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
