Reforming a Rake (10 page)

The earl made a face. “How else am I supposed to avoid them?” He leaned his head back, watching her through half-closed eyes. “Have you thought about my little speech this morning?”

A shivering rush ran clear down to her toes. She’d barely been able to think of anything else. “You want an answer?”

“That depends on what it is. Come, Alexandra, while you’re preparing all these lovely young ladies for marriage, don’t you ever wonder about it for yourself?”

Alexandra’s nervous excitement began to slide toward annoyance. “That was not marriage you were proposing this morning, my lord.”

“No, it wasn’t. Call me Lucien tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear you say it.”

She sat back, assuming the same relaxed position he had taken, though she felt as though she were marching straight into battle. “You think you can get whatever you want, don’t you?”

His slight, cynical smile appeared. “That’s hardly a
revelation. Tell me something about myself that I don’t know.”

She would have preferred more time to concentrate on that very difficult question, but he looked like he might pounce on her again if she couldn’t distract him with conversation. “All right. You’re not as cynical as you think you are.”

One gray eye opened. “Explain.”

“In the matter of marriage, a true cynic wouldn’t be so fastidious.”

“You find me fastidious,” he repeated.

“Terribly.”

The eye closed again. “I’m stunned.”

“How many potential wives have you interviewed?” she continued, eager to prove her point.

“Three, including today’s selection. So by speaking to them I’m being fastidious?”

Apparently he couldn’t fathom being called fastidious. Alexandra let a small smile escape her lips. “Yes. Why did you speak with them?”

“Because I don’t want my child and heir born to a complete twit.”

“A true cynic would assume everyone, including his own child, would be a complete twit, regardless of the circumstances.”

He straightened. “Your argument is faulty. I’m searching for an appropriate bride because it is in my best interest to do so.”

“The point being, you think an appropriate bride exists.”

A muscle in his lean cheek twitched. “Ah. But appropriate for what? You neglected to clarify that point.”

“For being your wife, of course. Your companion, the mother of your children, the—”

“Child,” he corrected. “One’s enough. And I don’t need or want a companion. That assumes I’m incapable or incomplete by myself.”

“But you are.”

“Only in the area of child-begetting, my dear.”

Alexandra looked at him for a moment. “You’re just baiting me. If you say any old outlandish thing to distract me, then it’s not a fair argument.”

“I assure you, I am perfectly serious. The only distraction in here is you.”

“But according to you, I’m good for nothing but…begetting.”

He shook his dark head. “No, that’s what a wife is for.”

“Good Lord!” she burst out, shooting to her feet. “Who raised you—gorillas?”

“An endless selection of governesses and tutors,” he said quietly.

“I’d heard your father was somewhat indiscreet in his affairs, but even so, I can’t believe someone as intelligent as you would actually hold to that view of wom—”

“I barely knew my father, love. I had set eyes on him a total of five times by my eighteenth birthday.”

“I…Oh. I’m sorry,” she fumbled, sitting again as she thought of her own amusing, affectionate father.

“So you think you have the key to my soul now, eh?” he continued, smiling a little. “You don’t—but that is another tale.” He stretched, the movement doing wonderful things to the muscles of his thighs. “Good night then, Miss Gallant.” The earl braced his hands on either arm of his chair and rose.

She blinked, ready for practically anything—except the end of the match. “So you concede?”

“I concede nothing. You were the one who called me fastidious.”

“I still say you are,” she countered, “and you know it’s true. That’s why you’re fleeing.”

“Don’t tempt the devil, Alexandra,” he murmured, stepping closer, “unless you want to get burned.”

She caught her breath. “I thought the phrase was ‘don’t play with fire,’” she corrected unsteadily.

Instantly Kilcairn strode forward, grabbed her hands, and yanked her upright. Before she could utter a word, his lips clamped over hers in a hard, hot kiss.

Her mind splintered into a thousand little pieces, so all she could do was feel. As his mouth molded with hers, he bent her backward. The only thing keeping her from collapsing back into her chair was his arms around her waist. With a low groan he tightened his grip, pulling her close against him as he deepened the embrace of their mouths.

If being kissed by Lucien Balfour was to be burned, she welcomed the fire.
Passion
, her mind kept saying as her heart thudded and her arms swept around his shoulders in a fervent embrace,
this is passion
.

As he shifted to nuzzle her throat and jaw, Alexandra became aware of his growing arousal, and of the warmth between her own legs. Tangling her fingers into his black, wavy hair, she gasped and tugged his head back. “Stop!”

He lifted his head and looked down at her with glinting gray eyes. “Then let go,” he murmured in a voice that shook just a little.

Realizing she still had one hand grasping the back of his coat and the other twined into his hair, Alexandra reluctantly released him. They stood immobile for a long moment, with him towering over her and still holding
her close in his arms, and then he slowly lifted her upright.

“You are a very unusual woman, Alexandra Beatrice Gallant,” he whispered, and then turned and left the room.

Alexandra collapsed into her chair, every bone and muscle turning to pudding. She knew what he’d meant by his last comment—undoubtedly every other woman he’d ever kissed like that had become his lover without protest or delay. She’d been so tempted to let him continue; to make him continue. More than anything she wanted to feel his warm, strong hands on her naked skin.

With a deep, unsteady breath she pushed to her feet again and crept out of the library to her bedchamber. That was what she needed—privacy and a chance to sort things out in her head. After ten minutes of restless pacing before the fireplace, Shakespeare uneasily following in her wake, she realized that she’d learned three very important things about Lucien Balfour. Firstly, he was much more of a gentleman than he claimed, or perhaps even realized, because he’d stopped when she’d asked, when she hadn’t even been all that certain she meant it. Secondly, when he claimed to be attracted to her and to want her, he wasn’t just teasing. And third, she had been close to figuring out an important part of him—which she intended to discover.

Lucien sat with his chin in his hand and stared out his office window. Across from him Mr. Mullins read the list of monthly expenses aloud for his approval. Usually, out of contrariness and because he had taken a reluctant liking to his solicitor’s determined and unflagging mildness, he demanded detailed explanations for at least half the items. Today, though, Mullins might
have been speaking Mandarin Chinese for all the attention Lucien paid.

He was getting soft; that was the only explanation. At thirty-two years of age he’d become a doddering old fool, softheaded and with the wit and will of a gnat. The other Lucien Balfour—the sane one—wouldn’t have stopped when she asked; he would have cajoled and persuaded her until she willingly changed her mind. Yet for some absurd reason he’d desisted and spent yet another frustrated night stomping about his bedchamber.

If there was something he wanted, he obtained it. That was the law, as far as he was concerned. Alexandra Beatrice Gallant seemed to have made up an entirely new set of rules, though, and he seemed utterly unable to ignore or bypass them, just as he couldn’t forget or ignore the woman herself. Sweet Lucifer, maybe she was right—he was becoming fastidious.

“Is that acceptable, my lord?”

Lucien blinked. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Mullins.”

“You’re…entirely welcome, my lord.”

He resumed staring out at the garden as Mr. Mullins departed the room. Before he could sink into another Alexandra-scented daydream, a small, white ball of fluff pranced into the room through the half-open door and sat on his foot.

“Good morning, Shakespeare,” he said, leaning down to scratch the terrier behind the ears.

“Shakespeare!” A tall, slender from dashed into the room behind the dog, then stopped short.

“Good morning, Miss Gallant,” Lucien continued, considerably more heartened by the arrival of the second intruder.

She curtsied. “Good morning, my lord. I must apol
ogize. Shakespeare escaped when I opened my door. It won’t happen again.”

“No doubt he dislikes being closed in all day. He’s better behaved than my relations; let him have the run of the house.”

Alexandra stepped closer. “Thank you for the generous offer, but I don’t believe Mrs. Delacroix likes him very much.”

“All the more reason to have him about.”

She smiled. “I should censure you for saying such a thing, but as this concerns Shakespeare’s happiness, I shall let it go.”

Lucien gazed at her. “You should smile more often, Alexandra.”

“You should give me cause to smile more often.”

“Are you saying your happiness depends on me?”

“I’m saying your cooperation makes my happiness easier to obtain.”

“Your cooperation would make
my
happiness easier to obtain, as well,” he returned, sweeping his gaze along her length.

Blushing, she turned for the door. “I don’t believe you will ever be happy then, my lord.”

“I was happy for a moment last night.”

She stopped. “A pity, then, that you’ve vowed never to be so with your wife. Whoever she may be.”

Back to throwing that in his face again, was she? “My marriage ideals offend you.”

“Yes, they do. If you happen to settle on a woman with even a modicum of intelligence, I suggest you not enlighten her as to your feelings—or the lack thereof.”

Somehow when she said it, it made him sound like a complete ass. “Yes, my goddess. But shouldn’t you be
concentrating on making my cousin acceptable to a marriage-minded gentleman?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The look she gave him told Lucien she considered him a cheat for pulling rank, but any conversation with Miss Gallant seemed to turn his brain to mush. He’d take any advantage he could get—that was another of his rules. As Alexandra stalked out of the room, the little dog at her heels, he wondered how long it would be before that rule crumbled into dust, as well.

Since Miss Gallant would no doubt avoid him for the remainder of the day, Lucien went out for luncheon at Boodle’s. The Viscount of Belton had just taken a seat by the window, and with a slight smile Lucien went to join him.

“You’ve made yourself scarce these last few days,” Robert said, as he inspected a bottle of Madeira.

“Not that you’ve been around to notice.”

“Too true.” Robert glanced up at the footman hovering beside him. “This will do. Thank you.”

“Very good, my lord.” The man hurried off to greet another patron.

“My mother arrived early,” the viscount explained. “I’ve been practically housebound for four days, listening to all the gossip west Lincolnshire has to offer.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not a jot.” Robert poured them each a glass of wine. “Much more interesting things going on here.”

“Name one,” Lucien said, raising the fine crystal goblet and studying it. Any distraction would be welcome.

“Well, it seems that a certain bachelor has apparently hired a notorious adulteress and murderess as a companion for his female relations.”

Lucien stopped breathing. “Really?” he said, sitting back.

Robert nodded. “That’s the rumor. Also that both the young ladies in his household are stunning, and that said companion must be extraordinary if said bachelor is willing to risk life and limb—notice the singular,
limb
—to have her in his possession.”

Lucien’s first instinct was to defend Miss Gallant, which surprised him. He knew what his peers were about—turning her into some sort of praying mantis who mated and then bit her partner’s head, or nether regions, off for sport—all so they could bring some amusement to the dull beginning of the Season. His second instinct was to laugh at the idea of any man possessing her.

“I hired her,” he said, “because she was the most qualified woman to apply for the position. Don’t waste time fluttering about me with rumors, Robert. I don’t give a damn about them.”

“Humph. I thought you should at least be aware of them. And my own interpretation of your motivation varies a little from yours, but say whatever you like.”

“You’re in fine form this morning,” Lucien noted with some annoyance. Generally when he indicated he wanted a subject dropped, the person dropped it. Immediately.

“I’m well rested,” Robert reminded him, “and quite capable of keeping up with you for another three minutes. Perhaps four.”

“Favor me with your interpretation then, Robert.”

“As I see it, your cousin, though pleasant looking, is such a harpy that you needed someone even more notorious with whom the
ton
could compare her. That being the case, you found Miss Gallant. And you being
you, she’s stunning in addition to being notorious.”

Lucien shrugged. “I’m brilliant.”

“You’re devious.”

“It’s the same thing.”

Actually, Lucien preferred the viscount’s version to the truth. Ruthlessness and deviousness were much easier to accept than whatever it was that threatened to turn him into a blithering idiot around Alexandra. Miss Gallant would no doubt scoff at anything but Robert’s version herself. He hadn’t exactly acted like a dashing romantic last night.

“In retrospect,” Robert continued, “if I’d known who all the players were, I would not have missed the Howards’ dinner. No one will miss the next gathering you attend. I’d wager you a thousand quid on that, Lucien.”

“I’m disappointed,” Lucien drawled, watching as their luncheon approached on silver platters. “I thought the draw would be my cousin—not her damned governess.”