Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 7

  He sighed, too. "I don't know what I want, either." In a complete change of mood, he stepped forward and chucked her under the chin. "Life hasn't treated us well the past few years, has it?"

  "Perhaps not, but I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself." She gave him a shaky smile. "As concerns Lord Hawkridge, you've nothing to fear, I promise you. Your friend has become a proper gentleman overnight."

  If part of her regretted that fact, a larger part knew it was for the best.

  "I'm glad to hear it." Griffin smiled back, a relieved smile, then took himself from the room.

  Alexandra sent another ball across the table with a force that outdid her brother's. It bounced off two cushions and rolled neatly into a pocket.

  If only her life would roll into place that perfectly.

  TEN

  TWO DAYS later, Griffin woke on the wrong side of the bed. Or at least that was what Tristan surmised, given the man hadn't strung more than three words together during their ride out to the vineyard.

  Leading their horses by the reins, they walked along the riverbank, discussing their final plans prior to setting them in motion. "We'll site the pump here," Tristan said, "belowground with a grating over the opening. Ten feet in depth. That will give us the drop we need to start the water flow through the mechanism." The day before, he'd staked off an area roughly six feet square. "Four straight walls. You'll want to line them with brick to prevent erosion, but that can wait."

  Griffin nodded soberly. "I'll instruct my men to start digging the pit immediately. Is that your drawing of the pipeline?"

  Tristan handed him the sketch. "It's a fairly straight shot from here to the top of the rise."

  "And these dotted lines are where you've divided the vineyard into seven areas for irrigation?"

  "Each serviced by a section of the pipe that runs along the ridge."

  "Capping and uncapping each section as needed." Griffin traced a finger along the path. "The water will run straight down the slope. It should work."

  Tristan swung up onto his gelding. "Of course it will work. We planned it perfectly," he quipped, hoping to goad his friend out of his bad temper.

  Squinting up at him in the morning sun, Griffin didn't look convinced.

  When he held out the drawing, Tristan leaned from the saddle to retrieve it. "We'll make it work," he added.

  "We?" Griffin asked.

  "Think of it as a learning experience." Tristan folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. "Race you back," he challenged, taking off before Griffin was mounted.

  Long minutes later when their horses tired, they slowed to a walk. Their friendly competition had served to cut the time of their journey. Tristan had hoped the invigorating ride would also serve to boost his friend's brooding mood, but as they continued on in silence, it seemed instead that his low spirits might be contagious.

  As the crenelated walls of the ancient castle came into view across the downs, Griffin's fists clenched on his reins. "Impressive, isn't it?" he said in a bitter tone that contradicted his words.

  "Magnificent." Tristan slanted him a glance. "But you don't feel like it's yours, do you?"

  "No," Griffin said flatly. "It was never meant to be."

  "Hmm." Tristan debated whether to sympathize or knock some sense into the man. The latter was tempting. "Is that why you hesitate to learn how to manage it?"

  "I'm learning," Griffin protested in an ill-tempered tone. They rode a while longer in silence before he added, "Very well, damn you, I've been hesitating."

  The first step was acknowledging the truth, and God knew Tristan had climbed all the steps. Dragged himself up them, one at a time. "You haven't been home long. I expect I hesitated, too, when I first inherited Hawkridge."

  "Four years, now. Tell me, do you feel like it's yours?"

  "I do." He hadn't felt that way at first, but he'd made Hawkridge his, put his own brains and sweat into its improvement. "Cainewood will feel like yours, too, someday. You'll have a family here—"

  "Whoa." Griffin held up a hand. "I need to find husbands for my sisters before I even think about myself."

  "Why?"

  "Why? A gentleman doesn't put himself first. Besides, I've no interest at present—"

  "I meant, why are you set on marrying them off so quickly?"

  Griffin shifted in his saddle, staring straight ahead. "At their ages, they're all but on the shelf already, never mind it's through no fault of their own."

  Tristan just looked at Griffin until he turned to meet his gaze.

  "Very well," Griffin finally admitted. "I want my old life back. And while I continue to be responsible for the three of them—"

  "You'll never have it," Tristan interrupted.

  "Have what?"

  "Your old life back. Your sisters have nothing to do with it, and the sooner you accept that fact, the happier you'll be. If you would find a special lady—"

  Griffin's laugh was so harsh it was nearly a bark. "The sort of woman I'd be interested in at present wouldn't go by lady. I'm too occupied figuring out how to run this hulk of a place to entertain any thoughts of settling down. I prefer the relationships I had in my military days: quick, passionate, and not expected to last."

  "Good luck finding that here in Jolly Olde England," Tristan said with an amused snort. "Unless you're willing to pay for it, that is."

  "It could well be worth the blunt," Griffin muttered.

  Tristan shrugged. "There's a particular house in Windsor…"

  "I say!" his friend exclaimed with sudden good humor. "So you haven't been a monk these four years past."

  No, he hadn't. But then, neither had he and Griffin during their university years. The two of them had always known where to find the nearest brothel.

  "You'll have to introduce me," Griffin added.

  "As you wish," Tristan agreed, although, he suddenly realized, he hadn't made his way to Windsor in a good twelvemonth. Or maybe longer.

  As their horses clip-clopped over the wooden drawbridge and into Cainewood's quadrangle, Griffin shot him a speculative glance, his sour mood apparently vanquished. "I shall look for a special lady for you instead. One who isn't my sister."

  "No ladies." Since scandal had tarnished his name, Tristan hadn't courted any women at all. "I wouldn't ask my worst enemy to share my current life, let alone anyone special."

  "Whatever happened to that girl you left behind in Oxford?"

  "We were talking about your love life, not mine." When his friend remained closemouthed, Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. "Doubtless she's married with several brats. She made it clear she had no interest in waiting while I gallivanted around the globe."

  How nonchalantly he could say that now. At the time, he'd thought he'd never get over her. He'd sailed for Jamaica with a dull, empty ache where his heart should have been.

  "And the woman you wrote of from Jamaica?"

  "What is this, an inquisition?" They dismounted, Griffin once more expectantly silent. "She decided against leaving the islands for England," Tristan explained in an offhand manner.

  The truth was, she'd agreed to marry him, then left him at the altar the day before he sailed.

  The women he loved always left him.

  After a while, he supposed, as a groom took his horse and he and Griffin crossed the lawn toward the door, a fellow grew accustomed to the pain. And if not, it didn't matter—because it wouldn't be happening again.

  Hell would freeze over before he gave his heart to another woman.

  ELEVEN

  "WHAT'S GOING on here?" Griffin asked a few days later, poking his head into the drawing room.

  "We're choosing new evening dresses." Alexandra held up a swatch of fabric. "Would you care to help?"

  "In the dark?" Entering, he blinked. "Why in blazes have you closed the draperies?" He strode toward one of the windows.

  "No!" Juliana cried. "We must see the fabrics by candlelight."

  "Whose bacon-brained idea
was that?" Griffin turned to the mantua-maker.

  Madame Rodale laid a plump hand on her ample bosom. "Not mine, my lord, I assure you," she said in her fake French accent.

  "It was A Lady of Distinction's idea," Corinna informed him.

  "A lady of what?"

  "A Lady of Distinction. The author of The Mirror of the Graces."

  "The book you bought for all of us," Juliana reminded him as she pawed through a box of lace. "To help us catch husbands. A Lady of Distinction says we must choose our dress fabrics by candlelight, because otherwise we might select a pale yellow in daylight that appears black by night."

  "A pale yellow look black? Can the woman be serious? I cannot believe I bought a book written by a woman who's so obviously such a—"

  Griffin broke off, apparently unable to come up with a word to describe her that was acceptable in mixed company.

  "Twit?" Corinna suggested.

  "A twit, yes. Perhaps you girls shouldn't read that book, after all."

  "Oh, thank heavens," Alexandra breathed.

  Juliana nodded. "That twittish Lady of Distinction also says we should never paint our faces, and we should wear only modest clothing at all times."

  "Does she?" Griffin smiled. "Keep reading, then."

  All three sisters groaned.

  "What do you think of this yellow?" Corinna held a square of fabric to her cheek.

  "Pretty, but bright," Alexandra said. "A Lady of Distinction favors pastels."

  "It's called jonquille," the mantua-maker put in. "And it's très fashionable."

  Corinna gave a happy sigh. "I shall have it, then."

  "How can you even see it?" Griffin complained loudly.

  "Griffin?" Tris barged into the drawing room. "We must leave soon, if I'm to—" Locking gazes with Alexandra, he cut off. "Pardon me," he said quickly and turned to leave, much to her relief.

  Grabbing him by the upper arm, Griffin pulled him back into the room. "Do sit down. You, too, can help my sisters choose their new evening dresses."

  "Choose dresses?" Tris echoed dubiously. But he sat, arranging his rangy form on a sofa.

  Alexandra would have sighed if she wasn't afraid it would draw too much attention. In the past week, for her own comfort and to mollify her brother, she'd done her best to avoid Tris. Happily, that had proved a simple matter, since he'd been feverishly working to solve Griffin's problem.

  Tris had taken to rising at dawn and breakfasting before Alexandra, an early riser herself, even ventured forth from her room. He spent most of his daylight hours in the temporary workshop Griffin had set up for him off the quadrangle between the laundry and the dairy, effectively hidden from where her family lived on the two upper floors. And when he wasn't in the workshop building the pump, he was visiting the foundry that was casting the parts, or out in the fields directing the construction of the pump's housing and pipeline. Alexandra rarely saw him except at dinner.

  Though all of that made things a little easier, she was impatient for him to finish and return to Hawkridge. For now, she decided, she would simply ignore him.

  At least he was focused on Griffin at the moment, rather than her. "Damn, it's dark in here," he said.

  A twinkle in Griffin's eye was apparent even in the dimness. "Did you not know," he drawled, "that dress material is best selected by candlelight, lest something pale yellow in the daytime appear black by night?"

  "Black?" Tris crossed his arms. "What sort of addlepated—"

  "We can open the curtains now," Juliana interrupted. "We've all chosen our fabrics. Look at mine." While Griffin went to pull back the draperies, she held up a swatch of the palest pink. "It's called blush."

  "It's lovely," Tris said. Although Alexandra was ignoring him, she couldn't help but notice he looked amused at the goings-on.

  "And Alexandra," Corinna announced with a long pause for dramatic effect, "will be wearing amaranthus."

  "Amaranthus?" If anything, Tris appeared even more entertained.

  "A bright shade of purple with a pinkish tint." As a painter, Corinna was good at describing colors. "Show him, Alexandra."

  Alexandra didn't want to show Tris anything. She wanted to smack her sister, but she supposed A Lady of Distinction wouldn't approve. Instead she reluctantly held forth a piece of the silk, which shimmered in the newly admitted sunlight.

  "Hmm," Tris said.

  Corinna grinned at her sister while addressing the room in general. "Can you believe it?"

  "Believe what?" Griffin asked.

  "That she would wear such a color. She always wears blue."

  "Does she?"

  "Her room is blue, the ribbons on her bonnets are blue, her shoes are blue—"

  "Are they?" Griffin asked, looking perplexed. He stared at Alexandra's blue shoes where they peeked out from beneath her blue skirts. "I hadn't noticed."

  "Oh, he's such a man," Juliana said to no one in particular.

  Corinna shrugged. "Madame Rodale showed Alexandra a stunning swatch of bishop's blue—"

  "I'm weary of wearing blue," Alexandra interrupted. "I wish to wear a different color. Many different colors," she amended. "A new color every day."

  The old Alexandra would have opted for blue, but then the old Alexandra would have spent weeks or months languishing after Tris as well. And she was quite over him.

  She just wished he'd go home.

  "You all made lovely choices," Tris said. "But, Griffin, we really must be off."

  "Tristan has finished the pump," Griffin explained. "We spent the morning overseeing its installation. A perfect installation, I might add."

  "We hope." Tris didn't look quite as confident as her brother. "Now that it's been running a few hours, I'd like to inspect it once again before I leave."

  "You're leaving?" The words tumbled out of Alexandra's mouth before she had a chance to think.

  "This afternoon, assuming everything continues well."

  "Oh," she said. He was leaving. Her wish was coming true.

  So why did she feel as though all the air had quite suddenly been sucked right out of her?

  Juliana slanted her a glance. "The pump must be very impressive," she said to Tris. "May we all come along and see it?"

  His gaze slid to Alexandra and back before he answered. "There's really not much to see."

  "We could bring a picnic!" Corinna gestured outside the bright windows. "It's a beautiful day."

  "Yes, please." Juliana turned to Griffin. "We haven't picnicked in months. As a matter of fact"—she paused for effect—"we haven't done anything at all as a family in months."

  Juliana sounded so sincere, Alexandra wondered if perhaps she truly did want to picnic, as opposed to using the request as a ploy to get her and Tris together for an afternoon.

  But on second thought, both her sisters looked entirely too animated and expectant. It was definitely a ploy.

  A ploy their brother was falling for.

  "Perhaps we could picnic," he said, looking to Tris.

  Tris raked a hand through his hair, messing it up as usual. "I was planning a quick ride out, a quick look, and a quick ride back." A picnic would mean a carriage, considering they'd have to bring baskets and blankets and other assorted paraphernalia. None of which brought to mind the word quick. "I was hoping to get home before dinner."

  "You could have dinner back here before you leave." The look Griffin shot his friend was a mixture of pleading and apologetic. "The days are long this time of year, so you'll still have sunlight should you ride home later." When Tris shrugged, Griffin turned to Alexandra. "What do you think?"

  Her poor, misguided brother was just trying to make his sisters happy. Which meant there was no way she could get out of this without looking like a cantankerous crab, even though agreeing would mean hours shut up in a carriage with Tris.

  Well, at least they wouldn't be alone, she told herself, forcing a smile to curve her lips. "Why, I think it sounds delightful."

  "Mesdemoiselles." Madame
Rodale cleared her throat and held up a large scrapbook filled with fashion plates. "You have yet to select your designs."

  Griffin strode over and took the book from her hands. "They can choose during the drive. You won't mind, will you?" He smiled, turning on the charm. "If you'll but wait a few hours, I promise I'll make it worth your while."

  Madame, who was old enough to be his mother, blushed to the roots of her graying hair. "Very well," she murmured, forgetting her fake French accent.

  Griffin's charm could be lethal. No wonder he had so many friends.

  "It's all settled, then." He turned his smile on the rest of them. "Girls, you have half an hour to wheedle a picnic lunch out of François and change your clothes should your feminine sensibilities require that. What does one wear to a picnic? A carriage dress? A walking dress?"

  "A garden dress," Alexandra informed him, forgiving him his masculine ignorance.

  When he was nice like this, she wanted to kick herself for telling him he should leave.

  TWELVE

  "THAT WAS delicious." In the shade of a large elm atop a rise overlooking the grapevine-covered slope, Tristan leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out on the red blanket Griffin's sisters had packed along with the picnic lunch. He glanced into the empty basket and feigned good-natured surprise. "What, no famous Chase sweets to complete the meal?"

  Sitting across from him, Corinna finished her last bite of cheese. "Griffin didn't give us enough time."

  "Don't go blaming me," Griffin protested. "As though you, of all people, would volunteer to spend hours in the kitchen."

  "My talents don't lie there." She put her dainty nose into the air. "A Lady of Distinction said that whatever is worthwhile to do, is worthwhile to do well."

  "She was talking about dancing," Juliana said with a roll of her eyes. She looked to Tristan. "May we see the pump now, please?"

  "Certainly, at least what little there is to see of it." He rose to his feet and stretched, gazing down to where Alexandra had her own dainty nose buried in Madame Rodale's book of fashion plates.