As he seated himself beside her, she blushed, her gaze going to the two footmen in the room.
"They didn't see or hear anything," he assured her in a whisper, and then louder, "How was your afternoon?"
"Peggy gave me the list of former servants," she said rather breathlessly. One of the footmen put a bowl of soup before her, and she lifted her spoon, the simple motion seeming to calm her. "Four names. I visited three of them and learned nothing."
He spooned some soup, wondering how he would get it into his mouth between his clenched teeth. But he wanted this to be a nice night, so all he said was, "I wish you hadn't done that."
"I know." Somehow she managed to look both sorry and determined at the same time. "If it's any consolation, there's only one name left. A woman in Swangate. Unless she astounds me by being the only one to have seen suspicious dealings, I'll be finished after I talk to her."
Although she sounded mournful, he couldn't help celebrating privately. And he certainly didn't want to argue and ruin this night. Instead, he made light conversation through the next two courses, his blood humming with anticipation.
At last the table was cleared. Hastings brought in and opened a bottle of port. A footman presented a platter of fruit and biscuits. No sooner had they departed when Mrs. Oliver walked in, placed the box—now gaily wrapped and ribboned—at the far end of the table, and promptly left.
Tristan poured Alexandra a very tiny glass of port—he didn't want her falling asleep tonight. He poured himself a larger one.
Alexandra glanced at the box, then lifted his empty dessert plate. "Grapes? Biscuits?"
"Surprise me," he said, thinking he couldn't wait to surprise her. He sipped, savoring the heady flavor of the fine, sweet wine and enjoying the quizzical look on his wife's face.
She filled his plate and took a single biscuit for herself. "How was your afternoon?" she asked, her gaze drifting again to the box.
"Extremely successful."
She took a small sip of the deep red port. "Your business in Windsor went well?"
"Exceedingly."
She hadn't touched her biscuit. "Would you mind if I asked what you did there?"
"Not at all." He popped a grape into his mouth, enjoying this exchange immensely. "I visited the shops." Seeing her startled gaze fly toward the box once more, he smiled to himself again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. "Would you like to open it?"
"Is it for me?" A tinge of excitement threaded her voice. "This was your business?"
He loved seeing her happiness. He hadn't given her enough since he'd brought her home. "Part of my business. Another parcel should arrive tomorrow." He moved the platter to make more room near her on the table, then rose, fetched the box, and placed it in the space he'd created. "Open it," he said, lifting his glass as he sat again.
The box was so large she couldn't see into it while seated. Slowly she pushed back her chair, stood, and untied the ribbon. The paper fell open, and she raised the lid, set it aside, and reached inside with both hands to part the tissue that protected the contents.
"Ooooh," she breathed.
"Take it out."
She did, lifting it by its handle. Polished silver gleamed in the gaslight. "A basket," she said reverently. "A…solid silver basket?"
"Sterling," he confirmed. "For your sweets. The Marchioness of Hawkridge's specialties deserve much better than wicker." He sipped, watching her stare at the basket, letting the potent liquid slide down his throat as her expression stole his heart. "It won't be too heavy to carry with you when you go visiting, will it?"
"No." She clutched it like she might never let it go. "It has a glass liner," she informed him as though he might not know.
"You wouldn't want to be trailing crumbs."
She still stood there, slowly turning it this way and that, watching the light bounce off its shiny surfaces. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"I'm glad you like it," he said, although glad seemed a very tame word. Thrilled would more accurately describe his feelings. He'd wanted so much to find something she'd like. He hated visiting shops—Vincent ordered all of his clothes—but he'd walked from shop to shop all afternoon, searching for the perfect thing. Refusing to buy anything until he found it. And it seemed he had.
She was looking a little bit shaky, so he rose just long enough to move behind her and push her chair toward the back of her knees. "Sit, before you drop it."
She lowered herself gingerly, holding the basket on her lap, her fingers tracing the chased and pierced decorations, the floral swags and raised ribbons and bows all fashioned out of silver.
He moved the box from the table to the floor by her chair, where she could reach into it. "There are more gifts inside," he pointed out.
"I can see." She folded the basket's fancy handle down and pulled it back up. "Why?" She looked over at him, dewy-eyed. "When you have so much to do, why would you spend your day buying me something like this?"
Because he wanted to give her a nice night.
No, that wasn't the whole truth.
Because he couldn't say the words she needed to hear. Because he couldn't risk loving her. Because he was sure she'd leave him when she failed to clear his name, and he was hoping against hope that a silly silver basket would keep her near.
But he didn't say any of that.
"Because you deserve it," he said instead.
"I do not," she said, her voice thick. "I defy you at every turn."
"Every other turn," he disagreed agreeably. "At the alternate turns, you delight me."
She sighed and reached into the box, pulling out a book bound in fine leather dyed robin's-egg blue. The cover was embossed with gold designs, the pages edged
