He turned and walked toward the bedroom, thinking to tell Alexandra as much and enjoy her reaction.
She was sound asleep, her head lolling on the pillows.
"Alexandra?" She slumbered on. He took the tray off her lap and set it aside. "Alexandra?" She was out so cold, if he didn't know better, he might fear gas poisoning again.
He ate his dinner and tried again, shaking her shoulder a little this time. "Alexandra?" Still no reaction.
He turned off all the gaslights. Then went back and double-checked them all. And a third time. "Alexandra?"
Quite obviously, she was out for the night.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep this early—to bed perhaps, but not to sleep. Yet he climbed up beside her, pulled her into the curve of his body, wrapped an arm around her…and held her all night.
FORTY
"SWEET HEAVEN, what is that noise?" Alexandra asked the next morning at breakfast.
"Rex. I left him asleep in the study." Her husband gestured toward the connecting door. "I told you he snores."
"He's louder than your ram pumps," she marveled as a footman poured her tea. "I'm surprised he hasn't wakened me in the night."
"Nothing would have wakened you last night." She'd never before seen Tris roll his eyes. "I won't ever again serve you wine at bedtime," he declared in a failed attempt to sound serious.
"I cannot blame you for that." She didn't remember falling asleep, and she'd awakened to find herself alone. But the sheets had still held the faint scent of him, and she'd been aware all night of him holding her, curled against her back like two spoons nestled together. "I was sorry to see you gone when I woke."
He sipped his coffee, looking disgusted. "I woke to find myself in the kitchen."
"On the floor?"
"No. Just standing there, eating one of your sugar cakes."
"Stealing sweets in the night again?" she teased over the continuing rumble of the mastiff's snores. "See, you sleepwalked, and nothing bad happened."
Tris ignored her subtle dig. "We were talking about you falling asleep on me," he said instead, his tone implying he wished she hadn't.
She felt her cheeks warm. From time to time during the night, she'd been aware of the aroused state of his body pressed against hers. But for the life of her, she'd been unable to bestir herself enough to take advantage of it. "I can only drink half a glass of wine. Any more and I—"
"Fall asleep?" he provided with a raised brow. He cut a bite of ham.
"Or get very, very silly."
He looked thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. "I cannot imagine you silly; that would truly be a sight. However, I'm not sure I'm willing to risk you falling asleep in order to see it."
Two thunderous snorts came from the adjoining room, followed by blessed silence. Rex must have rolled over. Smiling, Alexandra reached for the jam pot. "Did you make a dent in the work in your study this morning?"
"A rather large dent, as a matter of fact. I may even find time to get out and take care of some business later in Windsor." He sprinkled salt on his eggs, watching her spread jam on her toast. "It won't take long. I promise to be back in time for dinner."
"I'm not passing judgment on you. I know you have much to do, thanks partially to my brother."
She also knew she wasn't offering him much incentive to remain home, given the way she insisted on going against his wishes. It was almost as though she could feel him pulling away, distancing himself from her emotionally.
She set down her knife. "I have much to do as well," she said, watching him pick up the jam pot and wondering why he was frowning. She was trying her best to be cooperative. "I'm meeting this morning with Mrs. Oliver to go over—"
"No!" He dropped the jam pot, reached across the table, and snatched the bread from her hand.
She blinked. "Tris?"
"It's strawberry." He swiped a finger across her toast and licked, turning ashen as he confirmed it. "Strawberry preserves, not cherry."
"Dear God in heaven." Her heart pumping wildly, she realized the skin on the side of her index finger felt prickly. Looking down and spotting a telltale streak of red preserves there, she quickly wiped it off. "I should have looked," she said, searching her hands for other traces of jam. Finding none, she released a tense breath.
When she glanced up, Tris had gone even whiter beneath his tan. "I must have switched the preserves in the jam pot." He scraped rigid fingers through his hair. "I've done it again. I'm harming you in my sleep."
"You are not." She didn't know which she found more disturbing: discovering strawberries on her toast, or his assumption that he was at fault. "It's a long way from eating a sugar cake to switching the contents of a jam pot. I'm certain this was an honest mistake. A kitchen maid who didn't know better must have refilled the pot."
"No. Mrs. Pawley assured me she would tell everyone you cannot eat strawberries. It was no mistake. I—"
"Do you even know where the jam pot is kept?" she interrupted. "Or the preserves?"
He paused a moment. "I must have hunted around."
"In your sleep? I think not. Mrs. Pawley must have neglected to inform someone—not deliberately, of course, but in error." Who knew how often the woman nipped from the sherry bottle? "Let's call in the kitchen staff and get to the bottom of this."
A few minutes later, the dining room was crowded with kitchen maids, scullery maids, and the small boys who did odd jobs belowstairs. Mrs. Pawley looked perfectly
