"That's ridiculous." She pulled her hand from his, leaving him feeling very alone in the dark. "There's absolutely no way you could have murdered your uncle."
He recoiled from the certainty in her voice, the anger she so very rarely displayed. "It's a possibility," he disagreed tersely. "Only a possibility, but—"
"It's not." He felt her fingers brush his face, and her voice gentled, but not much. "You're a good man, Tris. And I'm positively certain that, as such, you would never do anything while asleep that you didn't wish to do while awake."
It was an interesting theory, but he couldn't quite buy it. "How about this?" he returned, reaching to skim a hand over her bare hip, still horrified that he'd all but ruined her.
She hesitated rather than answering, releasing a little moan before she closed the distance between them. Her arms went around him and held him snug. Damning his own weakness, he reveled in her embrace, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close.
"You wanted to do this, too," she whispered into the night.
He couldn't argue with that. He'd been craving her for weeks, months…years, if he were to be honest. Just having her so near was a torture he could barely endure. She felt too warm, too giving, too damn sweet in his arms. And even though he couldn't remember so much as a moment of their earlier encounter, she somehow felt familiar in his arms, too.
As though she belonged here. But she didn't.
No one belonged in his arms.
Her insistence that he was innocent had done nothing to ease his worry. God only knew what he might do next in his sleep. Though he'd hesitated to wed before, now he was absolutely determined never to subject a good woman to his menace.
And every fiber of his being was aware of her against him. Dangerously aware. "I must leave," he said, trying to pull away.
She held him tighter, her curves melding to match his contours, the soft pillows of her breasts crushed against his chest. "Stay. Please. A few minutes longer."
She didn't say why. She didn't need to say they would never be together like this again.
"Just hold me," she begged. "Just hold me for a little while."
So he just held her. It was, perhaps, the most difficult thing he'd ever done. His entire body was rock hard. Her skin was so silky beneath his hands, her loose, long hair so fragrant. He buried his face against her neck, and he could feel the pulse in the slim column of her throat, rapid and unsteady like his.
And when she fell asleep in his arms, he knew he'd never known a sweeter moment.
He wouldn't succumb to sleep. He'd just lie here a little longer, imprinting this moment in his brain so he could relive it in the long, lonely years ahead.
He wouldn't sleep.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THERE WAS AN empty space at the breakfast table.
True, it had taken a good half hour for the family and all their guests to make their bleary-eyed way to the dining room. But now it was nearly noon. And Alexandra—normally the earliest riser of them all—had yet to appear.
"Do you expect she's had a relapse?" Lord Shelton asked, his pale brow wrinkled in concern. "Could the evening have been too much for her in her current, fragile state?"
Griffin shrugged, secretly pleased. "Perhaps." With any luck, this would provide an excuse to put the poor man off another month or so.
"Alexandra is the veriest picture of health," Juliana declared, to his annoyance. "I shall go fetch her." She began to rise.
"I expect Lady Alexandra is still sleeping," Lady St. Quentin said in her superior, all-knowing way. "I do believe she had a late night."
The low buzz of conversation ceased as all eyes in the room looked to her.
"We all had a late night," Griffin said into the sudden silence.
Lady St. Quentin blithely buttered a slice of toast. "Do you know," she continued conversationally, "I was rather restless during the night. All the excitement, I expect."
Juliana reseated herself. Griffin narrowed his gaze. "Go on," he said. She would in any case, the old gossip.
"Well, I took a little stroll down the corridor, and what do you suppose I saw?" Enjoying her rapt audience, she paused to take a delicate bite, chew it leisurely, and swallow. "None other than the Marquess of Hawkridge, coming out of one of the bedrooms."
"Mother," her son interjected halfheartedly.
She waved him off, turning to Griffin. "I thought the marquess had departed after learning he wasn't welcome."
"You were mistaken," Griffin said with a forced smile.
"I'll go fetch Alexandra." Juliana rose again.
Lady St. Quentin raised her cup of chocolate to her lips, watching Griffin over the rim. "You'll want to go with your sister," she said pointedly.
He barely resisted huffing out a sigh. "And why is that?"
"Because when the marquess left his room, he went upstairs." She paused to let the significance of that sink in. "And he left his door open, and it still isn't closed, and he isn't inside. So I suspect he has yet to come back down."
"Why the hell would you surmise that?" Rachael snapped.
Lady St. Quentin raised one of her overly arched brows. "My dear, you must learn to watch your language."
"Mother," her son repeated hopelessly.
She didn't even bother waving him off this time, ignoring him as she focused on Rachael. "I do believe Hawkridge is the man I saw in the minstrel's gallery with your cousin last night."
Several gasps were heard around the table.
"I'm going to fetch Alexandra," Juliana stated and headed from the room.
"I'm going with you." Corinna pushed back her chair and ran after her.
"So am I," Griffin added through clenched teeth.
Several more chairs rasped along the carpet as various guests rose to trail them. Griffin hurried after his sisters, refusing to look back. Gobble-grinders, all of them. Let the whole world follow, he thought as he took the stairs three at a time, passing Corinna and then Juliana handily. The
