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Excerpt

Prologue

Cainewood Castle, the South of England

Summer 1808

It was almost like touching him.

Alexandra usually sketched a profile in just a few minutes, but she took her time today, lingering over the experience in the darkened room. Standing on one side of a large, framed pane of glass while Tristan sat sideways against it on the other, she traced his shadow cast by the glow of a candle. Her pencil followed his strong chin, his long, straight nose, the wide slope of his forehead, capturing his image on the sheet of paper she'd tacked to her side of the glass. Noticing a stray lock that tumbled down his brow, she hesitated, wanting to make certain she caught it just right.

Someone walked by the open door, causing Tris's shadow to flicker as the candle wavered. Are you finished yet? he asked from behind the glass panel.

Hold still, she admonished, resisting the urge to peek around at him. Artistry requires patience.

This is a profile, not oil on canvas.

True, and she often wished she had the talent to paint, like her youngest sister Corinna. But the fact that she was missing something Corinna had—that elusive, innate ability to see things others missed and convey them in color, light, and shade—didn't keep her from taking pride in her own hobby.

Alexandra made excellent profile portraits.

She'd been asking Tris to sit for her for years, but he'd never seemed to find the time before. You promised you'd sit still, she reminded him, knowing better than to read malice into his comment. Just this once before you leave.

I'm sitting, he said, and although his profile remained immobile, she could hear the laughter in his voice.

She loved that evidence of his control, just like she loved everything about Tris Nesbitt.

She'd been eight when they first met. Her favorite brother, Griffin, had brought him home between terms at school. In the many years since, as he and Griffin completed Eton and then Oxford, Tris had visited often, claiming to prefer his friend's large family to the quiet home he shared with his father. Alexandra couldn't remember when she'd fallen in love, but she felt like she'd loved him forever.

Of course, nothing would ever come of it. Now, at fifteen, she was practical enough to accept that her father, the formidable Marquess of Cainewood, would never allow her to marry plain Mr. Tristan Nesbitt.

But that didn't stop her from wishing she could. It didn't stop her stomach from tingling when she heard his low voice, didn't stop her heart from skipping when she felt herself caught in his intense, silver-gray gaze.

Not that he directed his gaze her way often. It wasn't that he was unfriendly, but, after all, as far as he was concerned she was little more than Griffin's pesky younger sister.

Knowing Tris couldn't see her now, she skimmed her fingertips over his shadow, wishing she were touching him instead. She'd never touched him, not in real life. Such intimacy simply didn't occur between young ladies and men. Most especially between a marquess's daughter and an untitled man's son.

The drawing room's draperies were shut, and the resulting dimness seemed to afford them an odd closeness alone in the room. She traced the flow of his cravat illuminated through the glass onto her paper. Where are you going again? she asked, although she knew.

Jamaica. My uncle wishes me to look after his interests. He owns a plantation there; I'm to learn how it is run.

He sounded sad. During this visit he'd seemed sad quite a bit. Is that what you wish to do with your life?

He doesn't mean for me to stay there permanently. Only to acquaint myself with the operation so I can make intelligent decisions from afar.

But do you wish to become his man of business? Do you want to manage his properties? Or would you rather do something else?

He shrugged, his profile tilting then settling back into the lines she'd so carefully drawn. He financed my entire education. Have I a choice?

I suppose not. Her choices were limited, too. How long will you be gone?

A year at the least, probably two, perhaps three.

Everything was changing. Griffin would leave soon as well—their father had bought him a commission in the cavalry. Although Griffin and Tris had spent much of the past few years at school and university, these new developments seemed different. They'd be across oceans. It wasn't that she'd be alone—she'd still have her parents and her grandmother, her oldest brother and her two younger sisters—but she was already feeling the loss.

Two or three years, she echoed, knowing Griffin would likely be gone even longer. That seems a lifetime.

Tris's image shimmied as he laughed out loud. I expect it might, to one as young as you.

He wasn't that much older, only one-and-twenty. But she supposed he'd seen a lot in the extra six years he had on her. Young men left home as adolescents to pursue their educations. They spent time hunting at country houses and carousing about London.

While she didn't exactly chafe at her own more restrictive life, she was counting the years and months until she'd turn eighteen and have her first season. She'd spent hour upon hour imagining the balls, the parties, and all the eligible young lords. One of those titled men would be her entrée to a new life as a society wife. A more exciting life, she hoped. And she would love her husband, she was certain, although right now she could hardly imagine loving any man other than Tris.

He had never overtly indicated any interest in her, but of course he wouldn't. As well as she, Tris knew his place. But that didn't stop her from wishing she knew whether he cared.

Just whether or not he cared.

Will you bring me something from Jamaica? she asked, startling herself with her boldness.

Like what? She heard astonishment in his voice. A pineapple or some sugar cane?

It was her turn to laugh. Anything. Surprise me.

All right, then. I will. He fell silent a moment, as though trying to commit the promise to memory. Are you finished yet?

For now. She set down her pencil and walked to the windows, drew back the draperies and blinked. The room's familiar blue-and-salmon color scheme suddenly seemed too bright.

She turned toward him, reconciling his face with the profile she'd just sketched. From the boy she'd met years ago, he'd grown into a handsome, masculine man—one might even say he looked arresting. But she wouldn't describe him as pretty. His jaw was too strong, his mouth too wide, his brows too heavy and straight. As she watched, he raked a hand through his hair—tousled, streaky dark blond hair that always seemed just a bit too long.

Her fingers itched to run through it, to sweep the stray lock from his forehead.

It will take me a while to complete the portrait, she told him as she walked back to where he sat beside the glass, but I'll have it ready for you before you leave.

Keep it for me.

She blew out the candle, leaning close enough to catch a whiff of his scent, smelling soap and starch and something uniquely Tris. Do you not want it?

He rose from the chair, smiling down at her from his greater height. I'll probably lose it if I take it with me.

Very well, then. She'd been hoping he'd say she should keep it to remember him by. But as always, Tris was the perfect gentleman. If he did harbor any affection for her, he wouldn't betray so with such a remark. I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Nesbitt.

She'd called him Tristan—or Tris—for years now, but suddenly that seemed too informal.

His gray eyes remained steady. Thank you, Lady Alexandra. I wish you a happy life.

A happy life. She could be married by the time he returned, she realized with a shock. In fact, if he were gone three years, she very likely would be.

Her heart sank at the thought.

But at least she'd have his profile. When she was finished, it would be black on white in an elegant oval frame, a perfect likeness of his face. And she'd almost touched him while making it.

As he walked from the room, she peeled the paper off the glass and hugged it to her chest.

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