dressing room, she shakily stripped out of her frock, chemise, shoes, and stockings, then dropped the nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. The fabric whispered against her legs. She turned to see herself in the looking glass.

Sweet heaven. She’d never imagined nightgowns like this existed.

Her nightgowns all had high collars that tied at the throat. This one had a wide, low neckline. Her nightgowns all had long, full sleeves. This one had tiny puffed sleeves that began halfway off her shoulders. Her nightgowns were made of yards and yards of thick, billowing fabric. This one was a slender column that left no curve to the imagination.

It was wicked.

“Are you ready yet?” Tris called.

Alexandra swallowed hard, reminding herself that he’d seen her in less clothing. And he
was
her husband. Still, wearing the nightgown for him somehow felt more intimate than wearing nothing at all.

She was as ready as she’d ever be.

Drawing a deep breath, she exited the dressing room, walked quickly through the sitting room, and paused in the bedroom’s doorway. She dropped her gaze, then raised her lashes, giving him
the look
—the one Juliana had said would make men fall at her feet.

Judging from the expression on Tris’s face, it was a good thing he was sitting.

The way he looked at her made her heartbeat accelerate. He rose and moved toward her. She met him halfway, licking suddenly dry lips. “Will you kiss me?” she asked softly, reaching up to sweep that always unruly lock off his forehead.

It worked this time. He kissed her but good.

THIS—THE
two of them completely alone, truly together, all obstacles cast aside—was the one part of Tristan’s life that could never be tainted. He’d never felt closer to anyone, body and spirit, than he did now, in the bed he shared with his wife. He was suffused with Alexandra. He was drowning in her. She was everything.

But as soon as it was over, everything else came rushing back.

He lingered as long as he could, recovering his breath as he kissed her forehead, both cheeks, her nose. “I need to go now,” he whispered before settling on her mouth.

“Hmm?” she murmured when he finally allowed them both to come up for air.

“I’m going to sleep in the Queen’s Bedchamber. Vincent will lock me in.”

She blinked hard, her soft mouth falling open. “You’re going to
leave
?”

“Just until morning,” he promised as he rose from the bed. “It’s for your own protection. If I sleepwalk again, I don’t want to be able to leave the room. I don’t want to be able to get to you or to anything that might harm you.”

“I don’t want protection from you, Tris.” He’d never heard such hurt and disbelief in her voice. It made his insides shrivel. ”I want you here with me. Didn’t tonight mean anything to you? Didn’t it prove how much we mean to each other? And yet you still think yourself capable of wishing me harm?”

“I don’t know—all I know is if there’s any
shred
of a chance that I’m a danger to you, I cannot stay. How could I? What kind of man would that make me?”

She offered no answer, but her big, round eyes were silently pleading. They were going to destroy him, those eyes. Destroy his resolve, and snap the tenuous thread holding his life—and his marriage—together.

Before that could happen, he left.

ALEXANDRA LAY
in her marriage bed, stunned.

And alone.