She began to laugh, but stopped when he gathered her against him. Heat erupted inside her, spreading through her body as his lips descended on hers. He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness before settling into place like he belonged there.
Clearly he did.
He'd kissed her before, of course—several times. But until today, they'd been stolen, forbidden kisses. And the two today—during their wedding and in the carriage afterward—had been barely more than a whisper of lips.
This time there was no one watching. This time there were no nagging feelings telling her it was wrong. This time there was blessed solitude, the sanctity of marriage, and the thrilling, compelling pressure of Tris's mouth claiming hers.
She sank into his arms, into his kiss, into the impossibly wonderful truth that he was hers.
He kissed her lower lip, her upper, then traced a line with his tongue between them. She sighed and opened her mouth, inviting him in. His hands wandered down her back and settled on her bottom, feeling oh so scandalously warm as he drew her more snugly against him.
A brisk knock sounded, and the door swung open. She and Tris jerked apart.
"In here," Peggy directed.
Her head swimming with desire, Alexandra struggled to steady herself while four footmen marched in carrying two large trunks.
"Through the sitting room to the dressing room," Peggy added briskly.
Alexandra had been so focused on Tris, she hadn't even realized there was a sitting room or a dressing room. She gazed at him now, breathless, her body still yearning for something she couldn't put a name to.
Her new husband's eyes reflected her own frustration. He sighed and took her arm. "Shall we have supper while she puts away your things?"
THIRTY-TWO
LIGHT SUPPER at Hawkridge turned out to be a three-course meal. But for the second time today, Alexandra found herself unable to eat much of anything. She was still reeling from the hasty events, and hunger seemed the last thing on her mind.
Sipping sparingly from a glass of the estate's surprisingly fine wine, she did manage a few spoonfuls of the delicious shellfish soup. But she surreptitiously fed Rex bites of her cornish hen and carrots, reaching under the dining room's long cedarwood table and praying his huge jaws wouldn't snap off her fingers along with the food.
While she picked at her potato pudding—which, unfortunately, she had no way to feed to the dog—she and Tris discussed the staff. She learned Peggy wasn't the only servant long in residence at Hawkridge Hall. To the contrary, many of the staff had been born here. The butler, Hastings, had inherited the post from his father; Mrs. Oliver's mother had held the housekeeper's keys before her; and the groundskeeper's great-great-grandfather had first laid out the gardens. Likewise, many of the lower servants' families had served Hawkridge for years.
"Tradition," Alexandra said with a smile.
"Mrs. Pawley is Hawkridge's first female cook in generations, however." Tris, of course, was eating like the proverbial horse. Nothing—not even the upheaval of a hasty marriage—affected a man's appetite. "Her father was the cook, and his father before him. When Pawley failed to sire any sons, he taught his daughter the culinary skills instead. Uncle Harold was a mite uneasy about that."
So Mrs. Pawley wasn't married, Alexandra reflected as a footman removed her plate and replaced it with the sweet course. The cook still bore her father's name, the Mrs. only a courtesy often extended to upper servants. "Your uncle eventually accepted her, though?"
"During the Peace of Amiens in 1802, when it became evident her father's retirement was imminent, Uncle Harold sent her to Paris to study under an acknowledged master." Tris dug into his strawberry trifle. "Male, of course. Apparently, being French-trained made up for being the wrong gender."
"Her food is delicious."
"I'm sure Rex thinks so," he teased with a grin.
The mastiff was snoring contentedly in a corner of the dining room. Alexandra pushed her trifle around on her plate, trying to make it look smaller so as not to offend the cook.
"I shall have to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries," Tris said.
"It doesn't matter. I'm not hungry, in any case." He was almost finished, and she still hadn't brought up the servant she found most curious. "Tell me about Vincent."
He sipped his wine, raising a brow at her over the glass's rim. "Do I strike you as a man who would own a slave?"
Her cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin. "You cannot blame me for wondering." Though new slave trade had been outlawed since 1808 in all British territories, there was nothing in the law to prevent one man from owning another. Many in England still did, particularly those who had plantations in the West Indies and brought their slaves with them when they came home.
With a sigh, Tris set down his glass. "Vincent served me well during the years I spent in Jamaica. I bought him and freed him before I left."
She released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "That was a wonderful thing to do."
"Merely decent. He was the best valet I'd ever had, and I cannot countenance one man owning another."
"But your uncle could."
He shrugged, clearly ambivalent. "Uncle Harold inherited the plantation—and its slaves—as part of his wife's dowry. Under his ownership, the slaves were treated well, and during the time I spent there and after I returned, we talked many times of freeing them. He wasn't particularly comfortable owning men. But he feared the financial repercussions of setting them free, and he was of the opinion that it was only a matter of time—a short time, in the scheme of things—before legislation was enacted that would emancipate them all and take the decision out of his hands. I agreed with him on that point."
"There has been no legislation."
"There will be. Soon." He polished off the last of his trifle and sat back, lifting his glass. "Uncle Harold wanted to wait. He felt sorry for
