"You shouldn't have gone there," he said.
Guilt flashed again, this time replaced by determination. "I had to find out if Beth had any information, Tris, don't you see?"
He didn't see. Or rather, he saw all too well that she wouldn't stop digging in his past, threatening his hard-won equilibrium. He scooped a hand through his hair, fighting to maintain his even temper. "I thought you said it was over."
"You cannot expect me to ignore new information. I've asked Peggy to find out if there are any more servants who have left as well. If there's any chance—"
"I want you to stop this."
"I cannot." She sighed. "I'm sorry. It's too important. This is our life and the lives of my sisters. We're married for better or worse, but I cannot help trying to make it better."
He sat silent for a moment, trying to accept that. It wasn't easy. If she continued asking questions, neither of them were going to be happy with the answers. But he consoled himself that at least she had told him the truth. He hadn't known she'd been to Armstrong House, and she'd volunteered the information. She wasn't trying to hide anything, wasn't sneaking around behind his back.
Of course she wasn't. She was Alexandra.
"I don't want to fight," he said finally, determined to regain his earlier mood. When he rode up to the house, he'd been so eager to see her. There was no sense ruining the entire evening. If she was going to leave him someday—when society got the best of her—he wanted to enjoy their time together. "I'm disappointed—very disappointed—that you're not willing to let go of this. But I don't want another fight."
Her eyes grew misty, which cut him to the core, because he'd never seen Alexandra cry. "I don't want to fight, either."
A knock came at the door, and Vincent entered with their dinner tray. Or rather, two trays. And then he brought in a third. Mrs. Pawley had sent up a veritable feast. Alexandra composed herself and Tristan lit the gas lamps while Vincent put everything in the sitting room. The valet ducked back into the corridor to fetch a fourth tray holding a bottle of Hawkridge's wine, two glasses, plates, and utensils. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"Thank you, Vincent." Tristan saw him back to the door. "This will do."
"This will do?" Alexandra asked when they were alone again. "There's enough food here to feed the entire household!"
"Well, come fix yourself a plate."
Shaking her head, she slid out of bed and started for the sitting room.
He stared, incredulous. "What are you wearing?"
"I borrowed it from Juliana." She stopped and twirled in the monstrosity, making yards and yards of white fabric and lace bell out and swirl about her. "Do you like it?" she asked, sounding a bit hesitant. "I know it's a little short on me, but my own nightgowns are so plain, I thought you would find this much prettier."
His gaze traveled from the frilly ruffle under her chin to the four rows of tiered lace skimming her ankles. The wide sleeves were gathered at the wrist with a six-inch spill of froth that completely concealed her hands. But the worst of it was the body of the gown—there was so much material, he wondered if he'd even find it possible to work his way underneath it.
Still, it wouldn't do to tell her how much he hated it. "I like you better in nothing," he said tactfully.
She blushed. "Oh. I'm not certain that's proper."
"There hasn't been much proper about our relationship, has there?" She looked so flustered he couldn't help but smile as he led her through to the sitting room. "Here's a plate."
Vincent had brought fish, roast duck, lamb cutlets, artichoke bottoms, mushrooms, green peas, boiled cauliflower, plum pudding, apricot fritters, and bread. Alexandra took an artichoke bottom, three mushrooms, a small piece of bread, and some butter.
"That's all?" Tristan asked.
"I told you I'm not hungry."
Setting his plate aside, he laid a hand on her forehead. "Are you ill?"
"No. Just tired."
"Get in bed."
"With my food?"
"People eat breakfast in bed, don't they? Why not dinner?"
After she was settled against the pillows, he poured two large glasses of wine and handed her one. She sipped it while he undressed.
"I'm going to stay home tomorrow," he said, divesting himself of his coat and cravat.
"Hmm," she said pleasantly, sipping again.
He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it. "I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. And journal entries to record." He made short work of removing his braces, then loosened his cuffs and undid the buttons at the top of his shirt. "I'm weeks behind on that sort of business."
She licked her lips as he stripped the shirt off over his head. "I suppose that's Griffin's fault."
"I'm not placing blame." He couldn't help but notice her watching him. Smiling to himself, he sat beside her on the bed to remove his boots and stockings. "It's just something I need to do."
"It shall be nice to have you here," she said while he unbuttoned his falls and untied the ribbon securing his short drawers.
He felt, rather than saw, her avid gaze on him as he stood and pushed everything down and off. His body reacting to that gaze in a very obvious way, he turned to her and grinned. She gulped the rest of her wine, licking her lips again while he took the glass from her hand and set it on the bedside table.
"Eat," he said, pointing to the untouched plate in her lap. She nodded and reached blindly for her fork.
He knew she watched as he walked through the sitting room to the dressing room. A man appreciated that admiring look on a woman's face. Assuming he could find his way under her hideous nightgown, this promised to be a fine evening after all.
But first things first. His
