Alexandra (4 page)

Tristan sat warily. Surely Griffin wasn’t leading up to…? “Look, old man, I sympathize, but your letter implied a need for my assistance, not—”

“Ah, yes.” Rather than sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, Griffin chose the chair beside Tristan’s. “And I appreciate your response.” He set two crystal glasses on the small table between them, unstoppered a matching decanter, and began to pour. “Despite your seclusion and, ah, recent troublesome circumstances—”

Tristan grimaced. He disliked any reference to his
circumstances
.

“—it seems you’ve become rather renowned as a talented manager, particularly of agricultural enterprises. Imagine my surprise!” He grinned to show he was fooling. “You must have learned a thing or two out on that island. I understand you’ve been able to make some remarkably clever—and profitable—improvements to the Hawkridge estate. With these qualifications in mind, I resolved to seek you out and implore you to consider—”

“I do not wish to marry!”

“—lending me your expertise.” In the midst of handing Tristan a glass, Griffin blinked. “Marry? Do you presume I asked you here for the benefit of one of my sisters? Perish the thought!”

Tristan breathed deep of the brandy as he wavered between relief and annoyance. Never mind that he had no desire to wed any of Griffin’s sisters—or anyone else, for that matter—he couldn’t help feeling stung by the frank dismissal. “Why did you summon me, then?”

“I need your help. I’ve heard you’ve worked miracles with Hawkridge’s vineyard.”

“I had a hand in reviving it, I suppose. We’ve had two good harvests—last year’s wine is particularly excellent. Or so I’m told.” Tristan shrugged. He was more of a brandy man. “You’re in need of wine?”

Griffin lifted his own brandy and took a sip that was nearly a gulp. “Charles,” he said, referring to his late older brother, “planted grapevines some three years ago—”

“Charles wanted to make wine?”

“It’s the latest thing, apparently. With prices soaring during the war against France, I suspect he thought to make a killing.” With affectionate satire, he added, “Charles always was a swell of the first stare.”

“Yes, he was.” Tristan sipped. He remembered the elder Chase son as a tall, dark man with an impressive air and impeccable taste. “Go on, then.”

“I’ve been told not to expect a yield suited for production for another year at the least. But the vines should be bearing fruit by now, shouldn’t they? They’re not producing anything.”

“Three years with nothing at all? Not even the odd bloom?”

“Nothing beyond leaves. I fear they may be dying. And I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do. I was trained for war, not managing land and livestock,” he said plaintively.

“Not to mention winemaking, which is another venture entirely.”

“You do
sound
as if you know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bother concealing your astonishment,” Tristan said dryly. He finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. “But do enlighten me on one point. With an estate the size of yours, you cannot survive the loss of the vineyard? This is your emergency?”

Griffin colored. “I apologize if my letter made it sound dire. But…this was Charles’s principal project. He invested quite a measure of our fortune in the vineyard, and I’d hate to see it fail.” He hesitated. “I’d hate to think
I
failed where my brother would have succeeded.” Finally, he met Tristan’s eyes. “To be perfectly candid, I’m not at all confident that I’m ready for this role. I’ve never sought it, never wanted it. But I mean to make the best of it.”

Griffin leaned back against the chair and downed the rest of his drink. Military men didn’t make a habit of baring their souls, Tristan supposed. He appreciated his friend’s honesty.

“I understand,” he said aloud. “I wasn’t raised to be a marquess, either.” Quite the contrary, he’d been born the son of a second son, a mere mister who’d attended the right schools only on the largesse of his uncle. “You’ve only been doing the job a couple of months. You’ll settle into it. I did, eventually.”

Griffin nodded, looking uneasy.

“Shall I have a look at your vineyard?” Tristan began to rise.

“It will have to wait until tomorrow.” Waving him back down, Griffin refilled their glasses. “It’s a good hour each way by horseback, and I’m expecting another caller shortly. A very acceptable suitor for Alexandra’s hand.”

Alexandra. Tristan had always had a soft spot for the eldest Chase sister. He pictured long dark curls and round, thoughtful eyes. She would be seventeen now, no longer a schoolgirl. He wondered how she’d look all grown up.

“We’ll ride over in the morning,” Griffin added. “You’ll stay, won’t you? At least long enough to evaluate the situation?”

“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.” Though Griffin’s crisis wasn’t as pressing as Tristan had imagined, he wouldn’t turn his back on a friend.

Especially as he didn’t have many to spare.

“YOU LOOK
lovely, Alexandra.” Standing in the high gallery, Juliana tweaked her sister’s low, ruffle-edged neckline. “Lord Shelton won’t be able to resist you.”

“Especially after he tries your magical ratafia puffs.” Corinna grabbed one of the small sweets from the tray on a marble side table and popped it into her mouth. She sighed as it dissolved on her tongue. “François said they turned out perfect.”

“Lord Shelton won’t be able to try one if you eat them all first.” Alexandra lifted the silver tray, smiling at the little golden puffs, which had been beautifully arranged by François, their French cook. “Come along, now. Lord Shelton is surely waiting.” She hurried through the gallery, lifting her blue sprigged muslin skirt with one hand while carrying the fancy tray with the other.

Her sisters flanked her going down the wide stone staircase. “Gentlemen expect to wait for ladies,” Juliana said. “It’s not the thing to appear too eager.”

“I don’t care to play those sorts of games,” Alexandra said, gazing down at her sister.

Juliana was exceedingly short—so short she made Alexandra feel tall, although she and Corinna were rather average in height. Juliana, Alexandra had noticed in the brief time Griffin had been inviting his friends to pay calls, attracted young men like bees to honey—most especially the shorter ones.

Thankfully, Lord Shelton was tall.

On the first floor, Alexandra paused in the picture gallery outside the drawing room’s door. Masculine voices drifted out. Griffin must have been entertaining her guest—or, more likely, pestering him into a proposal.

With any luck, his efforts would pay off.

She schooled her expression into a welcoming one and rounded the corner into the room. “Lord Shelton,” she said graciously, “please excuse my tardiness. I hope these sweet confections will redeem me.”

Lord Shelton turned and smiled, walking toward her. But her gaze shifted past him, to where another young man stood with her brother. As he turned slightly and she met his eyes—silver-gray eyes—her heart gave a little skip.

Tris.

He still had the same strong jaw, the same long nose, the same heavy, straight brows. His skin was unfashionably bronzed, as though he’d spent too much time outdoors, and his streaky brown-blond hair still looked tousled, as it used to—and still made her want to run her fingers through it.

The sight of him robbed her of breath.

“Good afternoon, darling,” Lord Shelton said. “I was more than pleased to receive your invitation to take tea.”

She tore her gaze from Tris. Lord Shelton looked wan by comparison, his skin pasty, his hair the lightest blond, his eyes an innocuous blue. Odd that his paleness had never made an impression on her before. It seemed as though he’d faded.

And he wasn’t as tall as she’d thought.

And come to think of it, she didn’t much like being called “darling.”

“Thank you for accepting the invitation,” she murmured, struggling to remember her manners.

“Girls, I’m certain you recall Tristan,” Griffin called out.

Juliana and Corinna curtsied. “Mr. Nesbitt,” they said in unison.

Dazed, Alexandra followed suit. “Mr. Nesbitt.”

“The Marquess of Hawkridge now,” her brother informed them.

Tris was titled? How had that happened? And where had he been all this time? She had a million more questions. She hadn’t seen him in…good heavens, was it three years? While she hadn’t precisely forgotten him in all that time, she
had
forgotten how looking at him made her insides melt like butter.

“Lord Hawkridge,” she corrected herself.

“Lady Alexandra,” he returned with a vague if polite nod. “And Ladies Juliana and Corinna. You’ve certainly all grown up since I saw you last.” He turned back to Griffin. “Do you know what time of year Charles planted the vines?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Griffin replied.

Alexandra stood blinking. Next to the familiarity of their old relationship, Tris’s dismissal felt rather frosty. Paradoxically, its effect was to heat her insides even further, past melting and on to simmering.

Lord Shelton stepped closer. “Lady Alexandra.” His tone was syrupy sweet. Alexandra supposed he was trying to sound intimate and romantic. She probably would have reacted positively to that yesterday, but today she found it aggravating. She feared steam might begin pouring from her ears.

He lifted her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back. “Darling, you look exquisite.”

She didn’t feel exquisite. Right now she felt about as appealing as a puddle of steaming, boiling human-entrail soup.

Juliana elbowed her discreetly. “Perhaps Lord Shelton would like to taste one of your ratafia puffs.”

Alexandra looked down to the silver tray, forgotten in her other hand. “Oh, not quite yet.” Her laughter sounded forced to her own ears. “Don’t you think we should pour the tea first?”

Ignoring her sisters’ puzzled frowns, she walked clear across the room and put the tray on a gilt-legged table that sat against the wall.

Juliana began pouring. “The puffs can hardly work their magic from over there.”

“Magic?” Lord Shelton inquired.

“Please do sit,” Alexandra told him, leaving the tray safely distant while she made her way back across the room. She seated herself on one of the light blue velvet sofas instead of a chair; a tactical error, since Lord Shelton immediately took the place beside her.

That definitely wouldn’t have bothered her yesterday. But his scent—a flowery Oriental mix—seemed suddenly cloying.

When Juliana handed her a teacup, she rose and went to Lord Hawkridge where he was talking with her brother. He smelled of clean soap and starch and that something else that was just him. “Tea, my lord?”

“Thank you.” He took it while barely sparing her a glance. “Not every variety is suited to our climate,” he said to Griffin.

“You’re welcome,” Alexandra murmured.

“Alexandra,” Corinna called conspicuously, “since you’re up, why don’t you get the ratafia puffs and bring them over here?”

“Not just yet.” Alexandra marched to the sofa and plopped back down, giving her sister a pointed look. “I’ve decided I’m not certain I wish to serve the ratafia puffs at all.”

Lord Shelton glanced between them, clearly confused. “And why not?”

“Yes, why not?” Corinna pressed. “They’re supposed to be
magical
.”

“Precisely.” Alexandra accepted another teacup from Juliana and sipped. “I’ve no wish to employ magic.”

“Magic?” Lord Shelton repeated.

Juliana stood. “May I speak with you in private?” Before Alexandra could disagree, she pulled her up by the arm and drew her out into the picture gallery, Corinna in their wake.

Juliana’s hazel eyes radiated concern. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Alexandra glanced away, her gaze landing on a solemn ancestor who glared from a canvas on the stone wall, looking exceedingly disapproving.

“Nothing?” Corinna, if possible, appeared even more disapproving. “Why won’t you give Lord Shelton one of the magical ratafia puffs?”

“Magical?” Putting scorn into her voice, Alexandra focused on each of her sisters in turn. “Do you truly believe that eggs and sugar can be magical?”

“Of course not,” Corinna said. “But don’t you think it’s worth a try?”

Juliana laid a gloved hand on Alexandra’s arm. “If they
did
work,” she said gently, “you could add a notation to Eleanor Cainewood’s entry in the recipe book, verifying her allegation. It’s a tradition.”

“I don’t care,” Alexandra said blithely.

At least, she hoped she sounded blithe.

Her sisters stared at her with wide eyes.

“You don’t
care
?” Juliana breathed. “About tradition?” She pulled off a glove and reached to touch Alexandra’s forehead. “Are you ill?”

“No.” Alexandra drew away. “I just don’t care about this silly tradition.”

“But, Alexandra…” Juliana hugged herself. “You’re the most traditional girl I’ve ever met.”

It was true. Juliana was known for her wild ideas—always meant to help, of course—and Corinna was a bit of a rebel. But Alexandra always did exactly as she ought. She ran her brother’s enormous household like clockwork; she kept up with her correspondence; she visited the villagers and tenants, both healthy and ailing, always with some famous Chase sweets in hand. She could sing, play the pianoforte, make lovely profile portraits, and embroider—and if she wasn’t exactly renowned for any of those talents, at least she was competent.