Everything was changing. Griffin would leave soon as well—their father had bought him a commission in the cavalry. Although Griffin and Tris had spent much of the past few years at school and university, these new developments seemed different. They'd be across oceans. It wasn't that Alexandra would be alone—she'd still have her parents and her grandmother, her oldest brother and her two younger sisters—but she was already feeling the loss.
"Two or three years," she echoed, knowing Griffin would likely be gone even longer. "That seems a lifetime."
Tris's image shimmied as he laughed out loud. "I expect it might, to one as young as you."
He wasn't that much older, only one-and-twenty. But she supposed he'd seen a lot in the extra six years he had on her. Young men left home as adolescents to pursue their educations. They spent time hunting at country houses and carousing about London.
While she didn't exactly chafe at her own more restrictive life, she was counting the years and months until she'd turn eighteen and have her first season. She'd spent hour upon hour imagining the balls, the parties, and all the eligible young lords. One of those titled men would be her entrée to a new life as a society wife. A more exciting life, she hoped. And she would love her husband, she was certain, although right now she could hardly imagine loving any man besides Tris.
He'd never indicated any interest in her, but of course he wouldn't. As well as she, Tris knew his place. But that didn't stop her from wishing she knew whether he cared.
Just whether or not he cared.
"Will you bring me something from Jamaica?" she asked, startling herself with her boldness.
"Like what?" She heard astonishment in his voice. "A pineapple or some sugarcane?"
It was her turn to laugh. "Anything. Surprise me."
"All right, then. I will." He fell silent a moment, as though trying to commit the promise to memory. "Are you finished yet?"
"For now." She set down her pencil and walked to the windows, drew back the draperies, and blinked. The room's familiar blue-and-salmon color scheme suddenly seemed too bright.
She turned toward him, reconciling his face with the profile she'd just sketched. From the boy she'd met years ago, he'd grown into a handsome, masculine man—one might even say he looked arresting. But she wouldn't describe him as pretty. His jaw was too strong, his mouth too wide, his brows too heavy and straight. As she watched, he raked a hand through his hair—tousled, streaky dark blond hair that always seemed just a bit too long.
Her fingers itched to run through it, to sweep the stray lock from his forehead.
"It will take me a while to complete the portrait," she told him as she walked back to where he sat beside the glass, "but I'll have it ready for you before you leave."
"Keep it for me."
She blew out the candle, leaning close enough to catch a whiff of his scent, smelling soap and starch and something uniquely Tris. "Don't you want it?"
He rose from the chair, smiling down at her from his greater height. "I'll probably lose it if I take it with me."
"Very well, then." She'd been hoping he'd say she should keep it to remember him by. But as always, Tris was the perfect gentleman. If he did harbor any affection for her, he wouldn't betray so with such a remark. "I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Nesbitt."
She'd called him Tristan—or Tris—for years now, but suddenly that seemed too informal.
His gray gaze remained steady. "Thank you, Lady Alexandra. I wish you a happy life."
A happy life. She could be married by the time he returned, she realized with a shock. In fact, if he were gone three years, she very likely would be.
Her heart sank at the thought.
But at least she'd have his profile. When she was finished, it would be black on white in an elegant oval frame, a perfect likeness of his face. And she'd almost touched him while making it.
As he walked from the room, she peeled the paper off the glass and hugged it to her chest.
ONE
RATAFIA PUFFS
Take halfe a pound of Ground Almonds and a little more than that of Sugar. Make it up in a stiff paste with Whites of five Eggs and a little Essence of Almond whipt to a Froth. Beat it all well in a Mortar, and make it up in little Loaves, then bake them in a very cool oven on Paper and Tin-Plates.
I call these my magical sweets…my husband proposed directly after eating only one!
—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1728
Cainewood Castle, seven years later
June 1815
"NOT ALL OF IT!" Alexandra Chase made a mad grab for her youngest sister's arm. "We're instructed to add a little more sugar than almonds."
Corinna stopped grating and frowned. "I like sugar."
"You won't like these ratafia puffs if they're all sugar," their middle sister, Juliana, said as she took the cone-shaped sugar loaf and set it on the scarred wooden table in the center of Cainewood Castle's cavernous kitchen.
"Here, my arm is tired." Alexandra handed Corinna the bowl of egg whites she'd been beating, then scooped a proper amount of the sugar and poured it into another bowl that held the ground almonds. Stirring them together, she shook her head at Corinna. "You really are quite hopeless with recipes. If you didn't look so much like Mama, I'd wonder if you're truly her child."
A sudden sheen of tears brightened Corinna's brilliant blue eyes. She quickly blinked them away. "She always made good sweets, didn't she?"
"Excellent sweets," Juliana said in a sympathetic tone, shooting a warning glance to her older sister.
Alexandra felt abashed and maybe a little teary herself. She looked away, her gaze wandering the whitewashed stone walls of the kitchen. Heaven knew Corinna was the most talented of the three of them. She'd meant only to tease her sister about her lack of
