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.
