Give these sweet-and-sour biscuits to a sour person you wish to turn sweet.My husband has never proved immune.
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1747
ALL THAT LONG afternoon and evening, Alexandra had a lot of time to think.
After a short nap, her head felt better. The rest of her was achy, but not intolerably so. She copied some of her favorite recipes as Tris had suggested, then called for Peggy to help her dress for dinner. The maid was still in a snit, so for once she didn't babble, which suited Alexandra just fine. When she was ready, she waited for Tris to come escort her to the dining room.
A tray arrived for her instead.
She ate little, the food sticking in her throat. She knew she had hurt Tris terribly. I hope you haven't been trying to buy my cooperation…even as she'd said that, part of her had been shocked to hear the words come out of her mouth. She wondered what had happened to traditional, accommodating Alexandra. This quest for truth and justice had turned her into a woman she scarcely recognized.
And it was tearing apart her marriage.
At ten o'clock she changed from the dinner dress into one of her new nightgowns, a sheer blush-colored confection that she hoped would tempt Tris to forgive her. She belted a wrapper over it and waited. The clock struck midnight before she heard his footsteps in the corridor.
She hurried to open the door, to welcome him, to do what she could to mend things between them. But he wasn't coming toward her. At the far end of the corridor, he was opening the door to the Queen's Bedchamber.
Wearing only tight trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, he looked worn out and wonderful all at the same time.
"Tris," she called softly.
He turned. "Good night."
"You're not going to sleep in there again, are you?" She started down the corridor, forcing her lips to curve in a smile. "If you're going to go out a window anyway," she said lightly, "there hardly seems a point."
"I had bars put on the windows. I won't be going anywhere tonight."
"Bars?" Having reached the room, she looked past him and inside. It was dark outdoors, but she could just make out faint stripes that must be iron rods outside the glass. "That seems a little extreme, doesn't it?"
"Nothing is too extreme to protect you," he said unblinkingly.
Unemotionally. Unfeelingly.
She swallowed hard, any pretense of normalcy gone. "I'm sorry for what I said. Please don't pull away from me, Tris. I love you."
"Good night," he said again and turned to enter the room.
Although she certainly hadn't expected to hear those three words echoed back at her, neither had she expected them to be ignored entirely. "Wait," she said, grabbing his wrist.
She'd been fighting it all along, but she knew what she had to do. She'd thought of little else for the past few hours.
He glanced dispassionately down to her hand. "Yes?"
His skin felt warm, but his arm felt tense. She grasped him tighter. "I'm not going to do the last interview. I'm not going to talk to Maude."
He looked up and blinked. "Why?"
"It's the only way I can prove I love you. The only way I can prove I'll stay with you even if you remain in disgrace. I don't care about society, Tris—I don't need their parties or their approval. I never have. I've been doing this for you and for my sisters. But my sisters will cope. You're my husband, and you're more important. My loyalty to you comes first."
She couldn't think of anything else to say. So she waited. He looked down again to where her fingers gripped his arm, and she released him and waited some more.
"All right," he said at last. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll sleep quite soundly tonight." Then he stepped into the room and closed the door between them.
He was going to bed without even so much as a kiss.
While she stood there, stunned, Vincent walked up, as if on cue, and slid a key into the lock. "Are you all right, my lady?"
His low, musical voice failed to soothe her. "I'm fine," she said woodenly. "I believe I shall go make some sweets."
"Now?" Vincent asked in surprise. His gaze went to her bare feet.
"Now," she said, belting her wrapper more tightly.
She refused to spend another night on the floor outside her husband's room.
"Well." He seemed at a loss. "The ovens will be cold. Let me accompany you downstairs and light them for you."
She fetched her new recipe book before following him down the gaslit staircase, flipping pages as they crossed the great hall to the back passage.
"Lemon puffs," she decided. According to some long-dead cousin or aunt, they were supposed to turn a sour person sweet. Heaven knew, given Tris's current attitude, she could use all the help she could get.
In the kitchen, she gathered eggs, sugar, and lemons while Vincent started the brick ovens. Just as she began separating the first yolk from the white, Mrs. Pawley walked in. "What's going on here?" she asked through a yawn.
The cook's round body was covered by a plain, voluminous white nightgown—not at all transparent—and her feet were as bare as Alexandra's. Still dressed like a perfect gentleman, Vincent answered with great dignity. "We're making lemon puffs."
"We?" Alexandra and Mrs. Pawley said together.
"We," he confirmed, reaching for a lemon.
Mrs. Pawley went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of sherry and three glasses. When she filled Alexandra's to the brim, Alexandra didn't protest. Instead she took a big sip and felt the rich wine warm her all the way down her throat and into her stomach.
She hadn't realized she'd been so cold.
She pushed up her sleeves and cracked another egg.
Grating sugar, Mrs.
