She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so distressed all at the same time.
As for Tristan, distress didn't begin to describe his feelings. Her declaration had thumped into his midsection like a well-aimed fist.
I think I'm in love with you.
He'd never heard anything more horrifying.
In the aftermath of Leticia leaving him, he'd made firm decisions, the main one being he would never again believe a woman's claims of undying love. To do so left him too vulnerable, his emotions too close to the surface, his heart too open to pain.
But to disbelieve Alexandra might very well be impossible.
She couldn't be in love with him—she just couldn't. She was too loyal, too sincere, too difficult to heartlessly deny. He couldn't cope with her love, with the guilt of leaving her, with the thought of her going to another man. His only saving grace was his certainty that she was wrong. She didn't know love any more than he did.
And he wasn't even certain it existed.
The waltz was sweet torture, her yielding body against his, her gloved hand squeezing his so hard he wondered how the blood could make its way through their veins. Beneath a fussy little bonnet, her hair was piled atop her head in a loose, sensuous arrangement, and he buried his nose in it, inhaling the fragrance as though it could sustain him.
"I'm getting dizzy," she breathed as he spun her faster. "Dizzy on lo—"
"Don't say it." There was no point, and it wasn't even true. "Just dance with me."
She leaned away from him, just far enough to meet his eyes. "Why?" Even as she asked, her grip tightened on his hand, her other arm tugged him closer. "What made you ask me to dance?"
Sheer terror. He'd have done anything to stop her from continuing her line of questioning. The only thing more frightening than love was the murky uncertainty surrounding the mystery of his uncle's death.
But he couldn't tell her that. "It was our last chance," he said instead, not wanting to encourage her but unable to come up with another explanation.
"And Griffin isn't watching."
"No," he agreed, "he's not."
When the music stopped, he twirled her once more before reluctantly releasing her.
"Will you kiss me?" she whispered in the hush that followed. "It's our last chance for that, too."
He shook his head. "I cannot." His reputation might be in shreds, but he still had his honor.
"You kissed me before."
He couldn't tell her he'd been sleepwalking. That would be humiliating, not to mention somewhat of an insult. "I cannot trust myself to only kiss you. I thought I explained—"
"Never mind." She began pulling off one of her gloves.
Below, the musicians struck up a cheerful country dance. But Tristan was feeling anything but cheerful. He stared at her busy hands. "What are you doing?"
"I just want to touch you." She dropped the glove to the floor and started on the other one. "Do you remember when I made your profile portrait? Years ago, before you left for Jamaica?"
"Yes, but—"
"I wanted to touch you then. I pretended I was touching you while I traced your face. I've loved you for all that time, Tris. Maybe longer."
"You cannot have." As her second glove hit the wooden planks, he started backing away toward the rail. "Young girls often have crushes on their older brothers' friends. You never let go of that. Now I understand."
"No. You don't understand." Following him, she raised a hand to his forehead and swept the hair from his brow. Her fingers were gentle, and she smelled warm and sweet, and it took everything he had not to drag her back into his arms.
"That won't work," he said unsteadily.
She only shrugged and reached for one of his hands, tugging to loosen the glove, slowly and deliberately, fingertip by fingertip. As she slid the silk free and dropped it to join hers on the floor, a tremor ran through him, leaving a queasy ache in his gut and a more urgent ache down lower.
Damn if she wasn't seducing him—and successfully, at that. His body was sending him all sorts of messages his brain didn't want to accept. He should leave. Now.
Before he found himself lost in temptation.
The door was right there in front of him, but instead of leaving, he backed away some more. A smile curving her lips, she followed again, giving his second glove the same rapt attention as the first. When it hit the floor, she linked her fingers with his—both hands—and sighed so prettily it made her breasts rise and fall in the tiny bodice Griffin had said she couldn't wear.
"I just wanted to touch you," she breathed.
He just wanted to kiss her. He couldn't. As she swayed toward him, he took one more step toward the rail—
And knocked the silver tray clear off of it.
"Drat!" Alexandra cried, twisting sideways to lean over the rail. They both watched in horror as the tray hit the floor below with a resounding metallic crash, scattering miniature colored marzipan fruits all over the polished wood. A few dancers screamed, scattering along with them, while the rest of the dancers froze. The musicians stopped playing mid-note.
Alexandra wrenched her hands from his and pushed hard against his chest. Her harsh whisper rent the silence. "Run!"
She turned and fled, clattering down the stairs before he could even reach the door.
TWENTY-FOUR
BEFORE ANY servants could arrive to help, Alexandra skidded into the great hall and dropped to her knees on the floor, scrabbling for the miniature marzipan fruits. A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove, but she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment.
"We'll have this set to rights in a minute," she announced to anyone who would listen, "and the dancing can resume. No need to panic."
Never mind that she was panicking herself. Her stomach
