"Must you remember every word you read?" Alexandra asked with a huff.
"I cannot help it if I can see pages in my head after I've read them. And in any case, I didn't say I believed it. The Mirror of the Graces is dreadfully straitlaced."
Alexandra had had quite enough of this nonsense. She was tired and brokenhearted, and she wanted to go to bed. "Well, it wasn't a good-natured kiss, anyway," she said, leaving her sisters gaping as she quit the room.
EIGHT
BREAKFAST THE next morning was a damned uncomfortable meal. Tristan couldn't help but notice Alexandra wasn't wearing his cameo, and he wasn't sure whether he found that a relief or a disappointment. He spent the entire hour avoiding her eyes while feeling her gaze on him.
He'd never realized a gaze could be so heavy.
And he'd never been quite as relieved as when Griffin pushed back from the table and said, "Let's go."
Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived. After calling for their horses, Griffin waited in stiff silence while Tristan wondered what he should say. But it was a crisp, sunny morning, and once they were on their way to the vineyard, it felt good to be astride in the fresh air. Good and familiar.
"Race you," he challenged.
Griffin slanted a single look at him before digging in his heels.
They hadn't designated a stopping point, but it didn't matter. Tristan leaned over his mount, bunching his muscles along with the animal beneath him, enjoying the rush of cool wind, the pounding rhythm. Beside him, Griffin kept pace; they could both afford expensive horseflesh.
What Tristan couldn't afford was to feel this distant from the only friend he had. They were neck and neck, yet farther apart than when they'd lived on separate continents.
When the horses were blowing, they slowed to a walk and rode silently for a while.
"You can still ride," Griffin conceded.
Looking toward him, Tristan raised a brow. "And I wasn't in the cavalry."
"Keep your hands off my sister."
"I will." He wondered how much Alexandra had revealed. "I'm sorry."
"I know," Griffin said.
Just like that, the tension eased. Such was the way of old friends. But Tristan felt very fortunate that their friendship had survived his indiscretion.
It had been a terrible mistake. They were all lucky the two of them hadn't been caught. In Alexandra's world, a kiss was often as good as a declaration, an observed kiss sometimes enough to compel two people to marry.
And Tristan had no intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"It's forgotten." Griffin raised his face to the sun. "I'm certain it won't happen again."
They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his clenched muscles slowly slacken and the stiffness ease from his neck.
"Why did your brother plant this vineyard so damn far from the house?" he finally asked.
"You think I understood Charles? Ever?"
"He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn't he?"
"Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did." They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren't in sight. "What made you decide to restore Hawkridge's vineyard?" Griffin asked. "Given its age, it must have been an arduous task."
Tristan shrugged. "It wasn't so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part."
"Not mine, apparently."
"We shall see. In any case, I viewed Hawkridge's vineyard as a challenge. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s."
"By whom? Do you know?"
"Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his father-in-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines."
"And they survived all this time."
"Under the brambles, yes. I'll do my best to make sure yours survive, too."
At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. "It's large."
"Charles never did anything halfway."
"He did his research. They're spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal."
"But they're not thriving."
"Let's see why that may be."
As they rode closer, Tristan could see his friend was right: The vines' tendrils were drooping, the young leaves were wilted, and there was no fruit in sight. He swung off his mount and crouched by a particularly pathetic example, digging his fingers into the soil.
"You're getting dirty," Griffin said.
"You never got dirty fighting a war?"
"I wasn't a marquess then."
"Bloody hell, you're turning into your brother."
"That didn't come out right," Griffin protested. "I only meant that I didn't ask you here to do manual labor."
"You want to grow crops, you have to expect to get a little dirty." Tristan scraped away at the roots. "I may be a marquess now, but I was a land manager first—and always will be." He stood, pulling the whole vine up with him.
They both stared at the scrawny thing.
"The roots are stunted," Tristan finally said, stating the obvious.
"Do you expect Charles planted them the wrong time of year?"
"We'll never know. You say these are three years old?" Tristan thought back. "There may have been drought conditions the season they were planted."
"Drought? Here in England?" Griffin gestured to the blue sky, where seemingly ever-present rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.
"If you're unaware of the reality of drought, you clearly weren't trained to farming."
"You can say that again," Griffin muttered dryly.
"Those clouds?" Tristan flung a hand in their direction. "They may dump several inches on the next town yet leave the ground here bone-dry. English weather is nothing if not random and unpredictable. And drought or not, it
