Alexandra (25 page)

He whirled to face the door as it opened again, from the inside this time, revealing a sleepy-eyed Tristan wearing a dressing gown. An improvement over a moment ago, when Griffin had seen the fellow in his sister’s feminine Chippendale bed.

“Get back in there!” Griffin whispered, reaching to pull the door shut again, quietly this time.

“Aha.” Lady St. Quentin’s triumphant voice was unmistakable. “I knew it!” Elbowing past the other approaching guests, she made her way to the door and pushed on it.

It reopened with an ominous creak. Inside, Alexandra cowered in her bed.

“You’re ruined, girl,” Lady St. Quentin crowed. “Ruined!”

“She is not,” Corinna protested, throwing Griffin a desperate, apologetic glance.

But it was too late. The crowd rushed to see, forming a loose semicircle in front of the door.

Alexandra
was
ruined.

“I sleepwalked in here,” Tristan explained quietly, as though he and Griffin were the only ones there. A nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. “Unaware of my own actions.”

“Balderdash!” Lady St. Quentin exclaimed. “I’ve never heard such a pathetic excuse. It won’t save her reputation; that I can promise.”

“Hang it,” Griffin said dangerously. All the whispering behind him wasn’t helping him think straight. He glared at Tristan. It was some consolation to learn Alexandra hadn’t invited the son of a gun into her bed, but of all the accursed, unexpected… “You
still
sleepwalk?”

“Infrequently, but yes.”

“You didn’t have to stay once you got here,” he bit out.

“You’re right. My sincerest apologies. I’ll leave now.” Tristan started from the room.

“No, you won’t.” Griffin stopped him with an outstretched hand flat against his chest. “You stayed the night, you’ll stay now. You’ll marry my sister. By special license. Tomorrow.”

Gasps rose from the onlookers. Tristan glanced down at Griffin’s hand, then stepped back. “If that’s what you wish.”

Griffin’s arm dropped to his side. “It’s not what I wish, but it’s what must be done.”

“Nonsense,” Lady St. Quentin cut in. “You cannot marry your sister to a murderer.” Reaching back into the cluster of spectators, she pulled her son stumbling through to the front. “My Roger will be happy to marry her.”

Her Roger looked mortified.

“For her dowry?” Griffin asked Roger’s mother pointedly.

“Does it matter?” she returned.

Griffin’s gaze flicked to where his white-faced sister sat motionless on the bed, her blue covers clutched beneath her chin. “Do you wish to marry Sir Rog—”

“You cannot let the chit decide this for herself,” Lady St. Quentin scoffed.

Was there another woman in England as maddening? “As a matter of fact, I can should I choose to do so. And I can certainly solicit her opinion.” Drawing a calming breath, Griffin turned back to Alexandra. “Do you wish to marry Sir Roger St. Quentin?”

She shook her head infinitesimally.

“No,” Juliana said for her. “She most certainly does not.”

Griffin and Lady St. Quentin sent her matching glares.

“I’ll marry her,” came another voice. Lord Shelton stepped out of the clutch of gawkers.

Despite his own distress, Griffin felt sympathy for the gentleman. If he knew Alexandra’s mind, Shelton was about to be publicly refused. He looked back to her. “Do you wish to marry Lord Shelton?”

“No,” Juliana started at the same time Alexandra said, “I’m sorry.”

Thin and shaky, her voice barely carried from the room to the corridor. “My apologies, Lord Shelton. I’m honored by your offer, but I don’t think we would be happy together.” Suddenly, her eyes flashed—Griffin would swear he saw red in the medium brown. “And Lord Hawkridge is no murderer,” she added loudly and perfectly clearly.

Griffin stood silent, cursing the fates that had put
him
in charge of his siblings. Two perfectly acceptable gentlemen had offered for his disgraced sister. If he forced one of them on her, this scandal would eventually blow over. She’d be miserable all her days, but their sisters would be able to marry well. If he allowed her to wed Tristan…

He felt everyone’s eyes on him while his own vision swam. Never in his life had he found it so hard to make a decision. Not even on a battlefield with the enemy bearing down…although, given the antagonistic mood of some of those around him, that analogy wasn’t so far off.

Rachael stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away and down the corridor. The guests all turned to watch as she walked him to the end so they wouldn’t be able to overhear.

“Your first instinct was good,” she said quietly. “Let her marry the man she loves.”

His gaze flicked to the curious onlookers. “But—”

“I, too, once thought this union inadvisable. But now that I’ve seen them together—”

“What they feel for each other has little bearing on the repercussions of this match.”

“Have faith. She has faith in him.”

Griffin had faith in Tristan, too—but that wasn’t the point. “The
ton
doesn’t mirror that faith.”

“Will you allow that to influence your decision? That isn’t the Griffin I remember. The one I imagined riding into battle with his principles held before him like a shield.”

He stared at her. “You never thought of me that way. You thought I was a reckless rascal.”

“Perhaps. I do recall you once telling me to ask for forgiveness, not for permission. But you were also stubborn as anything. You never let anyone else’s opinions stand in the way of your goals.”

His gaze swept the assembled guests, landing on the odious Lady St. Quentin. He could see her straining to hear.

Hang it. Rachael was right. He wasn’t going to let that despicable, fortune-hunting woman decide his sister’s fate. He couldn’t consign Alexandra to a life of utter misery, even to save the rest of them from infamy. Not and live with himself, anyway.

With a sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable, marching back to face his old friend in his sister’s doorway.

“Get dressed,” he said tightly. “The Archbishop of Canterbury is half a day’s ride, and you’re in need of a special license.”

ALEXANDRA FELT
queasy as she watched the last of their guests’ carriages roll out of the quadrangle. “Why do I think they’re all going to gather at the end of the road and have a good gossip?”

“Because they will,” Juliana said.

“The repercussions have begun already.” Alexandra turned to follow her siblings back inside. “They didn’t even stay long enough to finish breakfast.”

“That’s only because it was stone-cold,” Corinna said, sitting on an old, ornate treasure chest.

“No, it wasn’t.” Tired and shaky, Alexandra lowered herself to one of the walnut hall chairs. “No one wants to associate with us. Dear heavens. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to marry Tristan tomorrow.” Griffin sat on the third step of the staircase, leaning forward with his elbows on his spread knees, his hands dangling between them. “And you’re going to be happy. I demand it.”

“How can I be happy when the rest of you will be miserable?” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

An expression of outrage stole over his face. He sat up straighter. “You’re marrying the man you claim to love. There’s no crying allowed. You hear me?”

“She’s not crying for herself,” Juliana said, moving to pat Alexandra on the shoulder. “She’s crying for
us
.”

“I’m
not
crying,” Alexandra said, swiping at the rogue tear with a frustrated motion.

In truth, she wasn’t sure why she was crying. She was a quivering bundle of emotions. One moment she was elated to be marrying Tris, the next racked with guilt that it meant making pariahs out of her siblings. She was more than disgusted with her failure to keep her resolution for even a single night. And she was humiliated beyond belief—absolutely mortified that half of society had seen a man come out of her bedroom.

“Why did I let him stay in my room?” Why had she
asked
him to stay in her room? “I’m mutton-headed.”

“You’re seventeen!” Juliana returned loyally. “And you’re human.”

“I’m sorry.” Alexandra gave a long, wretched sniff. “I’ve ruined all your lives.”

“Good gracious,” Griffin said. “Cheer up, will you? You don’t see any of us crying.”

“We’re
thrilled
for you,” Juliana put in.

Alexandra looked around at all the grim faces. “Indeed.”

“We are,” Corinna insisted. “We’re just a little…shocked. You’ve always been the
good
sister.”

“Well, I’ve been changing, in case you haven’t noticed. It seems my transformation is now complete. From a paragon of traditional femininity to an utter tart, and all inside of a single summer.”

“No one thinks you’re a tart,” Juliana said.

Corinna nodded. “A little fast, perhaps, but—”

“She’s about to be a married matron,” Juliana interrupted, glaring at her younger sister. “There’s nothing fast about that. Griffin, you did exactly the right thing.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

Alexandra sighed. “There
was
no right thing.”

“Does Tristan really sleepwalk?” Corinna asked her brother.

He nodded. “All of his life.” His jaw clenched. “I’m going to kill him.”

Alexandra jumped up. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Sit down. I was fooling.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he added, “I’d
like
to kill him, but I’ll restrain myself. For your sake.”

“Thank you.” She plopped back down.

“Just be happy. That’s all the thanks I require.”

But she couldn’t be happy—not when she’d ruined her family’s reputation. She wouldn’t be happy until she fixed that. Until her sisters could win any young men they wanted. Until Griffin didn’t have to defend his fallen sister or his decision to allow her to marry Tris.

Until, she realized, the seeds of an idea taking root in her brain, she found the evidence that would clear her husband’s name.

Her
husband.
It suddenly struck her as uncanny that by this time tomorrow, she would be a wife. She put that from her mind for the moment.

“Just give me a week or two,” she told her siblings. “Then we’ll all be happy.”

Corinna’s blue eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to find whoever murdered Tris’s uncle.” She could do it. She had to do it. “Then Tris won’t be shunned anymore, and you’ll be able to make a brilliant match. After all, your older sister will be married to a handsome, popular marquess who is well known for his expertise in machinery, animal husbandry, and land management.” Alexandra tried for a brave grin.

“You’re going to find his uncle’s murderer,” Griffin said flatly. Disbelievingly.

She raised her chin. “Yes. I am.”

“How?” Juliana asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll need to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall.”

“Tristan doesn’t think there
is
a murderer,” Griffin reminded her. “He thinks his uncle died in his sleep.”

“Well, we’d best all pray he’s wrong, because a natural death will be much harder to prove. But if that’s the case, I’ll find a way, because it’s the only hope for us all.”

“Surely it’s not as dire as all that,” Juliana said.

But no one spoke up to agree with her, because it
was
as dire as all that.

Alexandra sighed into the silence.

“Holy Hannah!” Corinna exclaimed after a long moment.

Juliana turned to her. “What?”

“She’s going to investigate matters at Hawkridge Hall. She’s going to
move
to Hawkridge Hall.”

“Tomorrow,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. “I expect Tristan will want to leave directly after the wedding.”

“She cannot leave tomorrow!” Juliana shook her head. “She’s made no preparations, she has no trousseau, she—”

“She has no choice.” Griffin stood, one hand on the staircase’s marble rail. “I’m going to change my clothes and head out to the vineyard. Since Tristan has abandoned me, I’ll need to install his pump.” He started upstairs, looking over his shoulder at them as he went. “You’d better pack your things, Alexandra. And choose a wedding dress. With any luck, I’ll be finished and back for dinner.”

“A wedding dress,” Alexandra breathed.

Corinna nodded. “A Lady of Distinction suggests white.”

“I don’t even
own
a white dress.”

“You can borrow one of ours,” Juliana said. “We’d best get busy.”