Reforming a Rake (25 page)

Lucien realized he’d broken the chain on his watch fob, and he tucked the blasted thing into his pocket. “I could give her a thousand quid to escape,” he said sharply. “Or ten times that.”

“I told you, she’ll get nothing more fr—”

“Make an offer that doesn’t involve her having to leave London,” Lucien interrupted, standing.

“But I don’t want her in London. I thought I made that clear.”

Striding over to grab the duke’s brandy from his surprised fingers, Lucien flung it against the wall. The fine glass shattered, showering the Persian carpet with flecks of refracted sunlight. “Let me make something clear, you pompous ass,” he growled. “You are the only family Alexandra Gallant has. Unfortunate as that makes her,
you will welcome her back into your arms, and you will make it very apparent that she is under your protection.”

The door opened. “Father, I heard something break. Are you—”

“Out!” Monmouth roared. When the door slammed, he jabbed a finger at Lucien’s chest. “How dare you threaten me!”

Lucien stood his ground. “I’m not threatening anything. I’m insulting you, the way you’ve insulted Alexandra.”

“You bas—”

“You have a horde of solicitors and endless stacks of money ready to rush to your defense. She has nothing. That makes you a damned bully.”

“Apparently she has you.”

“There is that.”

For a long moment the duke looked at him. “And just what is in this for you, Kilcairn?”

“I get to marry her.”

The duke looked stunned. “Marry her,” he repeated. “Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“But if you marry her, she doesn’t need me to defend her against Lady Welkins’s accusations. Your name provides as much a shield as mine does. Marry her, for God’s sake, and leave the Retting name out of it.”

Lucien shook his head. He was beginning to understand where Alexandra got her stubborn streak. “No. It has to be your name. And don’t ask me to explain, because I won’t.” No one would believe him, anyway.

“Where is this tearful reunion supposed to take place?”

“I’m holding a dinner party on Wednesday.” Now came the hard part, when he had to actually ask the
question, and give Monmouth the chance to refuse. “Will you be there?”

The duke sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I would want you as an enemy, Kilcairn. I’ll be there.”

“Without Virgil.”

“Without blasted Virgil.”

When Lucien slipped into the cellar right at sunset, Alexandra’s first thought was that he looked as though he could use a strong drink. “You’ve been busy,” she said, picking a stitch out of her embroidery.

“Rose was here?”

“Yes, Thompkinson dragged her out about an hour ago. Apparently they spied your aunt approaching up the street.”

Softly he shut the door behind him, and her heart fluttered a little. She was not going to succumb to his charms again, she told herself sternly. It was too difficult to kiss him and be angry with him at the same time, and she was determined to remain angry with him.

“That’s the footstool from my bedchamber,” he said after a moment, eyeing Shakespeare curled up on the plush burgundy beside her.

“Yes, the other ones weren’t soft enough.”

He turned his skeptical expression on her. “The other ones?”

“Yes. Shakespeare can be very particular.”

“I see. Especially when his mistress is feeling particular, no doubt.” He hesitated, then pulled her dressing chair over to sit opposite her. “What did you and Rose discuss?”

She wasn’t used to seeing him hesitate about anything, and it unsettled her out of the speech she’d been ready to make about manipulating eighteen-year-old
girls with his infamous charms. They’d nearly worked on her; Rose didn’t stand a chance. If he was still being cautious, it had to be because of her—or because he was still plotting something. “We talked about how wonderful Robert is, and how wonderful her birthday was, and how pretty I look in my new green muslin, and—”

“And when do you get to the part where you discuss how wonderful I am?”

“Rose is easily impressed.”

“Hm.”

Alexandra couldn’t help laughing at his put-upon expression. “I’m actually trying to recall whether we discussed you at all.”

Lucien lifted an eyebrow and favored her with a sensual smile. “I find it difficult to believe that my name didn’t arise once in the conversation.”

Oh, my
, she could just sit and look at him all day long. Alexandra shook herself. Gawking at Lucien Balfour wouldn’t get her anything but flat on her back again.

“You’re blushing,” he murmured, his gray gaze touching hers.

“You don’t need to point that out,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow still warmer. “I am perfectly aware of it.” She picked up her embroidery again. “At least all I do is blush. And someone might blush for any number of reasons. How do you ever control”—turning scarlet, she gestured in the general direction of his waist—“that?”

He chuckled. “It’s gotten easier with age, though it’s more difficult in some situations than others. So you wish to discuss degrees of arousal, then? I can surmise how that conversation will conclude.”

The needle jabbed an untidy hole in her kerchief. “You are very aggravating.”

“And you are very arousing.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “Tell me what you and Rose discussed, or make love with me.”

Alexandra knew very well that his powers of persuasion exceeded hers, particularly when she was arguing against something she actually wanted—badly. “She’s very grateful to you. What did you expect?”

“Don’t try to turn me into a villain. Rose told me at least a dozen times that she didn’t want to marry me. Reconciling her with Robert was in her best interest. It’s just my good fortune that it happened to be in my best interest, as well.”

He did make a fair argument. “What’s your next step, then? Fiona obviously doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“No, she doesn’t. I’ll deal with her when the time comes.”

“And when will that be?”

Lucien shrugged. “Soon. I promised you, remember?”

“You cannot make everything right for me, Lucien. I don’t expect you to.”

His lips twitched. “I’m being gallant again, am I?”

“Except for the kidnapping and the lying to your aunt and all the other plotting you won’t tell me about.”

“I would dispense with all of it if you’d agree to marry me.”

For a moment she wished he had the answers for all her arguments, so she could say yes and fall into his arms and never have to worry about anything ever again. It almost seemed foolish to turn him down—eventually he was bound to come to his senses and stop asking. That, though, was what stopped her. If that moment—the one when he realized winning her was only a clever
game he was trying to figure out—came after she said yes and admitted to him how much she loved him, it would kill her.

Lucien stood. “The plotting continues, then.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across her forehead. “I have to escort the harpies to the opera tonight. Wimbole plays whist, if you want company.”

“Whist with your butler. A dream come true.”

“The first of many.” Shakespeare received a scratch on the head, which the terrier acknowledged with a wag of his tail. “Just make sure you’re here when I return.” He walked toward the door.

“You could keep me here for a year, my lord, and it still wouldn’t change you. Or me.”

Lucien faced her again. “Do you believe in redemption, Alexandra? Do you believe people can change?”

She searched his eyes, knowing he was asking her for something specific, and that her answer had to be right. “I don’t believe a person can change to suit someone else,” she said finally. “That only makes it an act.”

“Yes—but do you believe one person can make another one
want
to change? For his own sake?”

For such a cynical, jaded, self-assured man, it seemed an almost childish question. “I’m willing to believe that,” she whispered.

He smiled, the light touching his eyes. “Good. That’s all I ask—for now.”

R
edemption. How odd that such a word had come out of his mouth.

Lucien spent the next three days running about like a madman, sending out invitations to the second Balfour gathering of the month, conferring with Robert about the scheduling of the evening’s events, and visiting Alexandra every spare moment. If Fiona found anything odd about his slipping down to the wine cellar every ten minutes, she most likely suspected that he had a drinking problem.

The entire time he worked at plotting Alexandra’s reunion with her uncle, and while he pretended to have conceded victory to Aunt Fiona, he wondered about redemption. The Duke of Monmouth’s story about Lionel Balfour had angered and disgusted him. So, too, did the recollection of much of his own behavior over the past few years.

It baffled him. Two months ago he wouldn’t have spared either memory a second thought. Now he was obsessed with figuring out how closely his own deeds
resembled his father’s, and how he could have done some of the idiotic things that he had indulged in, and whether Alexandra was right to doubt his ability to love when there was no ulterior motive or game involved. They would both find out soon enough.

The task he’d thought would be the most difficult turned out to be the easiest. Between Mr. Mullins and himself, he tracked down and purchased half a dozen paintings by one Christopher Gallant. He knew Alexandra thought highly of her father’s work. Upon viewing them, he was ready to share her opinion. Apparently so did several of the more renowned critics of British landscapes, and he arranged for a series of formal viewings over the next few months.

The prices for the works were considerable, and he was glad to pay them. Alexandra would be happy to hear of their increased value, as well. Of course, he had no intention of mentioning a word about any of his purchases until he had her securely in his arms—otherwise she would accuse him of bribing her. No, he would keep the paintings safe and sound at Kilcairn Abbey until she arrived there as his bride to see them lining the Great Hall with the family’s other treasured works of art.

“Lucien, if you’re having second thoughts about your grand party, please let me know so I can flee to China.” Lord Belton leaned against his fireplace mantel.

“I’m barely having any thoughts at all,” Lucien grumbled. “Though I do confess to being bloody annoyed at having to come to your house if I want to compose any private correspondence.” He sat back, rereading his note, before he dusted it with sand and folded it. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, my boy?”

“About marrying Rose?”

“No, about swimming across the Channel.”

“Very amusing.” Robert strolled over to drop into the chair behind Lucien. “Rose will make a delightful viscountess, and I’m happy to have found her.”

“But?” Lucien prompted.

“But our—your—treatment of your aunt bothers me. She’s going to be furious, and she’s also going to be my mother-in-law.”

“Don’t worry about your family valuables.” Lucien chuckled. “She wants grandchildren so the lot of you can raise them to despise me.”

“I just hope it’s you she keeps despising. She’ll be living under my roof at Belton Court, you know. Even if I keep my valuables, I could lose an ear or a toe.”

Still chuckling, Lucien dripped wax onto the back of his correspondence to seal it and mashed his signet ring into the cooling globule. “Even if I could think of another way to resolve this mess, I don’t think I’d do it. What kind of mother would force her only daughter—her only child—to marry me? Especially with you about as an alternative.”

“Good God. Was that a compliment?”

He turned around, straddling the writing desk’s chair. “What’s not to compliment? You’re a good man, Robert. A better one than I am.”

“Hm. I’m less convoluted than you are. With certain benefits of family that you never had.”

There it was again. He was damned both by nature and by upbringing. “Poor family’s no excuse. My foul way of living is simply easier.” Lucien rested his chin on the back of the chair. “I’m glad you found Rose, and that she found you. I hope one day to be as lucky.”

“Balderdash. You are as lucky. The love of your life just happens to be locked in your cellar.”

“That is for her own protection.”

“All this has nothing to do with your being madly in love with her, then? Do you think I’m completely cork-brained? You practically swoon whenever you mention her name.”

Lucien straightened. “I do
not
swoon.”

Robert grinned. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Well, I’m about ready to metaphorically bloody your nose,” Lucien retorted, and stood. “Don’t be late tomorrow.”

“I won’t be. When’s the grand reunion to take place?”

“Right before I announce your engagement, and before Aunt Fiona can find a pistol with which to shoot me.” And more important, before she could begin spouting any more rumors about Alexandra and Lord Welkins or himself.

“Good luck.”

Lucien opened the door and handed his missive to Robert’s butler for delivery. “It’s a brilliantly composed plan. I don’t need luck.” He accepted his coat and his hat as Robert joined him in the foyer. “But thank you, anyway.”

On his way back to Balfour House he had the coach stop at Madame Charbonne’s, where he checked on the progress of one last item he needed for tomorrow evening’s festivities. And then he went to get drunk. He was going to have to be sober for the festivities tomorrow.

Alexandra crouched just inside the cellar’s garden entry and rattled the padlock. Atlas the Titan couldn’t have opened the blasted thing.

The other cellar door opened. “Alexandra, I have…” Lucien’s voice trailed off, and then he cursed. “Alexandra!” he called sharply. “Damnation!”

Gathering her skirts, she hurried back down the stairs and into the main part of the room. “Good afternoon,” she said to his backside, which was all of him that she could see as he crouched to look under her bed. His backside looked exceedingly attractive.

He straightened sharply and whipped around to face her. “Where were you?” he demanded, closing the distance between them. The relief in his face surprised her. Did he really worry that much about misplacing her?

“I was exploring.”

Lucien tilted her chin up with his fingertips and kissed her. “I like exploring.”

She couldn’t answer, because she was too occupied with kissing him back. It amazed her that a touch of lips and mouth could so affect every part of her, inside and out. “And where have you been?” she asked finally. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

“I brought you something,” he murmured finally, lifting his head.

“Hm. It wouldn’t be a key, or a saw, would it?”

“You don’t seem to have much need for those,” he said dryly. “Take a look.” Lucien gestured at a cloth-covered bundle draped across the bed. Shakespeare stalked about it, sniffing, obviously annoyed at having his territory invaded.

With a sideways glance, Alexandra pulled the covering off the mound. Rich burgundy and gray silk sparkling with beads and lace met her gaze. “It’s a gown,” she said slowly, taking it in.

“Do you like it?”

Alexandra held it up to the candlelight. “Of course I like it. You knew I would. It’s beautiful.”

“Will you wear it?”

“It’s very formal. Are you going to bring Rose’s party down to the cellar, or are you sending me out to the opera?”

The annoyed look he gave her almost made her smile. Let him be aggravated for once. She’d spent the last week in a cellar, for heaven’s sake.

“Rose would like you to be present for the announcement.” Slowly he reached out to brush a strand of her hair from her forehead. “So would I.”

She trembled a little. “And how will you explain my reappearance to Mrs. Delacroix?”

He shrugged, still caressing her cheek with his fingertips, as though he didn’t have a party and his guests and his relations and dinner and a hundred other things to worry about. “I’ll think of something.”

“Once you set me free, I won’t let you lock me up again, you know,” she whispered, trying to read the secrets in his eyes.

“I know. I hope I won’t need to.” Lucien bent his head and kissed her, so thoroughly she had to lean against his chest for balance.

He didn’t seem to be implying that he was giving up, but neither could she imagine that he’d come up with something that would cause her to stay. She
wanted
to stay—with him forever, but she simply wasn’t meant to reside in London. Too many people didn’t want her there. If she could only remain because the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey deigned to lend her the protection of his name, then she couldn’t remain. It wouldn’t be right; it wouldn’t be fair—either to her or to her proud, independent parents.

“A quid for your thoughts,” Lucien said softly.

She smiled. “They aren’t worth that much. Don’t you have a dinner party to prepare for?”

With a slight frown he released her. “Yes, I do. And I’m doubling—tripling—your guard, my love. No surprises except for the ones I’m planning.”

He looked so worried that she couldn’t help chuckling. “I daresay I’ll be here for my parole. And, Lucien, whatever else happens, you’re doing a good thing tonight. Rose is very happy.”

“She doesn’t make much of a secret of that.” With a last glance he turned for the door. “She says I’m her hero. Imagine that.”

“The question is, do you like being a hero?”

Lucien paused. “Don’t tell anyone, because it’ll completely destroy my foul reputation—but yes.” He grinned almost sheepishly, looking like a schoolboy who had just pulled a prank. “I think I do. I’ll be back for you in a few hours.”

She plunked herself down on the bed. “I’ll be here.”

Though she had no idea when Kilcairn had scheduled the guests to begin arriving, Shakespeare started barking a few minutes after seven. She shushed him, willing to be kept prisoner for at least another hour or so, and went about donning her new, splendid gown and putting up her hair.

A nervous tremor made her fingers shake. Something beyond what Lucien had disclosed was going on tonight, and she disliked being left out of the planning. Mrs. Delacroix was the most likely reason for his secrecy, but short of giving Fiona and Lady Welkins her dungeon room in the cellar, she didn’t know how Lucien thought he could fix anything, much less everything.

It really wouldn’t matter after tonight, anyway. Lucien wouldn’t have to worry about being forced to marry
Rose, or about prematurely losing Alexandra’s help in dealing with his relations. Once he realized that, his silly insistence on keeping her captive and on marrying her would disappear. And so would she.

Hunger had started to make her stomach growl when someone finally slid back the bolt and opened her dungeon door. Thompkinson rushed in and scooped up Shakespeare with the ease of a week’s constant practice, and then he stopped and stared at her.

“Are you all right?” she asked after a moment, torn between amusement and bewilderment.

“I…yes…aye, Miss—ah—Gallant. You…It’s just that you look…very nice, miss.”

Alexandra curtsied. “Thank you, Thompkinson. That’s very kind of you.” A moment later the hairs at the back of her neck began to tickle, and she looked toward the doorway.

Lucien stood there, devouring her with his eyes. She flushed, reading the hunger and the desire in his expression.

“I told you burgundy suited you,” he murmured.

“It occurs to me that this is not the wisest choice of attire if I’m to make an inconspicuous entrance,” she said, wondering why she didn’t just sink into a puddle on the floor. Thank goodness for Thompkinson’s presence.

“Just leave any worries to me.” Lucien stepped forward and offered her his arm. “By the way, what are your reservations about marrying me, again?”

“Lucien, don’t—”

“Ah, yes. Rose’s happiness.” He ushered her ahead of him to ascend the narrow stairs to the kitchen.

“That was only the first of them.”

“Of course. We can’t forget my abject laziness in find
ing a more suitable bride, or my chivalrous intentions of protecting you from the
ton
’s gossip.”

It bothered her a little that he suddenly seemed easy enough about her reservations to joke about them. “And your lack of belief in love,” she reminded him as they stepped into the kitchen.

To her surprise, he smiled. “At least my ill manners and ungentlemanly nature are only sad specters of the past.” Lucien took her arm again as they headed upstairs to the drawing room. From the volume of chatter inside, he’d gathered quite a sizable group. “Let’s see which other walls we can bring down tonight.”

Wimbole flung open the double doors, and they strolled into the warm, noisy room. The first person Alexandra saw was Fiona Delacroix, literally glowing in yellow taffeta, her eyes ablaze with smug satisfaction. And then the woman caught sight of Alexandra.

She blanched, uttering an odd, furious screech audible all the way across the room. Alexandra started to pull free of Lucien’s grip, intent on lessening the scene he’d no doubt counted on causing, when another figure emerged from the middle of the room and walked toward her with open arms.

“Alexandra, my dear niece! I was hoping you would make an appearance tonight!”

She stood frozen as the Duke of Monmouth embraced her and offered her a kiss on each cheek. This was the wall Lucien had meant to bring down, she realized. Rose and Lord Belton were only a distraction—a reason for him to bring in a crowd to witness this reunion.

And the crowd was definitely watching. Another scandal would destroy any chance of future employment for her anywhere in England and probably Europe, so Alexandra returned a kiss to the duke’s angular cheek.
“Uncle Monmouth,” she choked. “I hadn’t realized you were in London.”

Lucien stirred beside her, and belatedly she noticed how hard she was digging her nails into his forearm. As she met his gaze, she saw the calm, confident superiority in his gray eyes fade. The uncertain worry that took its place didn’t appease her in the least.

“You arranged this, didn’t you?” she said with a bright smile and a clenched jaw.