Free Alexandra by Lauren Royal, Devon Royal Page B

you would find a lady—”
    Griffin’s laugh was so harsh it was nearly a bark. “I’m too occupied figuring out how to run this hulk of a place to entertain any thoughts of marrying.” As their horses clip-clopped over the wooden drawbridge and into Cainewood’s quadrangle, Griffin shot Tristan a speculative glance. “I shall look for a lady for you instead. One who isn’t my sister.”
    “No ladies.” Since scandal had tarnished his name, Tristan hadn’t courted any girls at all. “I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to share my circumstances, let alone someone I cared for.”
    “Whatever happened to that girl you left behind in Oxford?”
    “We were talking about your love life, not mine.” When his friend remained closemouthed, Tristan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Doubtless she’s married with several brats. She made it clear she had no interest in waiting while I gallivanted around the globe.”
    How nonchalantly he could say that now. At the time, he’d thought he’d never get over her. He’d sailed for Jamaica with an empty cavity where his heart should have been.
    “And the girl you wrote of from Jamaica?”
    “What is this, an inquisition?” They dismounted, Griffin once more expectantly silent. “She decided against leaving the islands for England,” Tristan explained in an offhand manner.
    The truth was, she’d agreed to marry him, then left him at the altar the day before he sailed.
    The women he loved always left him.
    After a while, he mused as a groom took his horse and he and Griffin crossed the lawn toward the door, a fellow grew up and realized that love was nothing more than an illusion. It wasn’t solid, binding, and secure, as Tristan had once believed. It was neither truth nor fact, but merely a fancy in one’s own mind.
    An image of Alexandra, her warm, round eyes aglow with that look of love, flashed across his vision. She was just as naive, just as vulnerable as he had been. She would blame her first broken heart on circumstances, he knew, but someday she, too, would see through the illusion.
    He could only be thankful he wouldn’t be there to witness it.

THIRTEEN

    “WHAT’S GOING on here?” Griffin asked a few days later, poking his head into the drawing room.
    “We’re choosing new evening dresses.” Alexandra held up a swatch of fabric. “Would you care to help?”
    “In the dark?” Entering, he blinked. “Why in blazes have you closed the draperies?” He strode toward one of the windows.
    “No!” Juliana cried. “We must see the fabrics by candlelight.”
    “Whose bacon-brained idea was that?” Griffin turned to the mantua-maker.
    Madame Rodale laid a plump hand on her ample bosom. “Not mine, my lord, I assure you,” she said in her fake French accent.
    “It was A Lady of Distinction’s idea,” Corinna informed him.
    “A lady of what?”
    “A Lady of Distinction. The author of The Mirror of the Graces .”
    “The book you bought for all of us,” Juliana reminded him as she pawed through a box of lace. “To help us catch husbands. A Lady of Distinction says we must choose our dress fabrics by candlelight, because otherwise we might select a pale yellow in daylight that appears black by night.”
    “Yellow appearing black? What swill is this? It appears I’ve bought a manual authored by a complete—”
    Griffin broke off, apparently unable to come up with a word to describe her that was acceptable in mixed company.
    “Twit?” Corinna suggested.
    “A twit, yes. Perhaps you girls shouldn’t read that book, after all.”
    “Oh, thank heavens,” Alexandra breathed.
    Juliana nodded. “That twittish Lady of Distinction also says we should never paint our faces, and we should wear only modest clothing no matter the current fashions.”
    “Does she?” Griffin smiled. “Keep reading, then.”
    All three sisters groaned.
    “What do you think of this yellow?” Corinna held a square of fabric to Juliana’s cheek.
    “Pretty, but