Читать книгу The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 14

Chapter Six

It was over. Her bid for freedom was truly over this time. Alixe sank down on a stone bench in the flower garden, setting her empty basket beside her. She was in no mood to pick flowers for the vases in the house, but it gave her a useful excuse to be away from the gaiety of the party. Most of the guests were still lingering over breakfast before preparing to ride out on a jaunt to the Roman ruins.

Her father had meant it this time. There would be no reprieve. In all honesty, he’d been generous in the past. He’d tolerated—she couldn’t say forgiven—tolerated her rejection of Mandley and, before that, her rejection of the ridiculous Baron Addleborough. He’d tolerated—she couldn’t say supported—what he viewed as her oddities: her preference for books and meaningful academic work. She knew it had all been done in the hope that she’d come around and eventually embrace a more traditional, accepted life.

Only it hadn’t worked out that way. Instead of deciding to embrace society on her own after realising the supposed error of her ways, she’d retreated. The retreat had started simply. At first, it had been enough to stay in the country and devote her efforts to her history. Then it had become easier and easier to not go back at all. Or perhaps it had become harder to go back. Here, she was less bound by the conventions of fashion and rules under the censorious eyes of society. Here she could avoid the realities of an empty, miserable society marriage. Here, she was happy.

Mostly.

The truth was, for all the solace the country offered, she’d been restless even before St Magnus’s foolish wager. She’d spent the summer roaming the countryside, looking for...something. Restlessness and loneliness were the apparent going prices for the relative freedoms afforded by the isolation of the countryside. Now, all of that was about to change and not for the better. She should be more careful what she wished for.

‘There you are.’

Ah, her unlikely fairy godmother had come to make a silk purse out of sow’s ear. She met St Magnus’s easy demeanour with a hard stare. In that moment she hated him, truly hated him. After a night that had upended whatever future he had imagined for himself, he looked refreshed and well dressed, a rather striking contrast to the picture she knew she presented with her dark circles and plain brown gown.

She hadn’t slept at all and she hadn’t taken any pains this morning to disguise the fact. But St Magnus was impeccably attired for riding in buff breeches, polished boots and deep forest-green jacket. The morning sun glinted off his hair, turning it platinum in the bright light. It was the first time that she had noticed his hair was almost longer than convention dictated, hanging in loose waves to his shoulders, but not nearly long enough to club back. Or was it? Hmmm.

‘Is something wrong with my face?’ St Magnus enquired, lifting a hand tentatively to his cheek.

‘No.’ Alixe hastily dragged her thoughts to the present. Wondering about his hair would serve no purpose, no useful purpose anyway.

‘Good. I’ve come to discuss our predicament.’ St Magnus set her empty basket on the ground and sat down uninvited beside her on the little bench. She was acutely aware of his nearness in the small space and of the other time they’d been so close.

‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ She tried to slide apart, but there was no place left to slide.

‘Discussing our situation?’

‘No, sitting so close. The last time was a disaster.’

He eyed her with a wry look. ‘I think that’s the least of your worries, Alixe. It’s certainly the least of mine.’

Alixe. The sound of her name on his lips, so very casual as if they were friends, as if working together last night had meant something instead of being contrived to steal a kiss, sent a small thrill through her until she remembered why he was there. She folded her hands in her lap. ‘I imagine you’re quite concerned about the little matter of your wager.’

‘I am and you should be, too.’ He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his booted ankles. ‘If I fail, your father will see us married. Neither of us wants that, so tell me who you want to marry and I’ll see to it that you have him.’

Alixe snorted. This was like a bad fairy tale. ‘How do you propose to do that? You can’t wave a magic wand and conjure a husband out of thin air.’

‘No, but you can. I can teach you what you need to entice your man of preference. So, name your man. Who do you want?’

Alixe stood and paced the path. ‘Let me think... He should be moderately good-looking, moderately young. I don’t want anyone too terribly old. He should be intelligent. I would want to have decent conversation over a lifetime of dinners. He should be respectful and he should appreciate me for who I am—’

‘No,’ St Magnus interrupted.

‘No? He shouldn’t be respectful or able to make decent conversation at meal time?’

His blue eyes flashed with irritation at her recital of characteristics. ‘No, as in I don’t want a list of qualities. I want a name. For example, Viscount Hargrove or Baron Hesselton.’

‘Then we are at cross purposes,’ Alixe snapped. ‘I don’t want a name. I want a man, a real person.’

St Magnus rose to meet her, arms crossed. ‘Listen, Lady Alixe, you can play stubborn all summer, but that won’t change the outcome, it will only change the husband.’

‘And that would be intolerable since it would be you. Don’t stand there and make it seem as if all your plans are for my benefit. You’re only interested in saving your own precious hide,’ Alixe said angrily. ‘You’re not concerned about me. This is all about you getting what you want, just like it was last night. You didn’t care about the translation. You cared about the wager and I was fool enough to believe otherwise.’

Merrick’s eyes narrowed to dangerous blue slits. Good. He was angry. She’d managed to shake his attitude of casual insouciance. It was about time he was appalled by what faced them. Goodness knew she was.

His voice was cold when he spoke. ‘We are most unfortunately in this mess together. You can either take my help and take charge of how this ends, or you can be saddled with me for a husband. I assure you, such a result will only bring you grief.’

She saw the truth in it. Marriage to a man like St Magnus was perhaps worse than the reality of a traditional society alliance. At least then there would be no illusions like there had been momentarily last night.

‘Are you threatening me?’ Alixe tipped her chin high. Women who married the fantasy were inevitably betrayed when their husbands created the fantasy with other lovers.

‘That’s your father’s threat, my dear, not mine.’ Mischief twinkled in his eyes. ‘I think you might enjoy certain aspects of being married to me. It’s not as though it’s a case of caveat emptor. You know exactly what you’re getting. There won’t be any surprises when the clothes come off on our wedding night, after all.’

Alixe felt the hot blush creep up her neck. This man was impossible. ‘Really, you must stop mentioning it.’

St Magnus laughed. ‘I probably will when it ceases to make you blush. Now, we must get you back to the house and get you changed for the excursion out to the Roman ruins.’

This was too much. ‘You do not have the ordering of me.’

‘I thought we’d established that I do until you choose another husbandly candidate.’ There was almost a chill to his tone, cautioning that she’d better be careful about pushing this man too far. His easy manners hid a deeper, angrier soul. It was a surprise to discover it. Nothing in his behaviour to date had suggested such a facet to his personality existed. The glimpse was gone as quickly as it had come.

‘I hadn’t planned to go on the excursion.’ She picked up the flower basket.

‘I hadn’t planned to get caught in the library with you.’

She turned to face him with hands on hips. ‘Look, I’m sorry you lost your wager, but that doesn’t give you leave to make my life any more miserable than it has to be under the circumstances.’

‘I think you’d better get used to calling me Merrick, and you’re wrong about the wager. I won, after all.’ He gave her a cocky grin. ‘I kissed your mother.’

She knew the look on her face was one of pure astonishment. She couldn’t help it. The most incredible statements kept coming out of this man’s mouth. ‘You kissed my mother?’

St Magnus—no, Merrick, chuckled and sauntered down the path back towards the house. ‘On the hand, my dear girl,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour at the carriages. Don’t even think about being late.’

Alixe humphed and stomped her foot. He was infuriating. She had no doubts he’d come looking for her if she wasn’t there. She’d tried to avoid him this morning and he’d found her anyway. Well, he could demand she be at the carriages, but he couldn’t tell her what to wear. Alixe smiled to herself. He’d soon see what a Herculean labour her father had set before him. When her father realised there was no way Merrick could free himself from marrying her, her father would relent. Her father didn’t want Merrick for a son-in-law.

Alixe hummed her way back to the house. For the first time since midnight, she had a plan and it would work. Then she’d be right back where she’d begun the summer. Never mind that the two words ‘restless’ and ‘lonely’ hovered on the periphery of her thoughts. She’d worry about that later. At present, she had a husband to lose.

* * *

She was prompt, Merrick would give her that. At precisely eleven o’clock, Alixe Burke presented herself on the front steps with the other milling guests, ready for the outing to the ruins. It was something of a surprise that she was on time given she looked a fright. Mastering such an unattractive, nay, invisible look took time.

If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it to her in temporary recognition of victory. She wasn’t going to concede quietly. Lucky for him, he liked a challenge. Just as long as he won in the end.

Merrick excused himself from the group he chatted with and made his way to Miss Burke’s side. ‘Touché, Lady Alixe,’ he said in low tones for her ear alone. ‘You will have to do much better than that.’

Her eyes flashed, but her chance for a rejoinder was cut short by the arrival of carriages and horses. There were a few moments of organised pandemonium while Lady Folkestone sorted everyone into vehicles and those who wished to ride.

Alixe chose to ride. Merrick watched Alixe mount the roan mare, taking in the leaping head on the pommel of her side saddle. She was something of a serious horsewoman, then. No one would consider jumping without it. That she considered jumping at all said something about the quality of her riding. She reached down to adjust the balance strap on her stirrup, further testimony to her competence. That was when he looked more closely at the hideous habit. Its lines weren’t ugly. In fact, the outfit was efficiently cut. It was merely the colour. Where other women wore traditional blue and greens, she’d chosen a mousy grey that did nothing to enhance the amber sherry of her eyes or the chocolate lustre of her hair.

* * *

‘You don’t fool me for a moment, Alixe,’ he said casually once the crowd had separated into groups along the road. The road was only wide enough for two to ride abreast and the riders had neatly paired off with the partner of their choice. Merrick would remember what a formidable hostess Lady Folkestone was. No doubt, this outing was designed with matchmaking in mind, the road chosen for this exact purpose. There’d be plenty of chances for the young couples to exchange semi-private conversations while in plain sight of others along the road to the ruins. It was a stroke of brilliance on his hostess’s part.

‘What fooling would you be referring to?’ She kept her eyes straight ahead, her tone cool.

‘This attempt to be invisible, not to mention unattractive. It will take more than that to get me to beg your father to reconsider, or to send me running back to London, refusing to honour my agreement.’

‘Perhaps I like this habit. Perhaps you err by insulting a lady’s dress.’

Merrick laughed out loud. ‘You forget I saw your evening gown a few nights back. At least one item in your wardrobe suggests you have some sense of fashion. As for your “liking” the habit, I do think you like that riding habit. I think you like being invisible. It gives you permission to sail through life without being noticed and that makes you unaccountable. People can only talk about things they see.’

That made her head swivel in his direction. ‘How dare you?’ Now she was angry. The earlier cool hauteur had melted under the rising heat of her temper.

‘How dare I do what?’ Merrick stoked the coals a little more. He liked her better this way—she was real when she was angry.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do and I want to be sure you know what I mean. I want you to say it.’ The real Lady Alixe didn’t think about what she was going to say or do, she just did it, like kicking him under the table. Such a quality would make her unique, set her apart from the pattern-card women of the ton. Well, maybe not the kicking part, but there was a certain appeal in her freshness. The real Lady Alixe had a natural wit and a sharp understanding of human nature. The masked Lady Alixe was prim and invisible and quite the stick-in-the-mud. That Lady Alixe thought too much and acted upon too little, tried too hard to be something she wasn’t—a woman devoid of any feeling.

Merrick took in the smooth profile of her jaw, the firm set of her mouth. There was plenty of feeling in Lady Alixe. She’d simply chosen to stifle it. It would certainly help his cause if he could work out why. Then he could coax it back to life.

She wasn’t going to answer his question. ‘It’s not in your best interest to ignore me, Alixe,’ he prodded.

‘I know. Don’t remind me. If I ignore you now, I’ll spend the rest of my life ignoring you as my husband.’ She rolled her eyes in exasperation. If the road had allowed room for it, Merrick was sure she’d like to have trotted on ahead. But she couldn’t keep running from this; surely she knew it.

Just when he thought he’d made her squirm a bit mentally, forced her to face the reality of her situation, she startled him. ‘You are quite the hypocrite, St Magnus. How dare you accuse me of being invisible for the sake of unaccountability when you’ve made yourself flagrantly visible for the same reason. Don’t look so surprised, St Magnus. I warned you I knew men like yourself.’

‘I warned you I knew women like you.’

‘So you did. I suppose that gives us something in common.’

* * *

Merrick gave her the space of silence. He wasn’t impervious to her feelings. He understood she was angry and he was the only available outlet for that anger. He also understood he was the only one with a chance of truly emerging victorious from this snare. He could turn her into London’s Toast and walk away. He’d still be free to go about his usual ambling through society. But Lady Alixe’s days of freedom would be over whether he succeeded or not. He did feel sorry for her, but he could not say it or show it. She would not want pity, least of all his. Honestly, though, she had to help him a bit with this or they would end up leg-shackled and her chance to choose her fate would be sealed. She was too intelligent to be blind to that most obvious outcome.

* * *

Alixe kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. St Magnus’s silence was far worse than the light humour of his conversation. His silence left her plenty of time to be embarrassed. She wanted to take back her hot words. They’d been mean and cruel and entirely presumptuous. She still could not believe they’d tumbled out of her mouth. She wasn’t even sure she truly thought them, believed them. She’d known St Magnus for a handful of hours, far too little time to make such a damning judgement. It might have been the unkindest thing she’d ever said.

She snuck a sideways look at him in the periphery of her vision. Thankfully, he did not look affected by her harsh words. Instead, he looked confident and at ease. He’d chosen to ride without a hat and now the sun played through his hair, turning it a lovely white-blonde shade aspiring debutantes would envy. Buttermilk. That was it. His hair reminded her of fresh buttermilk.

‘Yes?’

Oh, dear. He’d caught her staring—gawking, really—like a schoolroom miss. But his remarkable blue eyes were friendly, warm even. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I spoke out of turn. It wasn’t well done of me,’ Alixe managed to stammer. It wasn’t the most elegant of apologies; needless to say she had had very little practise apologising to extraordinarily handsome men with buttermilk hair and sharp blue eyes that could look right through her if they so chose.

He gave her a half-grin. ‘Don’t apologise, Lady Alixe. I know what I am.’ That only made her feel worse.

Now she’d really have to make it up to him—as if someone like her could ever make anything up to someone like him. But her conscience demanded she try.

* * *

She started by giving him a tour of the ruins. The ruins were in two parts. There was an old Roman fort and the villa. Since the fort was closer to the space the group had appropriated as the picnic grounds, she started with that. Afterwards, they joined the other guests on blankets strewn on the ground, where she promptly began a polite but boring conversation about the state of food being served.

‘Why is it, Lady Alixe, that people talk about food or the weather when they really want to talk about something else,’ St Magnus murmured when she stopped speaking long enough to take a bite of strawberry tart.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Alixe said after she swallowed. She did know what he meant. People had the most ridiculous conversations about absolutely nothing because saying what one honestly felt was impolite. But she’d quickly discovered that when conversing with St Magnus, the conversation grew more interesting when he expounded.

St Magnus had finished eating and taken the opportunity to stretch his long form out on the blanket, propping himself up on one arm, a casual vision of indolence and sin in the early summer sun. He lowered his voice slightly above a whisper just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Do you truly believe everyone here wants to talk about the ham sandwiches and jugs of lemonade? Yet everyone’s conversations are the same if you listen.’

‘The ham is rather fine and the lemonade is especially cold,’ Alixe dared to tease.

St Magnus laughed. ‘I’d wager William Barrington over there with Miss Julianne Wood isn’t thinking about the ham and tarts.’

‘What is he thinking about?’ The words were entirely spontaneous and entirely too curious, hardly the right sort of conversational banter for a proper miss. A proper young lady would never encourage what was likely to be an improper avenue of discussion. But St Magnus had a way of encouraging precisely that. She was under the impression that no conversation with him would ever be completely proper.

St Magnus gave a wicked smile. ‘He’s probably thinking how he’d like to lick that smear of strawberry off her lips.’ He gave his eyebrows a meaningful arch. ‘Shocked? Don’t be. They’re all thinking roughly the same thing. Perhaps the place they want to lick varies.’

She was indeed shocked. No one had ever said anything quite so outrageous to her. Ever. But she would not retreat from it. She was fast discovering that being shocked did not have to be the same as being appalled. Since she’d met St Magnus, shock had only increased her curiosity. What else was out there to discover? She’d always thought there was more to life than the veneer society put on its surface. Now, she was starting to discover it, one shocking conversation at a time. Shocking, yes, but intoxicating, too. And, yes, even a little bit empowering, a boost of courage to be the woman in her mind who said witty things, who made challenging statements of her own.

She met his blue eyes squarely, a little smile hovering on her lips. ‘I don’t know what shocks me more: what you said or how you said it with such nonchalance as if you were indeed discussing something as mundane as the weather.’

‘Why not treat it with nonchalance?’ St Magnus gave an elegant lift of his shoulder and reached for a last berry. ‘It shouldn’t be a secret that all men really think about is sex.’

Had he just said ‘sex’? In the presence of an unmarried female?

‘Oh, yes, Lady Alixe. Males are not complex creatures when you get right down to it. Why not be honest about it? Consider this your first lesson in becoming London’s Toast. The sooner you embrace the fact as common knowledge, the sooner you can successfully cater to it.’

‘How ironic that you’ve used a food-related term. We’re right back to where we started. Food, the subject people talk about when they’re really thinking about licking people’s lips for them.’ Oh my, oh my. Now was the time to be appalled. She ought to be horrifically shocked by what had come out of her mouth, but she wasn’t. It seemed the natural response to St Magnus’s comment.

‘You can be a rare treat when you decide to employ that tongue of yours for good and not evil, Lady Alixe.’ St Magnus was laughing outright now.

‘People are starting to look,’ Alixe said through the gritted teeth of a forced smile. She was not so given over to the levity of their conversation that she was oblivious to the conditions of their surroundings.

‘We want them to look, don’t we? We want them to wonder what Lady Alixe has said that has St Magnus so captivated. They’re conversational voyeurs. They’re only looking because we’re having more fun than they are.’ He winked a blue eye. ‘And do you know why?’

‘Because we’re not talking about food,’ Alixe replied smartly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

‘Precisely, Lady Alixe. We’re talking about what we want to talk about.’

‘Are you always like this?’ she asked before she lost her courage, before ‘sophisticated woman with witty things to say’ retreated. She’d never let that part of her out to play before. She had no idea how long it would last before she stumbled or ran out of things to say.

Something like solemnity settled between them; a little of the hilarity of the previous conversation receded. His eyes were serious now. ‘I am always myself, Lady Alixe. It’s the one thing I can’t run away from.’

She sensed a reprimand in there somewhere, whether for himself or for her she could not tell. Perhaps she’d crossed an invisible line in her heady excitement. She seemed to be an expert at doing that today. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been too forward. I don’t know what’s wrong with my mouth today.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with your mouth except maybe a smudge of strawberry tart, just here.’ He gestured to a corner on his own mouth. Alixe’s pulse ratcheted up

a notch. He was going to do it. Merrick St Magnus was going to lick her lips. Perhaps the most irrational and wicked thought she’d ever had, but it was a day for all those types of firsts. She took a deep breath, her lips parting ever so slightly in anticipation, her stomach fluttering with curiosity.

He leaned forwards, closing the gap between them...and most disappointingly reached for a napkin.

He dabbed it against her lips, gently wiping away the stain. She knew it was bold. No man had ever touched her mouth before, not even with a napkin. Yet she couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t bold enough. After all their talk of mouths and food and what men were really thinking, a napkin seemed far too tame.

There could only be one awful truth. He hadn’t wanted to. She’d let herself get carried away. In the end, he was Merrick St Magnus, man about town who could have any woman he wanted any time he wanted her, and she was plain Alixe Burke, with an emphasis on the plain. He didn’t want to lick her lips any more than he wanted to marry her, which, of course, was why he was trying so hard so he wouldn’t have to.

Alixe let out a deep breath and stood up. ‘You should see the villa before we go. It’s a bit of a walk, so we’d best start now or there won’t be time before we leave.’