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.
He sat gingerly on a carved, gold-leafed chair to await the bloody valet. Hawkridge Hall, the mansion he'd inherited, had its share of impressive rooms, including one very much like this. He rarely went in there. He hadn't been raised among such valuable trappings. He was almost afraid to touch anything.
He shouldn't have touched Griffin's sister, either.
"SIT DOWN, Alexandra."
Griffin waved her toward one of the study's leather wing chairs, then settled himself behind the big desk she still thought of as belonging to her father. Establishing his authority, she thought with an internal sigh. Well, it didn't matter. Everything had changed today. She was finished being the obedient sister, and she wasn't going to let Griffin pressure her into marrying Lord Shelton—or anyone besides Tris.
He rested his elbows on the mahogany surface, steepling his fingers. "What happened out there?"
After hesitating a moment, she squared her shoulders. "Tris kissed me."
"He did what?"
"You heard me. We wish to marry." Pressing her advantage while Griffin still looked shocked, she rose, moving closer to slap her hands onto the desk and lean toward him. "I don't want to marry Lord Shelton. I want to marry Tris."
"Tris," he echoed pointedly, abruptly leaning back in the chair. She was the only one who'd ever called his friend "Tris." He rubbed the nape of his neck. "He hasn't asked for your hand, has he?"
"Not exactly." Something in Griffin's eyes, in the tone of his voice, was making her
