Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 13

  "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."

  "Those pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they're already somewhat out of style."

  "We wouldn't want to be wearing last month's fashions," Juliana added. "These dresses are the thing."

  "Am I to understand that this month's thing is for fashions to display your entire—"

  "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. "Holy Christ, you ladies will put every other woman 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."

  "You'll pay for them," Tris disagreed. "Don't you want men to find your sisters attractive? 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 he'd kissed her—wondering if he'd kiss her again—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. It's what makes me want to be your friend."

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

  "I want to apologize," he continued, "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, loving his irreverence. "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 he'd kissed her.

  "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 lovers; there was no other way to put it.

  And he'd kissed her.

  "I held you too close."

  He certainly had; she could still feel his body against hers. His almost-naked body.

  And he'd kissed her.

  "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? For him, nothing had changed 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 a certain 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 adults. 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?"

  "You kissed me 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?" She remembered each moment of that kiss like it had ended a mere instant earlier. 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 hope to remain friends, but I won't be kissing you again."

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

  HOLY CHRIST, 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 damn thing again would eat up the better part of the day, but that would keep him busy while everyone else was occupied with the bloody 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 not to kiss her again.

  I wish you would.

  Had she meant him to hear that? No matter—he had. And—friendship be damned—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—he was sure of it.

  "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 something had changed. To her, that kiss had been meaningful.

  He wished he could remember it.

  And he wished, for the hundredth time—or maybe the thousandth—that their circumstances were different. That he wasn't a social outcast. Because he wanted her in the worst way, but he knew, without a doubt, just how much their association would affect not only her sisters, but herself.

  She was sweet and loyal, but also so damned idealistic. And naïve. Idealistic and naïve the way only a sheltered female raised in a peer's household could be. All the sorrow she'd faced in her young life 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 voices in her own head.

  And now that he'd kissed her again, he feared the voices in her head might be telling her an alliance between them could be possible.

  Cursing under his breath, he set to removing the first bolt. Damn this ridiculous 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—at least as far as he knew—although he'd been known to dress himself and go outdoors on occasion. Once in a while he'd had 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.

  TWENTY-ONE

  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 men than women were in attendance that even the plainest girl had barely a moment to sit and rest. And in their 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 involved 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.

  The great hall hadn't looked so beautiful since before her parents died. The enormous Gobelin tapestries on either end of the hall had been cleaned and rehung, their colors more vibrant than Alexandra remembered ever seeing them. The ancient planked floor gleamed with polish, and the huge chamber was ablaze with light from torches mounted between each of the arched stained-glass windows. But what really made the room glitter was the people—all the guests in their gorgeous dresses and handsome evening suits. The ladies' necks, wrists, and hands sparkled with jewels, and diamonds winked from many a man's cravat.

  The music came to an end. "Thank you for the dance," the gentleman said with a bow. Lord Haversham, or Haverstock, or Haversomething…she really couldn't remember.

  She smiled and curtsied. "It was my pleasure."

  A row of red velvet chairs beckoned along the oak-paneled wall. She was heading toward one of them when Lord Shelton intercepted her.

  "May I have this dance?"

  "I'd be delighted," she told him, ordering her feet to stop complaining. After all, she'd been dreadfully rude the last time she saw Lord Shelton, refusing to serve him ratafia puffs. She could hardly dismiss his invitation to dance. But when he offered his arm to lead her back to the dance floor, she took it and felt nothing. Nothing.

  She could scarcely believe she'd once contemplated marrying him.

  Thankfully, the musicians didn't strike up a waltz, but another country dance. As she took her place across from Lord Shelton, she had to admit he looked handsome in his formalwear. Pale and blond and very, very English. But she still thought his scent was too flowery.

  "I'm pleased to see you've recovered," he said. "You suffered from quite a lengthy illness."

  Was that the excuse Griffin had used to keep him away? Bless the man. He was a fine brother indeed. "Thank you. I'm feeling quite myself now," she assured her former suitor.

  "May I call on you Monday morning, then?"

  Oh, drat. "I'm afraid I have prior plans." Surely she'd need to wash her hair.

  "I should like to resume our courtship."

  So she'd surmised. "I expect you should speak with my brother," she said, mentally composing her apology to Griffin.

  "I shall," Lord Shelton replied.

  The steps then separated them for a spell, and when they came back together, Alexandra launched into a lively discussion of the weather. After she'd exhausted that fascinating topic, she steered the conversation to talk of the latest fashion in gloves and the best way to keep household account books. When the dance—which seemed to last at least half an hour—mercifully ended, she headed toward the chairs again, only to be stopped by Griffin this time.

  "Alexandra, I have an old acquaintance for you to meet."

  "My feet wish for me to sit. They're protesting my treatment."

  "You can sit tomorrow."

  Groaning inwardly, she put a smile on her face. The purpose of tonight, after all, was for her to meet men. Just because she hadn't fallen head over heels for the last dozen didn't mean the next one might not catch her fancy.

  Besides, she owed Griffin, though he had yet to learn it. "Lord Shelton will be approaching you. He wishes to resume his suit."

  "What am I to tell him? You're obviously in the bloom of health."

  "Oh, you'll come up with something." She smiled as a man approached. "Is this the gentleman you wish me to meet?"

  Griffin scowled at her, then switched on the famous charm as he turned to greet his friend. "Lord Ribblesdon, I'd like you to meet my sister, Lady Alexandra."

  "A pleasure," the man said, bowing over her gloved hand. "Would you honor me with this dance?"

  "I'd be delighted," she assured him.

  Though Lord Ribblesdon wasn't as handsome as Tris, he was attractive, his hair dark and his eyes a pleasant blue. The musicians were starting a quadrille, so they formed a square with three other couples.

  From another square nearby, Juliana grinned. "The look," she mouthed silently.

  Alexandra had completely forgotten. Now she dropped her gaze and then raised it, curving her lips in a slight smile as she met Lord Ribblesdon's eyes.

  Looking a bit dazzled, he smiled in return. "Your home is beautiful."

  "I like it. I've always felt Ca
inewood is a special blend of old and new."

  "You would like my estate, too," he said, and proceeded to describe it in exquisite detail as they danced.

  After a few minutes, she glanced at the tall-case clock that sat against a wall. Ten twenty.

  Lord Ribblesdon droned on, describing his octagonal breakfast room, which apparently boasted an unusual chandelier. Next he waxed enthusiastic about a pond on his property that was filled with notable fish.

  Why did these dances have to go on so very long? An hour passed, and she glanced at the clock again.

  Ten twenty-five.

  Catching Griffin's gaze across the hall, she gave him a tight smile. He shrugged and nodded, looking around for another candidate. She figured he'd been successful when he positioned himself at the edge of the dance floor to wait for her.

  "I need to sit," she told him when the dance that would never end finally did. This time she headed for the small room where they'd set up refreshments and took a chair there. "Ahh," she breathed as she dropped onto it.

  He snatched a few marzipan fruits and brought them to the table with two cups of punch. "What was wrong with him?" he asked, sitting beside her.

  "The same thing that's wrong with every other man here tonight. They have nothing to say of significance." She munched on a miniature apple, hoping the sweet almond paste confection would revive her. "They talk only about themselves. Or their property."

  He devoured a piece of marzipan in two bites. "Their goal is to impress you. What else should they talk about?"

  "Why should they think I'll be impressed by the number of acres they own or the new horse they just bought at Tattersall's?" She drained the cup of tepid punch, telling herself it was refreshing. "I trust you wouldn't introduce me to anyone of insufficient means or a man after nothing but my dowry. I don't particularly care what these gentlemen own; I'd much rather know what they think."

  "About what?"

  "Life. The state of the kingdom. Walter Scott's latest book. Anything."