Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 4

  Yes, he had to explain things, difficult as that would be. Perhaps feigning indifference wasn't the hardest thing, after all.

  "That was very nice, girls," Griffin said.

  Although he knew his friend used the term with affection, Alexandra no longer struck Tristan as a girl. He looked away, staring blankly at the large gilt-framed mirror that hung above the white marble fireplace. The room seemed too hot. He tugged to loosen the cravat his valet had so carefully tied early that morning.

  "Are you overly warm?" Juliana smiled sweetly. "Perhaps a walk along the battlements in the night air would help."

  That sounded like an excellent idea. "I believe I shall take your suggestion," he said, beginning to rise. He needed to get out of here. He needed to think. He needed to plan carefully what he would say to Alexandra. Out of sight of her, and her beautiful eyes, and the cameo he'd given her dangling near her pert, filled-out breasts.

  "I'm pleased you agree," Juliana said, still smiling. "Alexandra would be happy to accompany you."

  FIVE

  ALEXANDRA WAS shocked at Juliana's bold suggestion, and even more shocked when Tris—Lord Hawkridge, she reminded herself—paused, then nodded rather grimly and said, "That would be delightful."

  He didn't sound delighted.

  "Tristan," Griffin said in a quiet tone laced with warning. But Lord Hawkridge ignored Alexandra's brother, rising and taking her elbow, and she was too excited to pay Griffin any heed. She'd always followed the rules and obeyed authority, but it seemed she was changing more and more by the minute.

  Lord Hawkridge had agreed to walk alone with her outdoors. Whether he was actually delighted or not, it was almost too good to be true. Maybe she would prove able to make him notice her in the short time he'd be here.

  In silence he steered her from the room. In silence they descended the staircase and walked outside into the quadrangle. In silence they crossed the groomed lawn.

  After a while, the silence grew worrisome.

  She couldn't help wishing he'd sounded happier when he'd agreed to this walk. Perhaps he'd only acquiesced to avoid embarrassing Juliana. Maybe he would rather have stayed inside with Griffin.

  Though there was a full moon tonight, his gray eyes were unreadable. "My lord," she started.

  "After all these years," he interrupted, "you're not going to start addressing me formally now, are you?" Having spent enough time at Cainewood to know his way around, he guided her uphill toward the keep, which sat atop an ancient motte—a mound of earth built to give the castle's defenders the advantage of height. "You called me Tristan when we were younger. Or Tris. I always liked that."

  Had he? Feeling her cheeks heat at the thought, she was happy when it grew darker as they stepped into the tower.

  He let her lead the way up the winding stone staircase, following close behind—as a gentleman should—in case she should stumble in the pitch-blackness. She put a hand to the rough wall for balance. "You weren't a marquess when we were younger."

  "I'm still the same person."

  She wasn't so certain he hadn't changed in seven years. Braver in the dark than she'd have been in the moonlight, she blurted the question she'd been dying to ask. "However did you become a marquess?"

  Behind her, Lord Hawkridge sighed. "My father was a second son—a spectacularly unsuccessful one. It was my uncle—the marquess—who financed my schooling and university."

  "So I gathered over the years." She glanced at him as they stepped through the archway and back into the pale illumination. "But your uncle had heirs, didn't he?"

  "The requisite heir and a spare, yes." By unspoken agreement, they began strolling along the top of the wide, crenelated wall. "My uncle had married well, an heiress who came with a large plantation in Jamaica. Her family lived on other property they owned on the island, and though she and Uncle Harold had a good marriage, she pined to see them from time to time. Five years ago—while I was still there learning the ropes—she brought her sons home for a visit. None of them returned. Weeks after they were due to arrive, my uncle learned their ship had gone down in the Caribbean. Suddenly I was his heir."

  "And then he died?"

  "A year later, yes. That was four years ago, just after I'd returned to England. My own father had died a scant six months earlier, and I'd inherited his estate—which was little more than a mountain of debt. I was…in dire straits."

  He hesitated as though he wanted to say more, but she waited a while and he didn't. "That was solved when you inherited from your uncle?" she prompted.

  "Yes," he said, and hesitated again. Their footfalls echoed into the night. "But there's no need to call me Lord Hawkridge," he finally added, bringing the conversation back to where they'd started.

  She was certain there was something else he hadn't told her, but it wasn't her place to press. "You've always called me Lady Alexandra. On the rare occasions you noticed me, that is." She glanced toward him and smiled—a fetching smile, she hoped. "Last time you saw me I was just Griffin's vexatious younger sister."

  If only she could become more than that now. Shadowed in the moonlight, his features gave her little insight to his thoughts. A lock of his tousled hair had fallen onto his forehead. His eyes looked hooded, his mouth firm.

  "I always noticed you, Alexandra."

  No Lady. She should take offense, she supposed—they weren't close enough to warrant that sort of familiarity. Not anymore, in any case. But she wanted to be that close. And he'd said…

  Had he actually said he'd always noticed her?

  "Did you?" she asked breathlessly, even knowing he couldn't have meant it the way she hoped. I always noticed you. "Probably because I bothered you," she said with a shaky laugh.

  "Not at all. You used to talk about the most interesting things. Deep things."

  She'd always been somewhat of a philosopher, even as a girl. Her sisters were forever telling her she was too serious. She turned to the ledge and stopped, gazing out over the darkened landscape, the fields and the nearby woods. The River Caine glistened in the distance.

  She felt rather than saw him come up to stand beside her.

  "I hadn't expected you listened," she said quietly.

  "Alexandra."

  Something in his voice made her turn to him. "Hmm?"

  "I listened to every word."

  When he laid a hand over hers where it rested on the ledge, she realized she'd forgotten to replace her gloves after she stopped playing the pianoforte. And he wasn't wearing gloves, either. His hand felt warm and a little rougher than a true gentleman's hand should. Not that she'd ever touched another gentleman's bare hand.

  The sensation was thrilling beyond words.

  "Tris," she breathed, the only syllable she seemed capable of uttering.

  He grinned, his teeth straight and white in the moonlight. "That's better."

  Had she really called him Tris? She decided to gloss over that. "I…I don't think it's proper for you to be touching me."

  "You're right. I most definitely shouldn't be touching you."

  But instead of removing his fingers, he tightened them over hers, and his other hand came up to touch the cameo she wore. Near his fingers, her breasts tingled, and their crests seemed to tauten.

  "You kept it," he said.

  "Of course I did." She wouldn't tell him she'd put it away for years. "It was the best gift I'd ever received. I was so surprised when it arrived."

  "I promised I'd send you something from Jamaica."

  "No. You were supposed to bring me something."

  "I couldn't," he said simply. And then, "Alexandra, there's something I must tell you."

  "Yes?" she asked breathlessly.

  "I've listened to you, thought about you, for a long, long time. I wanted you to know that."

  Had he really said those words, the very ones she'd been longing to hear? Her heart seemed to swell in her chest. She was so excited, she barely heard what he said next.

  "But I also need for
you to know—"

  "Oh, Tris! I always noticed you, too."

  He winced, as though her admission had hurt him. "I'm almost sorry to hear that. For you, sweetheart. There are circumstances…"

  Sweet heaven, he'd called her sweetheart.

  But he seemed to be struggling for words. She waited. And waited.

  "We're not meant to be together," he said at last. "Your brother would never—"

  "This isn't my brother's choice." Now that she knew Tris had noticed her, she wouldn't let Griffin or Lord Shelton stand in her way. She wasn't known for being stubborn for nothing. "I shall have a talk with him."

  He shook his head mournfully. "Even in the extremely unlikely event that Griffin might agree, I cannot allow—"

  "Hush, Tris." She turned her hand over beneath his and gripped his fingers, hard. "I won't listen to this." She searched his eyes for a moment, looking for understanding and failing to find it. Then, without thinking, she reached up and swept that single renegade lock off his forehead.

  His breath rushed out, and all at once, something changed in that deep gray gaze. He stepped closer, and his scent overwhelmed her—that clean-Tris scent she'd noticed earlier in the day. "Alexandra," he murmured, the pads of his fingertips grazing her cheek.

  His warmth enveloped her, warding off the chill night air. He cupped her face in his hand and angled his head as he pressed closer, his large, rangy body all but pinning her against the ancient stone wall. Closer, closer, until she could feel his breath teasing her lips.

  She held her own breath. In fact, she wondered fleetingly if she would ever find the strength to draw breath again. Then his lips touched hers, and all thought fled for a long, glorious moment.

  His kiss was tender at first, no more than a brush of mouths, his lips softer than she'd expected. Then his mouth settled on hers more firmly, demanding her response.

  She sighed and leaned in to him, raising her arms to wind them around his neck, threading her fingers through his slightly too-long hair. His tongue traced the line where her lips met. When she parted them in surprise, he took immediate advantage, sinking his tongue into her mouth.

  Shocked, she tensed, but as he probed gently, a languid shiver rippled through her. She'd never imagined such an intimacy. He slid a hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head and tilting it to make their lips mesh more completely, and she allowed herself to relax, lost in a sensual haze.

  He explored her mouth as though intent on learning her, on owning her, on claiming every nook and cranny. In turn, she touched her tongue to his, tasting him and letting all the new feelings wash over her.

  Had she ever been kissed before? She'd thought so…during her one long-ago season, several overwrought, hopeful men had somehow managed to maneuver a few seconds of privacy, enough to press their lips to hers. But now she knew she hadn't really been kissed, not a true kiss like this.

  None of those kisses had made her heart pound. None of those kisses had made heat gather low in her middle. None of those kisses had made her lean wantonly in to a man as she was doing with Tris now.

  Her behavior was scandalous, really. But she couldn't seem to help herself. And Tris's obvious response was her saving grace, for surely he wouldn't kiss her like this without the most honorable of intentions.

  Soon, she thought dizzily, his surprising, thrilling words still swirling about in her head…I've thought about you for a long, long time…soon, he would be her husband.

  He shifted, wrapping his arms around her, one hand against her upper back and the other down lower, drawing her tight against his hard, warm body. He pressed little kisses to her cheeks and chin and neck, pausing in the hollow of her throat, making new, tingly sensations dance along her skin. Close as he was, she was certain he could hear the pounding of her heart.

  "Tris," she whispered.

  "Holy Christ," he grated out.

  When his hands fell from her body, her eyes flew open to find his closed. It seemed an eternity before he opened them.

  She gave him a trembly smile. "That was nice."

  "No." He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair raggedly. "It was most certainly not nice."

  "Well, not in that way, perhaps," she said, confused. She drew a shaky breath and let it out. "But that cannot really matter so long as we…"

  "So long as we what?"

  "So long as we…"

  He hadn't proposed, and she couldn't bring herself to do it for him. But as she watched and waited, she saw understanding dawn in his eyes. And then she saw his jaw set as he stepped farther back. "A kiss doesn't equal a marriage proposal, Alexandra."

  His voice shouldn't sound so cold and resolute. He'd felt the same feelings she had; she was sure of it. "But I thought—"

  "I'm sorry," he interrupted, looking sorry indeed. "I cannot marry you. There are circumstances…damn, I knew I needed to think about how to explain this." She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Please accept my sincere apologies. What I just did was unforgivable, but I can only promise it won't happen again. There's no chance I will ever take you for a wife."

  SIX

  "I SEE," Alexandra said and immediately turned to leave.

  Though he knew he should elaborate, Tristan remained silent as he walked her back to her family. Along the wall walk, down the winding steps of the tower, and across the quadrangle, he cursed himself a dozen times. Alternately, he thought about how he should word his explanation. He needed to make her understand that his inability to offer for her hand fell squarely on his shoulders and had nothing to do with any inadequacy on her part.

  And in between all of that, his mind kept flashing back to that one galvanizing moment when she'd reached toward him, when her fingertips had grazed his skin as she swept the hair from his forehead.

  When, if ever, had a woman touched him so tenderly?

  That single gesture had, quite simply, undone him. He'd been taken by surprise, found himself lost in temptation. Holy Christ, she'd never even been kissed before. The innocent sensuality of her response had devastated him.

  He wouldn't—couldn't—allow anything similar to ever happen again.

  On the steps in front of the double doorway to the castle's living quarters, he stopped and turned to her. "Alexandra—"

  The door opened to reveal Griffin. "My sister doesn't look happy," he said flatly.

  He—or perhaps Juliana and Corinna—must have been watching them approach through one of the picture gallery's tall, narrow windows.

  Alexandra stepped decisively into the stone entrance hall. "I'm fine."

  Griffin didn't look like he believed her.

  Following, Tristan shut the door behind them. "Alexandra, I can explain."

  "There's no need." She raised her chin. "I understand completely."

  As Griffin moved closer to his sister, Tristan looked between the two of them: Alexandra, calm and composed—she would never be flustered for long, nor, Tristan expected, was she the sort of woman to succumb to fits of weeping—and her protective older brother. Theirs was a close-knit family; it seemed to make little difference that Griffin had been gone for so many years. Such closeness was so foreign to Tristan's own experience as to be nearly unimaginable.

  He felt impotent in the face of their united front.

  "I must explain," he repeated.

  "You did," Alexandra said. "I shall have a word with Griffin and straighten this all out. Now."

  Turning to Tristan, Griffin emitted a long-suffering sigh. "There's more port in the music room. Please help yourself."

  Tristan heard the delicate notes of the harp wafting down the staircase. But he didn't need liquor or entertainment. What he needed was to go back to his secluded world—the world he should never have left.

  "I believe I shall take my leave for Hawkridge," he said.

  "No." Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  Everyone seemed to be touching him today.

  "You've promised to help me
," Griffin added. "Stay, please. At least until you've seen the vineyard in the morning. I need you."

  It had been a long time since a friend—or anyone not a dependent—had needed Tristan. He could damn himself for his weakness, but he found that irresistible.

  "I shall retire, then," he said with a nod. "It's been a lengthy day. Good night." Before he could talk himself into leaving again, he headed for the great carved stone staircase.

  Boniface appeared from the shadows. "Allow me to accompany you, my lord."

  "Thank you, but I know the way."

  The butler handed him a lantern. "I shall send a valet to you posthaste."

  Tristan didn't want a valet. He wanted to be alone. He'd been relieved to escape his own very fine and competent valet that morning and ride to Cainewood in blessed solitude, assuming this would be a day trip. But he was a marquess now. Upon inheriting the title, the world believed he'd forgotten how to undress himself.

  What he'd forgotten instead was his head. His manners. His bred-in-the-bone knowledge that Alexandra Chase would never be his.

  And he'd made a bloody damn mess of things with his bloody inability to explain the bloody scandal that made any relationship between them impossible.

  Holding the lantern high, he mounted the stairs, cursing himself. He cursed himself all the way through the picture gallery, across the arched dining room, and along the impossibly long length of the hammerbeam-ceilinged great hall. At its far end, he stomped down a corridor and slammed into the room he'd been assigned.

  Within Cainewood's thick stone walls, even summer evenings were chilly. The makings of a fire had been thoughtfully laid on the marble hearth. No doubt a chambermaid hovered in the passageway, waiting for his summons to start it. In an act of defiance, he set the lantern on a gilded dressing table and bent to light the logs himself.

  Straightening, he looked around and groaned.

  With any luck, he'd be leaving in the morning, right after he inspected the vineyard. But in the meantime, this gaudy room was no place to relax.

  Seemingly endless rows of guest bedrooms lined this wing, and he'd never been given this one before. Of course, he hadn't been a marquess before. The Gold Chamber, this room was called, and it was saved, a chatty chambermaid had informed him, for the castle's most honored guests. Having been decorated for a royal visit in some previous century, it was filled with heavy gilt furniture and draped in golden fabric. It dazzled the eye. And had him tiptoeing his way around.