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There’s no chance I will ever take you for my wife.”

SEVEN

    “I SEE,” Alexandra said and immediately turned to leave.
    Though he knew he should elaborate, Tristan held his tongue as he trailed her back to her family. Along the wall walk, down the winding steps of the tower, and across the quadrangle, he cursed himself a dozen times. Alternately, he considered the wording of his explanation. How could he make her understand that that no matter her feelings or his, an alliance between them would be the worst mistake of both their lives?
    And in between all of that, his thoughts kept returning to that one extraordinary moment when, reaching out to touch his hair, her fingertips had skimmed his forehead.
    It had been such an innocent gesture. Trivial, even. He couldn’t fathom why it had affected him so. Perhaps he was no longer fit for genteel society, considering the smallest hint of kindness from a pretty girl could rob him of his wits.
    He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow anything similar to happen ever again.
    On the steps in front of the double doorway to the castle’s living quarters, he caught up to her. “Alexandra—”
    The door opened to reveal Griffin. “My sister doesn’t look happy,” he said flatly.
    He—or perhaps Juliana and Corinna—must have been watching them approach through one of the picture gallery’s tall, narrow windows.
    Alexandra stepped decisively into the stone entrance hall. “I’m fine.”
    Griffin didn’t look like he believed her.
    Following, Tristan shut the door behind them. “Alexandra, let me explain.”
    “There’s no need.” She raised her chin. “I understand completely.”
    As Griffin moved closer to his sister, Tristan looked between the two of them: Alexandra, calm and composed—she would never be flustered for long, nor, Tristan expected, was she the sort of girl to succumb to weeping—and her protective older brother. Theirs was a close-knit family; it seemed to make little difference that Griffin had been gone for years. Such closeness was so foreign to Tristan’s own experience as to be nearly unimaginable.
    He felt helpless in the face of their united front.
    “I must explain,” he repeated.
    “You did,” Alexandra said. “I shall have a word with Griffin and straighten this all out. Now.”
    Turning to Tristan, Griffin emitted a long-suffering sigh. “There’s more port in the music room. Please help yourself.”
    Tristan heard the delicate notes of the harp wafting down the staircase. But he didn’t need liquor or entertainment. What he needed was to go back to his secluded existence—the one he should never have left—and forget this mortifying episode.
    “I believe I shall take my leave for Hawkridge,” he said.
    “No.” Griffin stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You’ve promised to help me. Stay, please, at least until you’ve seen the vineyard in the morning.”
    It had been a long time since a friend—or anyone, truthfully—had wanted Tristan around. It was a nice feeling, and he gave into it with pitifully meager resistance. “I shall retire, then. Good night.” Before he could change his mind again, he headed for the great carved stone staircase.
    Boniface appeared from the shadows. “Allow me to accompany you, my lord.”
    “Thank you, but I know the way.”
    The butler handed him a lantern. “I shall send a valet to you posthaste.”
    Tristan didn’t want a valet. He wanted to be alone. He’d been relieved to escape his own very fine and competent valet this morning and ride to Cainewood in blessed solitude, assuming this would be a day trip.
    But he was a marquess now. Upon inheriting the title, the world believed he’d forgotten how to undress himself.
    What he’d forgotten instead was his head. His manners. His principles, his integrity, his consideration for the fragile heart of a lovely, innocent young girl.
    And then, as an encore, he’d made an awful situation worse with his blasted inability to explain