BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When shes not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling – especially to Florence, Italy – and studying history and foreign languages.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

How to Disgrace a Lady

Back Cover Text

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

How to Ruin a Reputation

Back Cover Text

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Copyright

How to Disgrace a Lady

Bronwyn Scott

MERRICK ST. MAGNUS: HIS PURSUIT OF SHAMELESS DEBAUCHERY IS SOCIETY LEGEND!

Merrick’s season of outrageous scandal has taken a challenging turn. Caught in a—far less than usually—compromising situation with Lady Alixe Burke, this so-called gentleman is tasked by her father with making his daughter marriageable!

Lady Alixe, more happy in the library than the ballroom, is most definitely left-on-the-shelf material. He’ll never walk away from a wager, but Merrick’s expertise extends way beyond society etiquette. Never before entrusted with a woman’s modesty, Merrick sets about teaching her everything he knows...

Chapter One

Merrick St Magnus did nothing by halves, including the notorious Greenfield Twins. Even now, the legendary courtesans were delectably arranged in varying degrees of dishabille on the drawing room’s long Venetian divan. His eyes on the first Greenfield twin, Merrick plucked an orange slice from a silver tray and gave it an indolent roll in powdered sugar, in no way oblivious to the charms of her lovely bosom pushed to the very limits of decency by the dual efforts of a tightly laced corset and a low décolletage.

‘One sweet temptation deserves another, ma chère,’ he said in liquid tones, his eyes meaningfully raking her body, noticing how the pulse note at the base of her long neck leapt in appreciation of his open seduction. Merrick skimmed the orange slice across her slightly parted lips, the tip of her tongue making pretty work of licking the powdery sugar, all the while suggesting she’d be quite apt at licking more than her lips.

He was going to enjoy tonight. More than that, he was going to enjoy winning the bet that currently filled pages of White’s infamous book of wagers and collecting the winnings tomorrow. He stood to make a respectable sum that would see him through a recent bad run at the tables. Certainly men had ‘had’ the lovely Greenfield sisters, but no man had obtained carnal knowledge of them both at the same time.

At the other end of the divan, twin number two gave a coy pout. ‘What about me, Merrick? Am I not a temptation?’

‘You, ma belle, are a veritable Eve.’ Merrick let his hand hover over the fruit platter as if contemplating with great deliberation which fruit to select. ‘Ah, for you, my Eve, a fig, I think, for the pleasures of Eden that await a man in your garden.’

His literary references were for naught. She pouted again, perplexed. ‘My name isn’t Eve.’

Merrick stifled a sigh. Think about the money. He flashed a rakish smile, popping the fig into her mouth and giving her a compliment she would understand. ‘I never can tell which of you is the prettiest.’ But he definitely could tell which one was smarter. He dropped a hand to the expanse of twin number two’s exposed bosom and drew a light circle on her skin with his index finger, winning a coy smile. Twin one had her hands at his shoulders, massaging as she pulled the shirt-tails from his waistband. It was time to get down to business.

That was when it happened—his manservant began banging on the receiving room door.

‘Not right now,’ Merrick called, but the banging persisted.

‘Maybe he wants to join us,’ twin one suggested, unfazed by the interruption.

His man of all work would not be deterred. ‘We have an emergency, milord.’ He pressed from the other side of the door.

Damn it all, he was going to have to get up and see what Fillmore wanted. Between lost literary references and intrusive servants, this could be going better. Merrick pushed to his feet, shirt-tails loose. He placed a gallant kiss on the hand of each twin. ‘A moment, mes amours.’

He purposely strode across the floor and pulled open the door just a fraction. Fillmore knew what he was doing in here, of course, and Fillmore probably even knew why. But that didn’t mean Merrick wanted him to witness it first-hand. If he thought too much about it, the whole scenario was a bit lowering. He was broke and trading the one thing he did better than anything else for the one thing he needed more than anything else: sex for money, not that anyone else realised it.

‘Yes, Fillmore?’ Merrick managed a supercilious arch of his eyebrow. ‘What is our emergency?’

Fillmore wasn’t the normal manservant. The arched eyebrow affected him as much as the Miltonesque reference had affected twin not-so-smart. Fillmore puffed himself up and said, ‘The emergency, milord, is your father.’

‘Fillmore, you are aware, I believe, that I prefer my problems to be shared.’

‘Yes, milord, as you say, our emergency.’

‘Well, out with it, what has happened?’

Fillmore passed him a white sheet of paper already unfolded.

Merrick had another go at the arched eyebrow. ‘You might as well tell me, clearly you’ve already read the message.’ Really, Fillmore ought to show at least some slight remorse over reading someone else’s post; not that it wasn’t a useful trait on occasion, just not a very genteel one.

‘He’s coming to town. He’ll be here the day after next,’ Fillmore summarised with guiltless aplomb.

Every part of Merrick not already in a state of stiffness went hard with tension. ‘That means he could be here as early as tomorrow afternoon.’ His father excelled at arriving ahead of schedule and this was an extraordinarily premeditated act. His father meant to take him by surprise. One could only guess how far along the road his father had been before he’d finally sent word of his imminent arrival. Which meant only one thing: there was going to be a reckoning.

The conclusion begged the question: which rumours had sent the Marquis hot-footing it to town? Had it been the curricle race to Richmond? Probably not. That had been weeks ago. If he’d been coming over that, he would have been here long before now. Had it been the wager over the opera singer? Admittedly that had become more public than Merrick would have liked. But it wasn’t the first time his affaires had been conducted with an audience.

‘Does he say why?’ Merrick searched the short letter.

‘It’s hard to say. We’ve had so many occasions,’ Fillmore finished with an apologetic sigh.

‘Yes, yes, I suppose it doesn’t matter which episode brings him to town, only that we’re not here to greet him.’ Merrick pushed a hand through his hair with an air of impatience. He needed to think and then he needed to act quickly.

‘Are we sure that’s wise?’ Fillmore enquired, ‘I mean, based on the last part of the letter, perhaps it would be better if we stayed and were appropriately penitent.’

Merrick scowled. ‘Since when have we ever adopted a posture of penitence when it comes to my father?’ He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by his father. Leaving town was not an act of cowardice. This was about being able to exert his own will. He would not give his father the satisfaction of knowing he controlled another of his grown sons. His father controlled everything and everyone that fell into his purvey, including Merrick’s older brother, Martin, the heir. Merrick refused to be catalogued as another of his father’s puppets.

‘Since he’s coming to town to cut off our allowance until we reform our ways. It’s later in the note,’ Fillmore informed him.

He’d never been the fastest of readers. Conversation was so much more entertaining. But there they were at the bottom of the letter, the words so curt and glaring he could almost hear his father’s voice behind them: I am curtailing your access to funds until such time as your habits are reformed.

Merrick scoffed. ‘He can curtail the allowance all he wants since “we” don’t touch it anyway.’ It had occurred to him years ago that in order to be truly free of his father, he could not be reliant on anything his

father offered, the usual second-son allowance included. The allowance lay tucked away in an account at Coutts and Merrick chose instead to live by the turn of a card or the outcome of a profitable wager. Usually it was enough to keep him in rent and clothes. His well-earned reputation for bedroom pleasure did the rest.

His father could halt the allowance for as long as he liked. That wasn’t what bothered Merrick. It was the fact that his father was coming at all. The one thing they agreed on was the need for mutual distance. Merrick liked his father’s jaded ethics as little as his father liked his more flexible standards. Coming to London was a death knell to his Season and it was barely June. But Merrick wasn’t outmanoeuvred yet.

He needed to think and he needed to think with his brain as opposed to other body parts. That meant the twins had to go. Merrick shut the door and turned back to the twins with a short, gallant bow of apology. ‘Ladies, I regret the emergency is immediate. You will need to leave.’

And so they did, taking his chance at two hundred pounds with them at a point where money was tight and his time was tighter.

* * *

‘Fillmore, how much do we owe?’ Merrick sprawled on the now significantly less-populated divan. He ran through the numbers in his head; the boot maker, his tailor and other sundry merchants would need to be paid before he left. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing to his debt. It might create the illusion his father had room to negotiate.

Damn, but this was a fine pickle. He was usually an adequate steward of his funds and usually a fair judge of character. He never should have played cards with Stevenson. The man was known to cheat.

‘Seven hundred pounds including this month’s rent on the rooms.’

‘How much do we have?’

‘Around eight hundred to hand.’

It was as he’d thought—enough to clear the bills with a little left over. Not enough to survive another month in the city, however, especially not during the Season. London was deuced expensive.

Fillmore cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest that one way to cut expenses would be for us to stay at the family town house? Rent for rooms in a fashionable neighbourhood is an extravagance.’

‘Live with my father? No, you may not suggest it. I’ve not lived with him for ages. I don’t mean to start now, especially since it’s what he wants.’ Merrick sighed. ‘Bring me the invitations from the front table.’

Merrick searched the pile for inspiration, looking for a high-stakes card party, a bachelor’s weekend in Newmarket that would get him out of town, anything that might assuage the current situation. But there was nothing amusing: a musicale, a Venetian breakfast, a ball, all in London, all useless. Then at the bottom of the pile he found it: the Earl of Folkestone’s house party. Folkestone was hosting a party at the family seat on the Kent coast. Originally, he’d not considered going. It was three days to Kent on dry roads to even drier company. But now it seemed the ideal locale. Folkestone was a crusty traditionalist of a man, but Merrick knew Folkestone’s heir, Jamie Burke, from their days at Oxford, and he’d attended a soirée hosted by Lady Folkestone early in the Season, which explained where the invitation had come from. He’d been a model guest, flirting with all the wallflowers until they had bloomed. Ladies liked a guest who knew how to do his duty and Merrick knew how to do his superbly.

‘Pack our bags, Fillmore. We’re going to Kent,’ Merrick said with a finality he didn’t feel. He didn’t fool himself into believing a house party in Kent was an answer to his woes. It was merely a temporary salve. London was expensive, yes, but his freedom was proving to be more so.

* * *

The road to Kent was clearly not to be confused with the road to Hell, Merrick mused grimly later after three days of riding. For starters, there were no good intentions in sight. But there were apparently two highwaymen in broad daylight. Merrick slowed his horse and swore under his breath. Damn and double damn, he’d been a short two miles from the salvation of Folkestone’s bloody house party. His hand reached subtly for the pistol in his coat pocket.

It was deuced odd for highwaymen to attempt a robbery at three in the afternoon when the polite world was ready to settle in for tea. But given the state of the current British economy, he wouldn’t put it past anyone. It was unfortunate he was alone just now, having ridden on ahead of Fillmore and his luggage.

‘Is the road out, my good fellows?’ Merrick called, wheeling his horse around in a flashy circle. Their horses looked sleek and well fed. Great. He’d run into a set of the more successful brand of highwayman. Merrick’s hand tightened on his pistol. He’d paid his bills and his last pound notes were tucked safely in his pocket. He wasn’t about to surrender what financial surety he had left.

The two bandits, masked below their eyes with black scarves, looked at each other. One of them laughed and parodied his politeness. ‘It is to you, good sir.’ The man waved his more obviously displayed pistol with the casual flourish of a man long accustomed to handling firearms with ease. ‘We don’t want your money, we want your clothes. Be a good fellow and give us a quick strip.’ The green eyes of the second bandit flashed with humour.

The sun caught the glint of the pistol butt. Merrick’s hand eased on the grip of his weapon, a slow sure smile of confidence taking his face. Merrick stilled his horse and faced the two ‘bandits’. ‘Why, Ashe Bedevere and Riordan Barrett, fancy meeting you here.’

The green-eyed man with the pistol yanked his scarf down. ‘How did you know?’

Merrick grinned. ‘No one else in England has emeralds embedded in the butt of their pistol.’

‘Damn it, it was a good prank.’ Ashe gave his gun a rueful glare as if the weapon alone were to blame for ruining the gambit. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here, waiting?’

‘Waiting in the sun is dusty business,’ Riordan put in.

‘What were you doing, waiting at all?’ Merrick pulled his horse alongside his two friends and they continued down the road three abreast.

‘We saw your horse outside the inn last night and the ostler said you were headed over to Folkestone’s for the party,’ Ashe admitted with an impish grin. ‘Since we’re going, too, we thought we’d plan a little reunion.’

‘We could have reunited over a pint of good ale and rabbit stew last night,’ Merrick put in. Accosting friends with pistols was a bit demented even for Ashe.

‘There’s no fun in that; besides, we were busy with the barmaid and her sister.’ Riordan pulled out a pewter flask and took a healthy swallow. ‘There hasn’t been any fun all Season. London’s been an absolute bore.’

So boring that even a house party in Kent held more charm? It seemed unlikely. Merrick peered closely at his friend. Riordan’s face bore signs of weariness, but there was no time to pursue that avenue in the wake of Ashe’s next pronouncement.

‘How about a bathe?’

Merrick’s head swivelled in Ashe’s direction. ‘What? A bathe?’ Had Ashe finally gone around the bend? He’d long suspected Ashe wasn’t as sane as the rest of humanity, always the risk taker.

‘Not in a tub, old chap,’ Ashe replied, easily reading his mind. ‘Out here, before we get to the house party. There’s a pond—a small lake, really—over the next rise and off the lane a bit, if I remember this stretch of road right. It will be a chance to wash off the grime of the journey, a last chance to exist in nature before we embrace the unnatural formality of a country party where...’ Ashe paused for effect and went on with great exaggeration ‘...everything should be natural, but most unfortunately is not.’

‘Splendid idea, a bathe is perfect. What say you, Merrick? A bathe before high tea and the ladies?’ Riordan voted with his heels, spurring his chestnut hunter into a canter, letting the light breeze ruffle his dark hair. Riordan called back over his shoulder, ‘Race you! I’ve got the flask!’

‘But you don’t know where you’re going!’ Ashe and Merrick yelled in unison. This had always been the case; even at Oxford, Riordan had been heedless of the details, seizing the pleasure of the moment, ignoring the consequences. Merrick exchanged a knowing look with Ashe.

‘All the better to race me....’ The words floated back over the pounding of hooves on packed dirt. They needed no further encouragement to kick their horses up to speed and follow.

They found the pond as Ashe remembered it: a cool, shady oasis fed by a quick-flowing stream and perfect for the odd summer bathe. It was hidden from the casual eye by leafy willows and Merrick raced the others, wasting no time in divesting himself of his clothes, suddenly overcome with a desire to feel the cold water on his hot skin. He dived in, refusing to cautiously test the waters first.

The water closed over his head and he felt absolution. He reached out into the water with long strokes and began to kick, every stroke taking him further from London, from his father, from his ongoing battle for the freedom to be himself even if he didn’t precisely know who that was. In the water he was clean. Unfettered joy took him and he surged to the surface, shaking the water from his hair. Ashe was watching him, posed gloriously naked on a rock like a sea-god. Merrick reached up, grabbed Ashe’s leg and pulled. ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’

Ashe gave an undignified yelp as gravity and Merrick took him sliding into the pond. ‘Riordan, get in here and help me!’

There was a swift movement on the banks as Riordan grabbed for a sturdy vine and swung into the mêlée. Chaos ensued—the good kind of chaos that washes away years and trouble. They wrestled in the water; they scrambled up the banks, making the dirt into mud with their dripping forms; they ran the perimeter of their sanctuary with loud whoops of pure exuberance, only to jump back in and start all over. For all the sophistication of London and its entertainments, Merrick hadn’t had this much uncontrived fun in ages. London’s haut ton would cringe to see three of their members behaving with such careless, naked abandon. But why not? There was no one to see.

Chapter Two

Thank goodness no one could see her now. Dressed in a loose, serviceable gown of drab olive and scuffed half-boots, Alixe knew she didn’t look at all like a proper earl’s daughter. The family would have a fit. Another fit. The family wanted to have as few fits as possible. Which was probably why they’d let her go out wandering in the first place, despite guests arriving for the long-anticipated midsummer house party.

At the moment, Alixe didn’t care if the king himself was scheduled to arrive. She had a precious afternoon of freedom entirely to herself. The weather was fine and she was enjoying her tramp to the furthest edges of the family property, perhaps a bit beyond because she was feeling a little naughty. She had a destination in mind—an old summer house on the nebulous fringes of the estate, where she could settle in with her books and her work, all carefully packed in a cloth bag looped over her shoulder.

She was getting close to the summer house. The path was increasingly overgrown with fern and nearly obscured from plain view as she ventured further into the wooded area. She smiled and pushed aside some of the rampant undergrowth. It was cool here beneath the trees. Ah, there it was. She quickened her pace, taking the crumbling steps to the entrance two at a time.

Alixe opened the door and sighed. The old place was perfect. She should make a retreat out of it. She could scavenge odds and ends from the attics. Alixe put her bag down and surveyed the open-air room. It was more like a gazebo than an actual house, but it had infinite possibilities—a place where she could be alone, away from the family’s odious neighbour Archibald Redfield, away from everyone and all their expectations for her life. Alixe closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Ah, yes, she was blessedly alone.

Then she heard it: the sound of not being quite alone. Alixe turned her head towards the sound. A bird call? It came again—distinctly not a bird. It sounded like a human shout.

Oh, dear.

The lake.

Alixe was galvanised into action. Someone might be in trouble. She tore through the woods, running towards the shouts.

* * *

Alixe crashed into the lake clearing and came to an abrupt halt too late to rethink announcing her presence once it became patently obvious the only thing in risk of drowning were her sensibilities. Three men cavorted—really, that was the only word for it—cavorted in the water. They dove, they wrestled, they noticed her.

Oh, lord, they noticed her.

She didn’t want to be noticed. This was not what she deserved for playing the good Samaritan. She’d run pell-mell to the aid of three men swimming nude in a hidden lake. Someone could at least have the decency to actually be drowning.

‘Hello, are we making too much noise? We didn’t think anyone was around,’ one of them said easily, unfazed by her sudden appearance. He separated from his comrades and waded towards the shore, the receding water revealing him inch by marvellous inch until Alixe was sure of two things: first, she’d never seen such a finely made man in her life and, second, the finely made man was undoubtedly naked.

She should look away. But where to look? His eyes? They were too mesmerising. The sky wasn’t even that blue. His chest? Too well-sculpted, especially the tapered muscles at his abdomen.

Abdomen!

Oh, lord, she hadn’t meant to let her gaze or the water get so low. He was still moving towards her, unbothered by his nudity. She had to put a stop to it or she’d be seeing more than the firm muscles of his abdomen.

All her supposed good breeding failed her utterly. Her eyes remained riveted on the stranger’s midsection. It would only be a matter of seconds now before all was revealed. She should say something. What did one say to a naked man at a pond?

She opted for a casual response and tried to sound as if she ran into naked men all the time. ‘Don’t get out for me. I’ll just be going. I heard the shouts and thought someone might need help.’

Good. She sounded mostly normal.

Alixe took a step back from the lake and promptly fell over a log half-buried in the mud of the lake side. She landed hard on her backside. She could feel her cheeks burning. So much for normal.

The man laughed, not unkindly, and kept advancing. He was fully revealed now, his manly parts entirely visible. All she could do was stare. He was so magnificent that for a moment she forgot to be embarrassed, her curiosity unleashed at the sight of him. He was beautiful—that part of him was beautiful in a wild, primitive way. She’d not expected it.

‘Seems as though someone might need help, after all.’ The nameless, naked man stood over her with a hand held out, not that she had much attention for the hand when there were other dangling appendages in close proximity.

‘No, really, I’m all right.’ Her words rushed out in a flummoxed mess, her sense of propriety returning.

‘Don’t be stubborn, give me your hand. You don’t want to fall again.’ He held out his hand, insisting.

‘Oh, yes, my hand.’ Alixe offered it up as if she’d just discovered it and dragged her eyes a little further up his chest to his face. He was grinning at her with his whole visage: his smile wide and laughing, his eyes bluer than the cerulean of an English summer sky.

He tugged Alixe to her feet, not in the least nonplussed by his lack of clothing. ‘Your first naked man, I take it?’

‘What?’ It took her a moment to follow the question. It was hard enough to train her eyes away from the environs of his thighs, let alone follow a conversation. She opted for sophistication in the hopes of recovering her dignity. ‘No, actually. I’ve seen plenty in...’ She faltered here. Where would she have seen them?

‘Art work?’ he supplied helpfully, water droplets sparking like diamonds in the pale flax of his hair.

‘I’ve seen the David,’ she shot back, sensing the challenge. It was true. She had in pictures, but the David of pictures had nothing on this stranger, who stood bold and brash in the sunlight with all his worldly goods plainly displayed. Her eyes darted about the shores of the pond, in a desperate attempt to not look at said worldly goods. It was all his fault. He’d made no move to retrieve any of the garments lying close by. What kind of man stood naked in the presence of a lady? Not the kind of man she was used to meeting in her parents’ genteel circles.

The very thought sent a tremor of excitement through her even as she reached for the nearest garment. ‘You should cover yourself, sir.’ Alixe held out the shirt. It would be too bad, of course, but it was an absolute social necessity. No one stood around conversing without their clothes on.

He took the shirt, his eyes were laughing at her. ‘Should I? I was under the impression you were enjoying the view.’

‘I think the only one enjoying this is you,’ Alixe countered, mustering all the outrage she ought to feel at this affront to her sensibilities.

He cocked an eyebrow in challenge. ‘At least I’ll admit to it.’

That comment did stoke her temper. Alixe squared her shoulders. ‘You are a most ill-bred man.’ With the body of a god and a face of an angel. ‘I must be going.’ She brushed at her skirts to give her hands something to do. ‘I can see everyone is all right. I’ll be on my way.’ This time she managed to exit the clearing without stumbling over any errant logs.

* * *

Merrick watched her go with a laugh. He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his shirt in a belated overture to decency. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done it—shouldn’t have teased her so mercilessly. But it had all been good fun and she’d not shied away from it. He knew when a woman was curious and when she was genuinely mortified. This creature in the drab dress hadn’t been nearly as mortified as she claimed. Her lovely sherry eyes had been wide with curiosity satisfied as she looked her fill.

Merrick reached for his trousers and slid them on. To be sure, she’d tried to look away, but healthy inquisitiveness is hard to defeat and she’d lost that battle from the start. Not that he’d been bothered by her frank enquiry into the male anatomy. She wasn’t the first woman to see him naked. He’d been naked in front of a lot of them.

Women liked his body, with its lean lines and muscled contours. Lady Mansfield had once, quite publicly, declared it the eighth wonder of the world. Lady Fairworth had spent nights staring at him for hours. She’d made a habit of having him fetch things from around the room so that she could watch him walk across the floor stark naked for her.

He hadn’t minded. He understood the needs of those experienced women and, in turn, they understood his. But today had been different. There’d been something unsullied in her gaze. He’d clearly been her first. Even now the knowledge fired a low heat in his groin. She’d been surprised, but she hadn’t shrunk from her discoveries. She’d welcomed them. Her response to him had sparked a kind of eroticism he was not familiar with. It had been ages since he’d been anyone’s first naked man.

More than that, the very directness of her demeanour had appealed to him. He’d known he could push her sensibilities. For all her clumsiness, he’d known she could handle herself. Helpless misses didn’t run through the forest to the rescue of drowning victims. He’d not been disappointed. Her sharp conversation had been every bit as enjoyable as her hot, open gaze. Too bad he didn’t know her name. He’d just have to burn on his own.

* * *

Alixe’s cheeks were still burning when she got back to the summer house. She resolutely settled in with her book, determined to not think about the encounter at the lake. But her mind would have none of it. Her mind preferred instead to recall, in vivid detail, the well-muscled torso with its defined abdomen and lean hips tapering down to that most manly part of him. And that smile. Even now, that wicked, laughing grin sent a curious skittering sensation straight to her stomach. He’d been flirting with her. Those dancing blue eyes knew exactly what they were doing, exactly what kind of havoc they were wreaking on her senses. It had been ages since anyone had flirted with her, even if it had been a little unorthodox.

Well, more than a little. It was the most unorthodox thing that had happened to her to date. Until today, she’d never seen a man without his shirt. Probably, if she thought about it, she hadn’t seen a man without a waistcoat since her come-out. A gentleman didn’t dare remove even his coat in the presence of a lady, while this man had removed quite a bit more than his coat. It begged the question: what did that make him? Certainly not a gentleman.

The blush started again and Alixe was swamped anew with the sensation. She’d seen a real, live, naked man.

Up close.

Very close.

Extremely close. And it had been gorgeous. Which begged the question: what did that make her? Curious? Wanton? Something more? The answer would be worth exploring. She was no prude, genteel rearing and shielding aside. She’d partaken as eagerly in the sights as he’d displayed them. Alixe fought the urge to fan herself like an insipid miss. She had to find her focus and be done with this ridiculous mooning. She’d seen no more today than the gifts God had given mankind in general. Every man had one, which was roughly half the population.

There.

She’d taken the philosophical high ground—and failed miserably to dispel the image from her mind.

It was official: she was definitely unsettled. She would get no reading done at this rate. Alixe tucked her book back into the bag. What she needed was a change of scenery. She might as well head back to the house; if she smiled like an empty-headed fool the whole way back, so be it.

* * *

By the time she’d gained the safety of her rooms, Alixe had found perspective. She had indeed smiled the entire walk back to the house. She might even continue to smile her way through the tedious evening that lay ahead. If people wanted to believe she was smiling at them, they could. Only she would know what she was really smiling about. Other than that, she’d come to the realisation there was no harm in her secret. The man from the lake didn’t know her; she didn’t know him; they would never see each other again, except perhaps in her dreams.

But the knowledge did make her feel undeniably more worldly than she’d felt four hours ago and she dressed with a little more care than she might otherwise have done in celebration of it. She had her maid lay out the pale-blue dinner gown with the chocolate-brown trim and the low-cut bodice. The gown was one of a few exceptions in her otherwise ‘sufficient’ wardrobe.

She’d always been more interested in her books and manuscripts than clothes and society; a fact her family was not willing to accept, although she’d achieved the august age of twenty-six and had firmly put herself on the shelf. Despite her most persuasive efforts, not all of the family had despaired of marrying off the controversial, blue-stocking daughter of the Earl of Folkestone just yet. She’d refused to go to London this Season, so her dogged family had brought London to her in the form of a house party peopled with the very best of her brother’s acquaintances.

Alixe clipped on her dainty pearl earrings and gave herself a final look-over in the mirror. It was time to go downstairs and pretend she’d never seen a man without clothes. Surely she could do that?

‘Alixe, there you are.’ Her brother, Jamie, materialised at the foot of the stairs. ‘You look pretty tonight; you should wear blue more often.’ He tucked her arm through his and for once she was grateful for the assurance of his presence. ‘There are some people I want you to meet.’

Alixe stifled a groan. Jamie meant well, but he worried too much about her. As a result, he was always trying to matchmake.

‘Alixe, it will be all right. These are friends of mine from university. Now, be nice. Here they are,’ he whispered at her ear, whisking her into the drawing room.

A group of gentlemen stood near the doorway. At Jamie’s entrance, four pairs of eyes turned her direction. One set she recognised. They belonged to the squire’s son. The other six belonged to two dark-haired devils and one angel—one very naughty angel, an angel she’d seen naked.

Alixe froze, her mind racing with all nature of embarrassing scenarios. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise her. In her expensive evening gown she hardly looked like the girl tramping in the woods.

Jamie proudly pulled her forwards. There was nothing to do but brave it out. ‘Let me introduce all of you to my sister, Lady Alixe Burke. Alixe dear, these are the old friends from university I was telling you about. Riordan Barrett, Ashe Bedevere and Merrick St Magnus.’

Great, now the angel had a name.

* * *

‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’ Merrick bowed over her hand, his eyes trained on her face the whole while. He’d learned early how to read a woman. Elegant gowns and complicated coiffures often hid a multitude of sins or truths, depending on how you looked at it. To really see a woman’s identity, one had to look at her face. In this case, he was not distracted by the fine gown and the sophisticated twist of hair.

It was definitely her.

He’d know those long-lashed sherry eyes anywhere. They’d been the most expressive part of her today. They’d been wide with an intriguing mixture of shock and curiosity. If her eyes weren’t enough, there was her mouth. Merrick considered himself a great connoisseur of mouths and this one begged to be kissed. Not that he’d be doing any kissing of Jamie Burke’s sister. She was the kind of girl who was off limits and he’d already danced fairly near the fire today, even if by accident.

She gave a short incline of her head, greeted the others in a perfunctory manner and made polite excuses to go in search of a girlfriend. But Merrick watched her leave them only to stand with Lady Folkestone and a group of older matrons near the wide fireplace. He didn’t sport with those who didn’t welcome it. Ordinarily, he’d feel badly about causing a shy young lady discomfort. But in this case, he knew better. Alixe Burke was no retiring miss, no matter her airs to the contrary. She was due for a little provoking. After all, she’d ‘provoked’ him that afternoon. Turnabout was fair play.

Jamie noticed his distraction. ‘Perhaps I could arrange for you to take Alixe in to supper.’

* * *

Jamie was one of those rare individuals who could make wishes come true. At Oxford, they’d had only to voice a want and Jamie would see it granted. In the years since then, that ability had not changed and now, even though there were two gentlemen present who technically outranked the second son of a marquis, Merrick found himself conveniently seated beside the somewhat-aloof person of Alixe Burke. That was about to change. He wanted to see her face alive with surprise, or with any emotion. This expression of bland passivity she wore in polite company did not do her features justice.

‘Miss Burke, I cannot shake the feeling that we’ve met before,’ he murmured as the first course was set in front of them.

‘That would be unlikely. I am not much in London,’ came the short ten-word response followed by a curt smile.

He’d thought that would be her gambit. She was pretending she didn’t recognise him. Either that or hoping he didn’t recognise her. But it was all pretence. Her left hand lay fisted in her lap, a sure sign of tension.

‘Then perhaps we’ve met around here,’ Merrick offered amiably, pushing the subject. She’d been a delightful juxtaposition of emotions that afternoon—part of her trying to pretend naked men in ponds was de rigueur while the other part of her had been rampantly excited by the titillating disturbance. He wanted that woman back. That woman was intriguing. This woman sitting next to him was a mere shell for that other person.

She set down her spoon with deliberate firmness and fairly rounded on him with all the chagrin allowed at a dinner table. ‘Lord St Magnus, I seldom go out even around here. I spend my time with local historians. So unless you are involved in the work of restoring medieval documents from Kent, we most certainly have never met.’ That was the shell talking. No woman with a mouth like hers was as proper as she was pretending.

Merrick stifled a grin. He was getting to her. She was past ten words now. ‘But surely, Lady Alixe, you must, on occasion, walk through the woods and visit a pond or two. Perhaps we met there.’

‘What an outrageous place to meet.’ A blush started up her cheeks. She must realise the game was up or very nearly so.

Merrick gave her a moment to regroup while the servants removed the first course. The second course arrived and Merrick fired his next salvo. ‘Of course, it is possible that you simply don’t recognise me. If it’s the occasion I am thinking of, you were wearing an old olive-green dress and I was wearing my birthday suit.’

To her credit, Lady Alixe choked only mildly on her wine. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My birthday suit, nature’s garb, my Altogether.’

She set her wine glass aside and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘I knew precisely what you meant the first time. What I cannot fathom is why you want to recall the event at all. A gentleman would never confront a lady with a blatant reminder of such a difficult and accidental encounter.’

‘Perhaps you are making faulty assumptions when drawing that conclusion.’ Merrick sat back and waited for the next remove.

* * *

‘You are familiar with syllogisms, Lady Alixe?’ he continued easily after the servants had done their work. ‘Man is mortal, Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal. In this case, gentlemen don’t discommode ladies, Merrick St Magnus is a gentleman, therefore, he won’t bring up the little escapade at the pond this afternoon. Is that how your reasoning went, Lady Alixe?’

‘I had no idea the three of you were taking a splash.’

‘Ah, so you do remember me?’

Alixe pursed her lips and capitulated. ‘Yes, Lord St Magnus, I remember you.’

‘Good. I’d hate to be unmemorable. Most ladies find my “Altogether” quite memorable.’

‘I’m sure they do.’ She took a bite of her beef in a clear tactic to tersely end the conversation.

‘Do I hear another syllogism in the making, Lady Alixe? Most ladies like my “Altogether”. Lady Alixe is a lady, therefore...’

‘No, you do not hear another syllogism in the making. What you hear is an exception.’

Merrick gave her a lingering smile. ‘Then I shall endeavour to change your mind.’ This was by far the most interesting conversation he’d had in ages, probably because how it would turn out was not a forgone conclusion. He wasn’t use to that. With his usual sort of woman, conversation was always a prelude to a rather predictable outcome. That wasn’t to say the outcome wasn’t pleasurable, just predictable.

Too bad it was nearly time to turn the table and engage the partner on his other side. Even if he didn’t recognise the signs that the table was about to shift, Lady Alixe’s deep sigh of relief would have cued him. He wouldn’t let her go that easily.

With a last sortie of mischief, Merrick leaned close to Lady Alixe, close enough to smell the lemon-

lavender scent of her toilette water, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Don’t worry, we can talk later this evening over the tea cart.’

‘I wasn’t worried.’ She managed to smile through clenched teeth.

‘Yes, you were.’

Lady Alixe turned to the man on her other side but not before her slipper-clad foot managed a parting kick to his ankle beneath the table. He would have laughed, but it hurt too much.

Chapter Three

Dinner lost some of its lustre after that. The squire’s wife on his left was quite willing to engage in light flirtatious banter, but it was far less exciting than sparring with the stoic Lady Alixe. It had been a hard-won battle to wring the slightest smile from Lady Alixe, who’d been trying so desperately to ignore him. The squire’s wife smiled rather easily and laughed at everything, a conquest of moments.

After-dinner brandy dragged on with tedium. Merrick spent most of his time attempting to align the pretty but remote Lady Alixe from dinner with the openly curious girl at the pond. There’d been signs of that girl. Lady Alixe’s wit was finely honed and quite humorous in a dry sense when she gave it free rein. But she clearly hadn’t wanted to be recognised and not surprisingly so. If anyone got wind of their encounter the consequence could be dire for them both.

For the record, he’d have to be clear on that point with Ashe and Riordan. He didn’t truly worry they’d match the girl up with Lady Alixe. They’d been too far out in the pond to get a good look at her today and Lady Alixe wasn’t the type of girl either of them would look twice at. Most of that was Lady Alixe’s own doing, Merrick suspected. She had many excellent features. She simply chose not to maximise them and her sharp tongue would deter anyone from looking more closely at what was on offer. Ordinarily, he’d not have looked more closely either if it hadn’t been for the incident at the pond.

But now that he had, he wanted an even closer look at Lady Alixe Burke, who lived in something of a self-imposed social limbo. She had the potential to be pretty, had the propensity for clever conversation and had her father’s money. There was no reason she wasn’t up in London dazzling the ton’s bachelors or at the very least kicking them in the shins. Merrick smiled to himself. Hmmm. A mystery. If there was no reason, then by logical extension there was a very good reason she wasn’t in London. He was eager to get back to the drawing room.

In the drawing room, Merrick spotted Lady Alixe quickly. She was precisely where he thought she’d be, sitting on a sofa with an elderly neighbour, patiently listening to whatever the lady was saying. He filed the information away. Lady Alixe fancied herself a retiring sort, a bookish sort. What was it she’d said at dinner? She worked with local historians? Intriguing.

He approached the sofa and made the appropriate flattering remarks to the older lady, who probably only heard half of them. ‘Lady Alixe, might I steal you away for a moment or two?’

‘What could you possibly have left to say to me?’ she asked as Merrick manoeuvred them over to ostensibly take in a painting on the far wall.

‘I think we need to agree that our encounter is to remain a private event between the two of us,’ Merrick said in low tones.

‘I do not wish to have you blather about it to anyone any more than you would want me to publicly discover that the girl in question was you. We both know what society’s answer to such a scandal would be.’

‘I do not “blather”.’

‘Of course not, Lady Alixe. My apologies. I confused blathering with kicking me under the table.’

She ignored the reference. ‘And your friends, they do not blather either, I assume.’

‘No, they will not say anything,’ Merrick promised.

‘Then we have reached an accord and you need not seek my company out again.’

‘Why so unfriendly, Lady Alixe?’

‘I know men like you.’

He smiled at that. ‘What, precisely, is a “man like me”?’

‘Trouble, with a capital “T”.’

‘That might be because you’re beginning the sentence with it.’

‘Or it might be because you charm women into compromising themselves with you. You, sir, are a rake if ever I’ve seen one.’

‘Have you seen one? A rake? How would you know? Oh, I forgot, you’ve seen the David. Well, for your information, I know women like you, too. You think you don’t have much use for men, but that’s because you haven’t met the right one.’

That sobered her up. ‘You are too bold and you are no gentleman.’

Merrick laughed. ‘No, I’m not. You should have known better, Lady Alixe. Don’t young misses learn in the schoolroom that you can always tell a gentleman by his clothes?’

Her jaw tightened. ‘I must admit, my lord, on that point you have me at a distinct disadvantage.’ Lady Alixe turned on her heel and made a smart retreat to the newly arrived tea cart.

* * *

In a quiet corner of the room, Archibald Redfield watched the animated exchange between St Magnus and Alixe Burke. It was the second such interaction they’d had that evening. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but St Magnus was laughing and Alixe Burke was in a high-coloured huff as she set off for the tea cart. That was nothing new. Alixe Burke was a shrew in his opinion. He didn’t have much use for sharp-tongued women unless they were rich or knew how to use their tongues in other ways.

Fortunately Alixe Burke was quite rich and so he tolerated what he classified as her less-attractive qualities. Redfield tapped his fingers idly on the arm of the chair, considering. Things were not getting off to a brilliant start. He’d come to the house party with the specific intention of putting himself into Alixe Burke’s good graces. She’d shunned his advances earlier this spring and he was hoping to recoup his losses there. He’d arrived early that afternoon, only to discover she was out somewhere. She hadn’t put in an appearance until dinner and then she had been seated too far away from him for conversation. Now, that libertine from London was stealing a march on him.

It was not to be tolerated. He had chosen Alixe Burke as a most specific target. She was the reason he was in this sleepy part of Kent to begin with. He’d done his research in London, looking for ‘forgotten’ heiresses, or wealthy spinsters on the shelf. In other words, women who might be susceptible to a man’s charms, or families desperate to marry them off. That’s when he’d heard of Alixe Burke, from a viscount she’d rejected. She hadn’t been back in town since. So he’d come to her, pretending to be a gentleman. He’d even gone so far as to buy an old manse in the area to complete the charade. After having done so much, he would not lose his advantage to a golden-haired second son who deserved the title of ‘lord’ no more than he did himself.

St Magnus—where had he heard that name? Oh, yes, the son of the Marquis of Crewe. Always in the midst of a scandal—most lately it had been something with the Greenfield Twins. Redfield was thoughtful for a moment. Maybe he could use St Magnus and his wild tendencies, after all. He would wait and watch for his opportunity.

* * *

Alixe had taken the first opportunity to retire for the night, something she should have done hours ago. In the privacy of her room, Alixe pulled the pins from her hair and shook the dark mass free, breathing a sigh of relief.

The evening had gone moderately well if she counted the fact that this time she’d managed to stay upright in his presence. Kicking him was probably not the best choice, but, all in all, she had survived mostly intact. Somehow she’d managed to sit through dinner beside him and not become entirely witless under the barrage of his clever conversation. While it hadn’t gone well, it certainly could have gone worse. If things had gone well, he wouldn’t have shown up at all. If things had gone worse...worse hardly bore thinking about. After all, he hadn’t shouted their encounter from the rooftops and he’d sworn himself to secrecy.

Her secret was safe with him and depressingly so. If the secret got out, he’d have to marry her and that could hardly be what a man like Merrick St Magnus wanted. He’d want a beautiful, stylish woman who said sophisticated things.

Alixe gave her reflection in the mirror a sultry smile, a smile she’d never dare to use in public. She pulled the bodice of her gown down a bit lower and shrugged a coy shoulder. ‘Why, St Magnus, it is you. I hardly recognised you with your clothes on.’ She gave a toss of her head and lowered her voice to a purr. ‘So you do have clothes. I was beginning to wonder after all this time.’ A sophisticated woman would trail a well-manicured nail down his chest, look up at him with smoky eyes and he would know exactly what she wanted. And then he’d give it to her. One had only to look at him to know his body didn’t promise pleasure idly. Whereas, she would only be that sophisticated woman in the solitude of her room.

Alixe pulled up the bodice of her gown and rang for her maid. It was time to put the fantasy to bed, among other things. That was precisely what St Magnus was. What he promised was a temporary escape. It wasn’t real.

She knew what society said a real marriage was. It was what her handful of lacklustre suitors had seen when they looked at her: a responsible alliance that came with an impeccable lineage, a respectable dowry and a nice bosom. Admittedly, it was a lot to look beyond. No one had made the effort yet. That suited her. She’d seen the reality and decided it was better to hole up in the country with her work than to become trapped in a miserable relationship.

Her maid entered the room and helped her out of the dress and into her nightgown, brushed out her hair and turned down her bedcovers. It was the same routine every night and it would be for the rest of her life. Alixe crawled beneath the covers and shut her eyes, trying to shut out the day. But Merrick St Magnus’s face was not easily dismissed. His deep blue eyes danced in her head as her mind chased around the question, ‘Shouldn’t there be more than this?’

* * *

After a restless half-hour, Alixe threw back the covers and snatched up a robe. Sleep was hours away. She could use the time productively, making up for what she’d lost this afternoon at the lake. She’d go to the library and work on her manuscript. Then, she’d try to sleep and when she woke up she would spend the day avoiding St Magnus. A man like him was anathema to a girl like her. Women didn’t want to resist St Magnus and she was not arrogant enough to think it would be any different for her. He’d never be more than trouble to any girl. Heaven help the fools who actually fell in love with him.

* * *

The routine was somewhat successful in its goal. Over the next few days, she did her best to keep out of St Magnus’s way. She was careful to come down only after the men had left for whatever manly excursion had been planned for their mornings while the ladies took care of their correspondence and needlework. At dinner, she managed to avoid being seated next to him. After dinner, she retired as early as courtesy allowed, to her brother’s dismay, and spent her evenings in the library.

That was not to say she’d been entirely successful in erasing the presence of Merrick St Magnus. She did sneak a few glances at dinner. It was hard not to. When he was in the room he became its centre, a golden sun around which the rest of the company revolved. She’d hear his voice in the halls, always laughing, always ready with a quip. If she was on the verandah quietly reading, he’d be on the lawns playing bowls with Jamie. If she was taking her turn at the pianoforte in the evenings, he was playing cards near by, charming the old ladies. It quickly became apparent her only real retreat was the library, the one room he had no inclination or purpose to visit. That was all right with her—a girl needed time to herself.

Chapter Four

As house parties went, this one was proving to be exceptionally virtuous. There were guests aplenty of just the right ages and gender to make an excellent population for all the different entertainments Lady Folkestone had meticulously planned. But while the girls were pretty and the widows or other unattached ladies of a certain age happy to flirt lightly with their conversation, they were all respectable. In fact, after three days of taking the party’s measure, Merrick concluded the girls in attendance were as notorious for their goodness as the Greenfield Twins were for their badness, a comparison he voiced out loud to the late-night group of gentlemen who’d gathered restlessly in the billiards room after the rest of the company had gone up to bed.

The eight gentlemen laughed heartily at his complaint. It wasn’t that Merrick did not appreciate the house party. The affair was brilliant on all accounts. The entertainments were actually entertaining; there had been fishing for the gentlemen just today in the East Stour River at Postling. There’d been cards and billiards with light wagering on the side that had allowed Merrick to add to his stash of pound notes. Certainly not the sums available in London’s gaming hells, but something all the same. The food was excellent, Folkestone’s easy largesse abundantly displayed on the dining-room sideboards with three meals a day and two teas.

Above all, Merrick was thankful. Whatever was lacking in his usual vices, simply being here offset the loss. Here, he could take double pleasure in having thwarted his father’s attempt to rein him in and in having minimised his expenses. For the next two weeks he was free.

All he had to do was please the ladies in attendance. If that pleasing occurred outside the bedroom door, that was a small price to pay. To date, Merrick had done an admirable job of fulfilling his obligations. He’d made himself available to all the ladies present, from elderly Mrs Pottinger to shy young Viola Fleetham. The only lady he’d been unable to charm was the elusive Alixe Burke, whom he had only caught glimpses of since the first evening. It was too bad, really; he enjoyed needling her just to hear what she’d say.

‘St Magnus, tell us about some of your scandals in London,’ one of the younger fellows present piped up. ‘I hear you had quite the curricle race recently.’

‘I hear you nearly had carnal knowledge of both Greenfield Twins at the same time,’ another rash young pup put in. ‘Tell us about that.’

‘That’s nothing, laddies, compared to his escapade on the way here,’ Riordan drawled, swigging heavily from the ever-present flask. Riordan had drunk far too much for Merrick’s tastes since they’d arrived, but saying anything about it made him sound like a prude so he’d refrained. ‘Tell ’em about the pond.’

Merrick shot Riordan a quelling look. The man was worse than an old biddy. The last thing Merrick wanted to do was talk about the pond. ‘That’s hardly anything, nothing happened,’ Merrick tried to pass it off.

‘It’s hilarious,’ Riordan protested. ‘Never mind, if you won’t tell it, I will.’ He recognised he had the audience hanging on his every word. Riordan leaned forwards hands on thighs. ‘We stopped by a pond for a bit of a bathe before we arrived.’

‘Which pond?’ one asked before another punched him in the shoulder for being a dolt.

‘The one on the edge of the property, near Richland’s farm.’ Riordan said, idly picking up the story again. ‘Anyway, where the pond is isn’t the real tale. It’s what happened. There we were, stripped down to nothing and splashing away when all of the sudden this girl comes crashing through the woods.’ Riordan paused and clapped Merrick on the back in male camaraderie. ‘Our man gets out of the pond and startles the poor chit senseless. She’s so overwhelmed by the sight of his pizzle she falls over a log and can’t get up, so this good chap here offers to help her up. Mind you, he’s naked as a newborn babe the whole time and there’s more dangling over her than just his hand.’

There was a general uproar of laughter around him, a few of them slapping him on the back with comments like, ‘St Magnus, you’re the luckiest devil ever, women literally fall over themselves to get to you.’ Merrick tried to laugh good naturedly with them. Normally, he would have laughed the loudest. Riordan was a great storyteller—he’d turned the escapade into the stuff of legends. But knowing the girl in question was Jamie’s sister gave the tale a dangerous edge.

Women did fall over themselves for him and what he offered, but they were women who could afford the luxury. The Greenfield Twins were courtesans, for heaven’s sake. That was the kind of woman he dabbled with. They were like him. He never trifled with women who couldn’t afford to play his games, never made them the butt of his wagers. No one suffered for his entertainments. The Greenfield Twins had wanted him to take them both. But Alixe Burke had wanted no part of what had happened at the pond. His code of ethics demanded he protect her. That was where he differed from his father. The innocent deserved protection when their paths crossed with those more worldly.

‘It’s easy to seduce the willing,’ came the words from a handsome but sly-eyed fellow lounging on the group’s periphery. Redfield was his name. Merrick didn’t care for him. He was always watching people. ‘Why don’t we have you prove your reputation? We’ll design a wager for you.’

Merrick raised his eyebrows at that. What in the world could these young rascals design that would actually stump him?

‘We should all get to wager on it. I’ll bet on St Magnus to do just about anything. I’m in.’ Ashe withdrew a money clip from a waistcoat pocket and laid its contents on the table. ‘Shall we split the winnings, old chap?’ Ashe winked at him.

Merrick appreciated the show of support, but not the mounting pressure. Ashe’s finances were no more stable than his own. If Ashe was in, there’d be no backing out. He couldn’t let his friend down. To be fair, Merrick didn’t want to back out. The money accumulating on the table was no small sum. He couldn’t win that sum at the genteel wagers made at cards in the next two weeks. Yet, a very small piece of his conscience niggled him to be cautious.

Merrick drew a deep breath and fixed the young cockerel with a confident stare. ‘What shall you dare me to do?’

‘Well, since the party is so “virtuous” in your own words, I think you should steal a kiss before sunrise.’

‘You can kiss me right now, St Magnus, and we’ll claim victory before midnight,’ Ashe quipped drily from his corner.

‘Rule number one, you must steal a kiss from a lady,’ Redfield qualified. ‘That means no going belowstairs to wake the maids, that’s too easy.’ Redfield looked like the sort who would know; probably spent too much time chasing the maids since he couldn’t catch anyone else. Everyone knew the maids were somewhat obliged to endure such advances if they valued their positions. Merrick didn’t respect a man like that.

‘Other rules?’ Merrick enquired coolly. He was already thinking of who’d be most likely to put up with such a dare. The attractive Widow Whitely, perhaps.

‘Proof, we must have proof,’ one of Redfield’s chums put in. The wagering had created a clear division between the young bucks and the ‘old regime’.

That was potentially dangerous. ‘No, I draw the line there,’ Merrick spoke up. ‘A token might be recognised, thus incriminating the lady. I won’t be a party to that. You’ll just have to take my word as a gentleman.’ That brought a round of laughter as he expected and Redfield had to relent on that account.

Redfield’s eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘Since we must keep the game decent, I say St Magnus must confine his efforts to the library. There will be no roaming of the house or sneaking into bedrooms.’

There went the idea of enticing Widow Whitely. Merrick had the distinct impression she didn’t read much. But neither did he. ‘It’s a little past midnight, I doubt there’s much feminine traffic in the library at this hour.’ Merrick shrugged. ‘What happens if I sit there all night and no one suitable for kissing shows up?’

‘Then no one wins or loses,’ Redfield replied too easily for Merrick’s liking. Redfield thought someone would be there. Merrick could see it in the confident tilt of his head. The man was an ass and a pompous one at that. He was a silly man, too, if this wager was the best he could do for excitement. But Redfield clearly had something planned. Did Redfield think whoever would be in the library would be immune to his charms? Merrick was equally as confident. He had stolen far more than kisses for far less than the money lying there on the billiards table and no one had had any complaints. Whatever Redfield had in mind, Merrick wouldn’t know what it was if he didn’t go and find out. With an exaggerated salute to the crowd, Merrick set out for the library.

* * *

The library was dark when Merrick arrived. No surprise there. It was late for reading unless someone was having difficulty sleeping. Merrick took his time, lighting a few of the lamps and giving the room some life. It was a well-appointed room with a long reading table that ran down the centre, a green-veined marble fireplace with a cluster of chairs and sofa about it, a few small tables and chairs scattered near the wide windows for reading and walls lined with carefully selected books.

Merrick scanned the titles with modest interest. He could see Jamie’s hand in the selection. Jamie had excelled at history while they were at Oxford and his love for the subject was readily evident in the titles on display. For himself, Merrick hadn’t the aptitude for history like Jamie, or Italian music like Ashe or Riordan’s love of Renaissance art. He’d discovered his own niche in languages, a field where he could excel in conversation.

Merrick plucked a book from the shelf at random and settled into a chair near the fireplace to wait. He’d managed to get through the first five pages when the door opened. The newcomer was definitely female, dressed in a plain-blue robe with the hem of a white nightrail peeping beneath it. Her back was to him, showing off a long thick braid of nut-brown hair as she made great effort to quietly shut the door behind her. Whoever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here or at the very least didn’t want to be discovered here. He couldn’t help her with that. Any moment now she’d turn around and be surprised to see him.

But then she did turn and the surprise was all his. Damn and double damn, the one person who’d come to the library was the one person he hadn’t seen for days: Alixe Burke. Suspicion flicked across his mind for an instant. He’d hardly got settled, hardly begun to read his admittedly boring tome on the history of French kings, and she’d shown up. If he’d stopped along the way, he might have missed his chance altogether. Had Redfield known she’d be here? A simple wager was becoming suddenly more complex.

Merrick grinned. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

* * *

Alixe clutched the neck of her robe closed at the throat out of instinct. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You sound surprised to see me.’ Merrick waved the book he held in one hand. ‘I am reading up on the French kings.’

‘I’m surprised to see anyone in the library after midnight,’ Alixe retorted.

‘And yet you’re here,’ he replied glibly, those blue eyes of his studying her with a disquieting intensity that stirred up a warm flurry of butterflies in her stomach. That look made a woman believe he was waiting just for her. Yet, that was improbable. He hadn’t known she’d be here.

‘Why aren’t you playing billiards with the other men?’ She was surprised, disturbed, dismayed. The list of adjectives was quite long. Three days of avoiding him and he’d still managed to turn her thoughts to incoherent mush in a matter of minutes. She needed him to go away.

She’d hoped to make some progress on her latest translation. She’d promised Vicar Daniels she’d have the translation ready for display at the village fair less than two weeks away.

‘I haven’t seen much of you since the party began. I hope you haven’t been avoiding me?’ Merrick said casually. He kicked his booted legs, very long booted legs, up on the fireplace fender, dispelling any hopes that he might vacate the premises soon. Apparently the French kings were more scintillating than she’d thought.

‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’ Alixe said, hoping her lie wouldn’t show.

Merrick shrugged. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I thought perhaps our encounter at the pond had disconcerted you in spite of my assurances.’ He opened his book and returned to his reading.

Dratted man. Why did he have to pick tonight to read? Alixe began to debate the options in her head: stay or go? This was absurd. Conventional wisdom suggested she leave the room immediately. Unmarried women didn’t entertain men in their nightclothes. Unmarried women didn’t entertain naked men at ponds either and she’d already done that. By comparison, this was by far the lesser of those two evils. She should leave.

But her stubborn nature could not tolerate defeat. The thought of departing the field while her work beckoned galled. No man had ever dictated her choices over decisions far bigger than this. She wouldn’t give up ground over something so minor. St Magnus had already cost her an afternoon. She would not let him steal a night, too. There was always a chance she could outlast him.

‘Are you going to come away from the door? You needn’t worry, I’ve seen ball gowns far more revealing than your nightwear.’ He spoke without looking up from his book, but the challenge was clear. He was daring her to stay.

Alixe made a face at the back of his head. She must look like a silly ninny to him, clutching her old robe and hovering at the door. Is that what he saw when he looked at her? A spinster afraid of being in the presence of a dazzlingly handsome man?

Anger flared. That settled it.

She wasn’t a spinster.

She wasn’t afraid.

She also wasn’t leaving.

Alixe stalked towards the long table in the centre of the room and pulled out a chair. She sat down and did her best to get to work. It was clear she’d have to try harder to avoid St Magnus. She had not fought her battles for the freedom to live her own life only to give up those victories to a pair of flirting blue eyes. Still, it was better to know the chinks in one’s own armour before one’s enemy did. She’d recognised that day at the pond St Magnus’s potent appeal and how she’d responded most wantonly. It would not do to keep putting such temptation in her path if it could be avoided.

She’d managed the bucks of the ton, but they didn’t unnerve her the way he did. St Magnus’s witty and overly personal conversation at dinner had made her feel unique, made her feel that she was beautiful enough on her own merits to attract the attentions of a handsome man without her dowry to speak for her. But he was a rake. Nothing good could come from an association with St Magnus. She was smart enough to know that from the start.

Her efforts to work lasted all of five minutes.

* * *

‘What are you working on?’

Alixe looked up from her books and papers. He’d turned his head to watch her. ‘I’m translating an old medieval manuscript about the history of Kent.’ That should bore him enough to stop asking questions. ‘The vicar is putting on an historic display about our area at the upcoming fair and this document is supposed to be part of it.’ She put an extra emphasis on ‘supposed’, to imply that interruptions were not welcome. Usually, such a hint did the trick. Usually there was no need to resort to that second level of defence. Men stopped being interested much earlier. The words ‘translating an old medieval manuscript’ were typically enough.

In this case, the effect was quite opposite. St Magnus uncrossed his long legs, set aside the French kings and strode towards the table with something akin to interest in his blue eyes. ‘How’s it going?’

‘How’s what going?’ Alixe clutched at the neck of her robe again out of reflex, her tone sharp.

‘Your translation? I take it the original isn’t in modern English.’ St Magnus gestured towards the papers.

It wasn’t going well at all. The old French was proving to be difficult, especially in places where the manuscript had worn away or been smudged. But she wasn’t going to admit that to this man who played havoc with her senses.

Three days of assiduously avoiding his company had not met with successful results. All her efforts, and he ended up in her—her—library anyway, the one room where she thought she’d be alone. Her avoidance strategies certainly hadn’t dulled her awareness of him either. Even at midnight, he still looked immaculate. His shoulders were just as broad, his legs just as long, his hips just as lean as she remembered them. She knew for a fact that well-hewn muscle lay beneath the layers of his clothes, providing the necessary infrastructure for that most excellent physique. But all that was merely window-dressing for the arresting blue eyes that had a way of looking at one as if they could see right through a person’s exterior, stripping away more than clothes, making one believe she was, for the moment, the centre of his universe.

She had to remind herself that plenty of women had been the centre of his universe. Jamie’s quiet caution ran through her head. St Magnus was a fine friend for a gentleman, but not for the sisters of gentlemen. She had no trouble believing it.

‘Perhaps I can help?’ He settled his long form beside her on the bench.

Alixe’s senses vibrated with warning. She could smell the remnants of his evening toilette before dinner, the scent of his washing soap mingling with a light cologne, a tantalising mixture of oak and lavender, with something mysterious beneath.

‘I doubt it unless you have some familiarity with Old French.’ She meant to be rude, meant to drive him off with her high-handed manner. How dare he walk into her life unannounced and stir things up? And not even mean to do it. He was a stranger who knew nothing about her. He had no idea of what his mere presence had done. She’d just reached a point where she was happy with her choices, with devoting her life to her work. The very last thing she needed was to convince herself a man of St Magnus’s ilk appreciated her efforts and not her dowry. In the past, that road had been extremely dangerous, not to mention disappointing, to travel.

St Magnus’s next words stunned her. ‘It just so happens that I have more than a passing acquaintance with Old French.’

This flaxen-haired charmer with azure eyes was conversant in an obscure language? What he did next was even more astonishing. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He slid closer to her, oblivious to their thighs bumping beneath the table. She wasn’t oblivious, however. Every nerve in her body was acutely aware of each move he made.

‘The document isn’t that exciting.’ Alixe tried one last time to turn him away. ‘It’s just a farmer who writes about his livestock. He’s especially obsessed with his pigs.’

Merrick tilted his head and studied her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Just a farmer who writes? In this case, it’s not what he writes about that is important, it’s that he writes at all.’

The import of it struck her with a shocking clarity. In her hurry to translate the document she’d forgotten to look beyond the words on the page and into the context of the times in which it had been written. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘A farmer who is literate most likely isn’t only a farmer or a tenant renting fields, he’s probably of some status in the community.’

Merrick smiled. It was a different smile this time, one full of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the date of the document?’

‘My guess is mid-thirteenth century, about 1230.’

‘Post-Magna Carta,’ Merrick mused more to himself than to her. ‘Perhaps he is a self-made man, an early instance of the gentry class, not a noble or beholden directly to a king, but a man who has determined his own worth.’ He sounded almost wistful as he voiced his thoughts.

‘In pigs.’ Alixe smiled. ‘Don’t forget the pigs.’

Merrick chuckled. ‘Show me the pigs. After all your mentions of them, I want to read about them for

myself.’

Alixe passed him the pages on the pigs and he fell to reading them with surprising thoroughness, one long finger moving across the lines one word at a time, his eyes following. Within moments, he was completely absorbed in the reading and Alixe turned her thoughts to the pages in front of her, aware in the back of her mind that something astounding had occurred: she was working on her translation with Merrick St Magnus, London’s most talked-about male. More than that, he’d shown himself to be more than a handsome face. He’d been interested, intelligent and insightful. Amazing.

Truly, it was nothing short of miraculous. No one would believe her if she told them. She was starting to see why a friendship had sprung up between Merrick and Jamie at school. Like her, Jamie loved history and Merrick understood its sociological aspects.

Merrick laughed suddenly, breaking the compatible silence that had sprung up. ‘It’s not his pigs he writes about, Alixe.’ His eyes were dancing with good humour. ‘It’s his wife.’

Alixe furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She reached across him without thinking for the page. ‘There...’ She pointed to a line. ‘That is very clearly the word for pig. More specifically, “sow”.’

Merrick nodded. ‘It is. But you’re forgetting the use of “like”. It’s a simile. I think you were reading it as “she is a big sow”. But we should be reading it as “she’s as big as the sow”.’ Merrick reached around her. ‘Show me the later pages. I want to bear out my hypothesis that his wife is expecting a child in the very near future.’

‘Yes!’ Merrick crowed a few moments later. ‘He’s writing about his wife. Have a look, Alixe.’ He pushed the page towards her and leaned close, one arm on the other side of her to brace himself as they studied the page together.

‘You’re right.’ Alixe enthused, her excitement evident. Her mind rushed forwards. ‘I wonder if there would be parish records. I wonder if we could find him. If we could, we might be able to determine where his land was. We could find out how the story ends, if his baby is born safely.’ Alixe bit her lip, realising what she’d done. She’d said ‘we’. ‘I’m sorry, I’m getting carried away. We’ll probably never know what happened to him.’

Merrick smiled. ‘Maybe we will. I’ll be here for two weeks. Surely that’s enough time to puzzle out how your farmer’s story ends.’ For all purposes, he looked as if he was genuinely enjoying himself. He looked as if he wanted to be here with her instead of downstairs playing billiards.

Alixe looked down at her hands, regretting some of her earlier thoughts about him. ‘I must apologise. I didn’t think it could be like this.’

He covered her hands with one of his own where they lay on the table. It was a gentle gesture and his hands were warm and firm. She didn’t think it was meant to be a seductive gesture, but that didn’t stop a frisson of warm heat from shooting through her arm at the contact.

‘It or me? You didn’t think it could be like this or that I couldn’t be like this?’ Merrick spoke in low tones, his gaze holding hers.

‘You,’ Alixe replied honestly, meeting his gaze. ‘I didn’t think you could be like this. I misjudged you.’

‘I’m glad to have surprised you,’ Merrick said softly, his voice igniting the tiny space between them with a sharp awareness of one another. Their eyes held and in the cocoon of the moment the briefest of thoughts occurred to Alixe: he’s going to kiss me.

That was exactly the same idea voiced seconds later when Archibald Redfield burst into the library with an angry, newly awoken Earl of Folkestone in his wake, still belting his robe and all but bellowing the traditional words of horrified fathers everywhere when discovering their daughters in compromising situations. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

To which Alixe managed the most unoriginal of answers, ‘It’s not what it looks like.’ But she knew what it looked like—Merrick sitting so very close to her, his sleeves rolled up, and she in her nightclothes.

To which Archibald Redfield countered unhelpfully with an arrogant smirk, ‘It’s precisely what it looks like. St Magnus wagered several gentlemen in the billiards room not an hour ago that he’d steal a kiss from a lady before the night was out’, then went on to add as if it would improve matters, ‘I have witnesses.’

Alixe groaned. He’d bet on stealing a kiss. She should have left the room when common sense had demanded it.

‘No, no witnesses, please.’ Her father held up the hand of authority. He had his robe belted now and was in full command of the situation. ‘We are all men of honour here,’ He looked pointedly at St Magnus as he said it. ‘We can sort this out and do what must be done in a quiet manner. There is no need to make an unnecessary fuss.’

Alixe had never seen her father so angry. No one else would guess the depths of his anger. He was one of those men whose voice became more controlled when angered. Then he spared a glance for her, taking in her completely inappropriate attire. There was more than anger in his gaze. There was disappointment, which was worse. She’d seen it before when he looked at her. It seemed she’d spent an inordinate amount of her life disappointing him. But this time would be the last time. She could see in his face he’d decided it would be so and that frightened her very much.

Her father jerked his head at her with a dismissing nod. ‘Go to your room and stay there. We’ll speak in the morning. As for you, St Magnus, I’ll settle with you right now. Put your jacket on and make yourself presentable.’

Alixe shot a parting glance at St Magnus, although what help she thought she’d find there she didn’t know. He’d never been truly interested in her or her work. She’d merely been his most convenient target. He would have kissed whoever walked into the library. He had no reason to help her and, right now, he’d be more worried about trying to help himself.

St Magnus had risen, arms folded, eyes narrowed and burning like hot blue coals. He was a formidable sight, but he spared not a glance for her departing form, she noted. All his attention was directed at

Archibald Redfield.

Chapter Five

Who would have thought the road to nowhere in particular led straight to the Earl of Folkestone’s library? Granted the journey had taken the better part of ten years, but right now that only served to make matters worse.

Merrick shifted ever so slightly in his chair. It was one thing to be called on the proverbial carpet by a stuffy peer when one was a young buck about town. It was another when one was nearly thirty and an established rogue. Rogues didn’t get caught engaged in minor infractions. One could be caught in flagrante delicto with a lovely widow and live it down. But one could absolutely not be caught stealing kisses from an earl’s daughter. Yet it seemed he had been and it seemed he was going to pay. The terrible irony was that he hadn’t done anything. This time, everything was innocent. Admittedly it looked bad: her apparel, his shirt sleeves, the time of night, their close proximity at the table. Most of all the looming reality of the damning wager with Redfield. All the signs pointed to disaster. In another five minutes it might even have escalated to a real disaster; he might actually have claimed the kiss he was accused of stealing.

‘You were attempting to kiss my daughter,’ Folkestone spoke, his face a mask of icy contemplation.

‘Yes, the key word here is attempting. I had not yet achieved that goal.’ Merrick pointed out. Folkestone frowned, not appreciating the clarification.

‘I do not care if you were attempting to turn metal into gold. It does not change the fact that you were alone with her at midnight.’

‘In the library, sir,’ Merrick protested. He’d been about to say the library was the least amorous room in a house, but then he remembered what he’d got up to in the library at the Rowlands’ ball a few weeks ago with the lovely Mrs Dennable and thought better of it.

‘Thank goodness Redfield is the soul of discretion,’ Folkestone commented.

Assuming he has a soul. Merrick let a raised eyebrow convey his question of the assumption. Redfield had set it up, he was sure of that, if not the man’s motives. But saying as much would appear petty and it hardly sounded better to say ‘any girl would have done as well; it just so happened your daughter walked in first’.

‘You’ve compromised my daughter, but that does not make her an innocent in this. She could have walked out of the room once you made your presence known,’ Folkestone mused. His sharp dark eyes, the colour of Alixe’s, never left Merrick’s face.

‘Alixe has always been unconventional. A husband and family would go far, I suspect, in settling her and giving her life some stability.’ Merrick sensed Alixe would disagree with her father’s assessment, but discreetly kept it to himself.

Folkestone continued. ‘Alixe needs a husband.’

It took all of Merrick’s willpower to not cringe. He waited for the inevitable. After this evening, Folkestone would expect him to do the right thing and offer for her, a girl he hardly knew.

Folkestone leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘I am sure you are aware that in most situations of this nature, the gentleman would be expected to marry the lady in question. However, to be blunt, you are not precisely “husband material”, no matter who your father is. You have a reputation ten miles’ long for licentiousness and general mayhem. Here’s what I propose: make my daughter the Toast of the Season.’

Merrick sat a little straighter in his chair, not certain he’d heard correctly or that he’d been reprieved. This option might be worse. ‘Sir, it’s already June. There will only be six weeks left. I hardly think...’

‘Or marry her yourself at Season’s end as penance for your failure,’ Folkestone cut in. ‘You’re not the only gambling man in the room, St Magnus. I know all about your reputation. You have no desire to be leg-shackled. I’m willing to bet you love your freedom enough to see the job done. Goodness knows I’d prefer almost anyone else than you as a son-in-law. I think that’s one thing you and I just might agree upon. You no more want to be my son-in-law than I want to have you, no matter what Jamie thinks of you as a friend.’

Valiantly ignoring the insult, Merrick tried a different approach. ‘Sir, the people I know are not the best, I’m not sure...’

This too was easily dismissed. ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ Yes, dammit, he hadn’t meant to insult the earl’s sterling reputation.

‘You do have connections when you choose to exert them, St Magnus. Exert them now or accept the consequences.’ Folkestone rose, signalling the end of the interview. ‘There’s really nothing else to discuss. This is not your decision to make. You made your choice when you engaged my daughter in the library for your silly wager. You have a little under two weeks here in the country to get her up to snuff and the rest of the Season to make her attractive to gentlemen or else align yourself with the fact that you will be taking a September bride.’

The study door opened, admitting Lady Folkestone, hastily dressed and followed by Redfield. ‘I’ve brought your wife,’ he said with a tragic flourish. ‘Sometimes a woman’s view can soften these things.’ Yes, definitely a tragic flourish. Surely a man as astute as Folkestone could see through Redfield’s façade of helpfulness.

Lady Folkestone was no shrinking violet. She sailed to her husband’s side and demanded an explanation, which Folkestone promptly gave. Afterwards, Lady Folkestone turned her thoughtful gaze in Merrick’s direction. ‘So, you’re to marry our daughter?’

‘Not necessarily, my lady.’ Merrick replied smoothly. ‘I hope to help her find a more suitable match.’

Lady Folkestone laughed. ‘There is no such thing as a suitable match for Alixe. We’ve tried for years now. When I say “we”, I mean London society collectively, not just her family. She’ll have none of the young men on offer.’ The bitterness surprised him. It wasn’t the attitude he expected a mother to have.

Lady Folkestone waved a dismissive hand. ‘She has no regard for the family’s wishes. After the last business with Viscount Mandley, all she wants is her manuscripts and her peace.’

Then why don’t you let her have it? Was that so much to ask? Folkestone had enough money to support one spinster daughter. The vehemence of his thoughts shocked Merrick.

‘Ah, Mandley. That was an unfortunate business indeed. She’ll not see a better offer,’ Redfield commiserated from the doorway where he hovered as some post-facto guard to their privacy.

‘Hardly,’ Merrick scoffed. ‘Mandley didn’t want a wife, he wanted a governess for his three daughters whom he didn’t have to pay.’ The man might be handsome for a fellow over forty and have plenty of blunt, but he was legendary in London’s clubs for his unnecessary penny-pinching. He’d once asked if his subscription to White’s could be reduced for the months he spent in the country.

‘There’s nothing wrong with frugality,’ Redfield retorted.

Ah, that reminded him. There was one score he could settle tonight. Merrick turned and shot Redfield a hard stare. He couldn’t do anything more for his own situation at present, but he could still salvage Ashe’s. He rose and approached Lady Folkestone. ‘I deeply apologise for the untoward actions which have taken place here tonight. I will do my utmost to see that Lady Alixe’s reputation emerges from this thoughtless escapade unscathed.’ With that, he bent over her hand with all the charm he possessed and kissed her knuckles. ‘If you will excuse me? I will look forward to meeting with Lady Alixe in the morning.’

Merrick brushed past Redfield on his way to the door, stopping long enough to murmur, ‘I believe you owe me. I’ll be waiting outside and expecting payment.’

* * *

Merrick found Ashe and Riordan alone in the deserted billiards room, each of them slumped in their chairs. Crisis always had a way of thinning out the crowd. He tossed down a substantial roll of pound notes on the billiards table. ‘There’s your portion of the winnings.’

Ashe sat up a bit straighter. ‘How did you manage this? Were you faster than Redfield?’

Merrick grinned. Besting Redfield was about the only good thing to have happened tonight. ‘I kissed Lady Folkestone’s hand right in front of him. He had to be the witness to his own dare.’

Ashe visibly relaxed and reached for the winnings. ‘Redfield had it planned all along. After you left, he was bragging he knew a certain lady had been visiting the library the last few nights.’

Merrick stiffened at that. ‘Was he careless enough to share her name?’ Folkestone was counting on discretion, on the fact that no one but he and Redfield knew Alixe had been caught with him in the library.

Ashe shook his head. ‘No, no names, just that he knew.’

Merrick nodded. Good. But it didn’t make sense he’d deliberately set up a wager he’d lose. Unless he thought Alixe wouldn’t succumb.

‘But I can surmise from the presence of Lady Folkestone at the interview that the lady in question was Lady Alixe. Jamie will not be pleased,’ Ashe said quietly.

‘Jamie is not to know.’

‘Are wedding bells in your future?’ Riordan slurred, offering Merrick his flask.

Merrick waved it a way with a rueful smile. ‘Sort of.’ He explained the agreement to hush up the indiscretion if he ‘helped’ Lady Alixe become the Toast of London.

‘Then you have truly become a cicisbeo, a man whose status and welfare in society rests on his ability to please a lady,’ Riordan slurred, unmistakably well into his cups. ‘You know, in Italy it works this way, too. Usually it’s the husband who picks a cicisbeo for his wife, but in this case, her father has picked you to bring her out into society.’

‘I don’t think it’s an apt comparison at all,’ Merrick snapped, eager to cut off Riordan’s rambling. He was showing all the characteristic signs of launching into a full-blown lecture on Italian culture.

Ashe idly twirled the stem of an empty snifter. ‘Do you remember that night at Oxford when we formed the cicisbei club?’

Merrick nodded, losing himself for a moment in the reminiscences of a long-ago time. They’d been foolhardy and a bit naïve. It had seemed a wicked thrill to commit themselves to a lifestyle of ‘love’, to devote themselves to the pursuit of beauty in all its feminine forms.

‘I suppose I’ve been a cicisbeo long before tonight,’ Merrick sighed in response to Riordan’s comment. He’d made a large part of his living based on charm and romance. He might not be a ‘kept’ man who was obviously dependent on a woman’s gifts to him, but if he looked closely enough at his life, he was dependent in other ways, not that the honesty made him proud to admit it.

A ‘life of love’ wasn’t as glamorous as they’d imagined it all those years ago sitting in a student-populated tavern. Then, the road to the future had been long and untravelled—anything was possible. They’d toasted the fact that they were second sons with no expectations placed upon them. There was nothing to inherit but a future they’d carve for themselves. They’d make great reputations as London’s finest lovers. It had seemed like jolly good fun at the time.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ashe said rather suddenly, his eyes serious and sober in contrast to Riordan’s. ‘We’ve all sold ourselves in some way or another. It’s impossible not to.’

Merrick stood, adopting a posture of humour, not wanting to be sucked into Ashe’s maudlin philosophy. ‘There’s no time to worry about it. I’ve got a bride to transform and a bridegroom to find.’

Heaven forbid that bridegroom end up being him, Merrick mused, taking himself out into the darkened hallway and finding the way to his room. He wasn’t a marrying man. His father had made sure of that ages ago and, in the intervening years, he hadn’t done much to improve the notion. He was well aware there were too many rumours surrounding him and his profligate behaviours. While the rumours inspired curiosity they also inspired distrust.

An image of Alixe’s face, alight with excitement over the translation, came to mind. Tonight had been an unlooked-for surprise. He’d not expected to enjoy the work so much. In fact, there’d been a point where he’d forgotten about the stupid wager altogether. For Alixe’s sake, he couldn’t forget himself like that again. To a woman of her standards, it wouldn’t matter that while many of the rumours were true, a few of the most damaging were false.

* * *

Alone in his room, Archibald Redfield drank a silent toast. St Magnus would be gone by sunrise. A man like him had no particular code of honour. With the matrimonial noose dangling over his head, St Magnus would run as fast as he could, leaving the path to Alixe open. Archibald would be on that path, ready to approach Folkestone with an offer to rescue Alixe. Who knew what kind of rumours St Magnus would spread? It had been an expensive victory, but worth it. In one move, he’d managed to eliminate St Magnus from the house party and he’d put Alixe Burke in a corner from which he would gallantly offer to rescue her.

Archibald took another swallow of brandy. An engagement would scotch any blemish to Alixe’s reputation. Archibald was certain after this last débâcle, Folkestone would be eager to marry Alixe off to the first man who asked, even if he was a mere mister, and Archibald would be there, only too ready to comply. Folkestone would be grateful and that could be useful, too, in perpetuity. Everything was working out brilliantly at last. He couldn’t make Alixe marry him, but Folkestone could.

* * *

‘You cannot make me marry anyone,’ Alixe said evenly, matching her father glare for glare across the expanse of his polished mahogany desk. So, this was his plan, the plan she’d waited all night to hear. Merrick St Magnus was to marry her or find someone else to do the deed for him. It was implicitly understood that was the only reason for being made over into the Toast of London.

‘I can and I will. We’ve tolerated your foibles long enough,’ came the reply.

Her foibles? Alixe’s temper rose. ‘My work is important. I am restoring history about our region. This is as much the history of Kent as it is the history of our family.’ Her family knew that. ‘You think it’s important as long as Jamie’s the one doing it.’

‘It’s not appropriate for a woman. No man wants a woman who is more interested in ancient manuscripts than she is in him.’ Her father stood up and strode around the desk. ‘I know what you’re thinking, miss. You’re thinking somehow you’ll get out of this, that you’ll reject every suitor St Magnus finds and you’ll find a way to run him off at the very last. If you do that, I’ll cut you off without a penny and you can see exactly how it is for a woman on her own in this world without the protection of a man’s good name.’

That was precisely what she was thinking: the driving-the-suitors-away part anyway. The last bit worried her. Her father would do it, too. He was furious this time. If it was possible, he was even more furious over this than he had been about her rejection of Viscount Mandley.

She had to throw him a proverbial bone if she meant to renegotiate this. ‘I’ll go to London after the house party and finish out the rest of the Season, without St Magnus.’ That should appease him.

‘No. You’ve had a chance, more than one chance, to turn London to your favour.’ Her father sighed, but she did not mistake it for a sign that he might be relenting. ‘The arrangement isn’t all bad. St Magnus has a certain savoir-faire to him; he’s stylish and charming and he’s risky without being a full-fledged black rake, although he skates pretty close to the edge. Being with him will bring you a cachet of your own, it will help others see you in a different, in a better light. There’s no real chance of actually marrying him, thank goodness. Use him and drop him, Alixe, if he’s so distasteful to you. Everyone has a place in this world. It’s time you learned yours.’

So much for her father’s version of sympathy.

Alixe cast a beseeching glance her mother’s direction, only to receive a slow shake of the head. ‘Your father and I are together on this, Alixe.’ No help from that quarter. Perhaps she could cajole Jamie into pleading her case. There were any number of stories he could likely tell that would persuade her father to keep her as far from St Magnus as possible.

‘One more thing,’ her father added. ‘We are to say nothing of this to Jamie. It would create a grievous rift in his friendship. We’ve all agreed to keep this incident quiet.’ There went her last hope. Now all that was left was to appeal directly to St Magnus. Surely he was no more enamoured of the tangle they found themselves in than she was.

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.’

Chapter Seven

‘The villa probably housed military officers, although the larger Roman defences were built at Dover. The lack of a deep-water harbour made Folkestone an unlikely place of attack from the sea. Folkestone was used only as a look-out point.’

She was seeking refuge in her history again. Merrick didn’t think she’d stopped chattering since they’d left the blanket. She’d talked about the local fauna on the walk to the ruin and she’d been a veritable fountain of knowledge once they’d actually reached the ruin. It was undeniably interesting. She was well informed, but he was more interested in what had brought on the change, the reversion. She’d been a lively match for him on the blanket, one that he’d enjoyed far beyond his expectation.

‘This main room here was a banquet hall. We know this because shards of pottery have been found...’ Merrick moved away from her recitation, his eye caught by a short crumbling stair. He went up, thankful for the traction of his boots on the rubble of the remaining steps. But the short climb was worth it. The upper chamber afforded a spectacular view of the sea and of the current Folkestone harbour in the distance. Merrick let the breeze flow over him for a moment as he took in the panorama. He’d discovered that most things looked peaceful from a distance. Distance was useful that way.

‘St Magnus, you shouldn’t be up there,’ she called. But he ignored her. ‘Merrick, it’s dangerous. The steps aren’t stable and goodness knows how treacherous the ground up there is.’ She was looking up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare.

‘The view is spectacular and not to be missed,’ he called down. He moved towards the steps and offered her a hand. ‘Come up, Alixe. The ground is dry and firm. I don’t think we’re in any danger of sliding down the cliff side today.’

Alixe gave him a look as if to say ‘oh, very well’ and took her skirt in both hands for the climb. She tripped on the third step, giving him another look. This one saying ‘It’s dangerous, I told you so’.

‘Don’t be stubborn, Alixe. Take my hand.’ He came down a few steps to meet her, forcing her to acknowledge his offer. Her hand slid into his, warm and firm, and he tightened his grip, ready to haul her up if necessary. But there were no further mishaps.

At the top, Alixe was transformed. ‘Oh, look at this!’ she gasped. ‘This would have been a splendid look-out. They could see all the way down the coast. Perhaps they could even have sent signals from here. A tower in Dover or Hythe would be able to pick them up.’ She turned to him, her enjoyment evident on her face. ‘I’ve never been up here, you know. In all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve been to the ruins several times, but I’ve never come up the stair.’

She turned back to the view spread before them. ‘To think it’s been here all the time and I’ve missed it.’ The last was said more to herself than to him. The breeze took that moment to be slightly more forceful, toying with her hat. She reached up, hesitated for an instant, then took it off. ‘That’s better,’ she said to no one in particular. Then she closed her eyes and gave her face over to the wind and the sun.

Realisation hit him all at once.

Alixe Burke was a beautiful woman. It was objectively true. He could see it in the fine line of her jaw, the elegant column of her neck, visible only because her head was tilted upwards to the sun. She had a perfect nose, narrow and faintly sloped at the end to give it character. It fit the delicate boning of her face, the slightly raised cheekbones one could only fully appreciate in profile, the generous mouth. Cosmetics could not manufacture a bone structure like that. The grey habit she wore might distract from those finer points of beauty, but a discerning man would see the narrow waist and long legs beneath the bulky skirt. A man wouldn’t have to be that discerning at all to note the high thrust of her breasts beneath the jacket, tempting a man to wonder whether or not that was the doing of nature’s bounty or the assistance of a corset.

It would be simple work to see her gowned according to her attributes, her beauty fully displayed to the gentlemen of the ton. He doubted her earlier debutante wardrobes had done her beauty complete justice. No whites or pale pastels for this lovely creature. She belonged in rich earthy tones, deep russets and golds to show off the walnut sheen of her hair.

Merrick moved behind her, his hands finding a comfortable place at her shoulders. He was used to touching women. He hardly thought anything of the gesture. It was casual and easy. But she tensed at the contact. They would have to work on that. She would want to be comfortable with a casual touch now and then, perhaps even doling out a few touches herself, light gestures on a gentleman’s arm. Men liked to be touched as much as women. Touch had enormous effects to the positive; it made a person memorable, it created a sense of closeness and trust even when a relationship was new.

Well, now he might be going too far. She wasn’t going to seduce anyone. She didn’t need to know all of the tricks he could teach her, just enough to be pleasant, to draw London’s attention and thus the eye of the right kind of gentleman.

‘The view is intoxicating,’ Merrick murmured at her ear and was rewarded with a small sigh of wistfulness.

‘The sea goes on and on. It makes me realise how little of the world I know. I wonder if the Roman who sat here watching wondered the same thing—what’s out there? How much more of the world is there beyond what we’ve already discovered?’

With one of his experienced lovers he’d have drawn her back against him at this moment and wrapped his arms about her, but he knew better than to dare such a thing with Alixe. ‘I wasn’t talking about that view,’ he whispered. ‘I was talking about this one.’ He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Alixe Burke.’

She stiffened. ‘You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.’

‘Do you doubt me? Or do you doubt yourself? Don’t you think you’re beautiful? Surely you’re not naïve enough to overlook your natural charms.’

She turned to face him, forcing him to relinquish his hold. ‘I’m not naïve. I’m a realist.’

Merrick shrugged a shoulder as if to say he didn’t think much of realism. ‘What has realism taught you, Alixe?’ He folded his arms, waiting to see what she would say next.

‘It has taught me that I’m an end to male means. I’m a dowry, a stepping stone for some ambitious man. It’s not very flattering.’

He could not refute her arguments. There were men who saw women that way. But he could refute the hardness in her sherry eyes, eyes that should have been warm. For all her protestations of realism, she was too untried by the world for the measure of cynicism she showed. ‘What of romance and love? What has realism taught you about those things?’

‘If those things exist, they don’t exist for me.’ Alixe’s chin went up a fraction in defiance of his probe.

‘Is that a dare, Alixe? If it is, I’ll take it.’ Merrick took advantage of their privacy, closing the short distance between them with a touch; the back of his hand reaching out to stroke the curve of her cheek. ‘A world without romance is a bland world indeed, Alixe. One for which I think you are ill suited.’ He saw the pulse at the base of her neck leap at the words, the hardness in her eyes soften, curiosity replacing the doubt whether she willed it or not. He let his eyes catch hers, then drop to linger on the fullness of her mouth before he drew her to him, whispering, ‘Let me show you the possibilities’, a most seductive invitation to sin.

* * *

Alixe knew she was going to accept. He was going to kiss her and she was going to let him. She could no more stop herself than she could hold back the tides on the beach below them. There was only a moment to acknowledge the act before she was in his arms, his mouth covering hers, warm and insistent that she join him in this. He would not tolerate false resistance and, frankly, she did not want to give it. His tongue brushed her lips. She opened, instinctively parting her lips, giving him access to her mouth, kissing him back with all the enthusiasm her limited skill in this area permitted.

She felt his hand at her nape, his fingers in her hair, guiding her ever so gently into the kiss, his other hand at her back, guiding her not into him precisely, but against him. The planes and ridges of him were evident beneath his clothes: the structured hardness of his chest, the muscled pressure of his thighs. She had seen all this at the pond, of course, but to feel it, ah, to feel a man was heady indeed.

It ended all too soon. Merrick drew back, murmuring, ‘My dear, I fear you tempt me to indiscretion.’ He stepped backwards, putting a subtle distance between them, his eyes soft with a look that warmed her to the toes of her half-boots and made her feel bold beyond her usual measure of cautious restraint.

‘Surely a little temptation is tolerable? It is just a kiss, after all,’ Alixe flirted, stepping forwards—perhaps this time she’d kiss him. Her intentions must have been obvious.

Merrick side-stepped her efforts. ‘Careful, minx. There are those who would take advantage of your enthusiasm for the art. With the gentlemen of London, you’d do best to let them do the pursuing and to be discriminate in bestowing your favours. The rarer a treasure is, the more sought after it becomes.’

Alixe turned sharply, presenting Merrick with her back. She flushed, furious and embarrassed. She’d let herself get carried away. She’d let herself believe they were two people caught up in the beauty of the moment, the kiss a celebration of having shared the stunning vista together. It was no use. No matter how she tried to rationalise it, it sounded like nonsense even in her head. The point was, she’d got carried away and pretended the kiss was something more than it was, which obviously it wasn’t. He was unperturbed by what had transpired while she was all too worked up.

She wasn’t ready to turn around and face him yet, but she could see him in her mind’s eye leaning with easy grace against the rock wall of the ruins, letting the breeze ruffle through his hair. At least he could be angry.

‘Alixe, look at me.’

‘Don’t you dare be nice and say something pithy.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

She could hear him pushing off the wall and crossing the villa floor, pebbles crunching beneath his boots. She blew out a breath. She wanted to vanish, wanted the cliff to swallow her up, embarrassment and all.

‘What I was going to say, Alixe, is that if you want to kiss a man, you need to know how.’

Oh. That made it better. ‘Just for the record, you’re not boosting my confidence.’ The best kiss she’d ever had and it was entirely juvenile to him, probably no better than the sloppy work of a three year old.

He was standing behind her. She could feel the heat of his body. She couldn’t put off facing him any longer. She turned, trying very hard to look irritated instead of mortified. Her eyes darted everywhere in an attempt to avoid looking at him directly. He would have none of it. After a few futile seconds of looking past his shoulder, he gently imprisoned her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

‘Look at me, Alixe. There’s nothing wrong with your kiss, just your approach. You need finesse. Your suitors will want to feel this was all their doing. You can initiate the kiss as long as they think it was their idea. Here, let me show you.’

That was a dangerous phrase. Alixe made to move backwards, but he captured her hand and continued smoothly with his instructions. ‘Touch your gentleman on the sleeve. Make it look like a natural act during conversation. Lean forwards and laugh a little at something he says when you do it. That way it looks spontaneous and sincere. Then, flirt with your eyes. Give him a little smile and look down as if you hadn’t meant to get caught staring. Later, when you’re walking in the garden, let your gaze linger on his lips a bit. Make sure he catches you at it. You can shyly bite your lip and look away quickly. If he’s any sort of man at all, he’ll stop within the next ten feet and steal a kiss. When he does stop, you can close the deal by parting your lips, a sure sign that his affections will be welcomed.

‘I should have brought paper for notes,’ Alixe mumbled. ‘I was not expecting a treatise.’

‘Now that’s a fine idea. Perhaps I should write a book on kissing as a noble art.’ Merrick laughed.

Unfazed by her reticence, he pushed on. ‘Now you try it. I already know it works. Sit there and I’ll pretend I’ve brought you some punch.’ Merrick gestured to a rounded boulder.

‘This is silly,’ Alixe protested, but she did it any way.

‘I’ve heard the very best bit of news while I was at the refreshment table,’ Merrick began their faux conversation.

‘Oh, you have?’ Alixe widened her eyes in simulated interest.

‘Yes. I heard that the Cow is about to run away with the Spoon,’ Merrick said in his best conspiratorial whisper.

‘Isn’t the Dish supposed to run away with the spoon?’ Alixe corrected.

Merrick didn’t so much as blink over his error. He leaned closer, a wicked grin taking his elegant mouth. ‘I do believe it is. That’s why my “news” is so astonishing. It’s entirely unexpected.’

Uncontainable laughter surged up inside her. Before she knew it, she was leaning forwards, her hand on his forearm in gentle camaraderie. ‘Oh, do tell,’ she managed in gasps between bouts of laughing.

‘Well, I heard it from the Cat who heard it from the Fiddle...’ Merrick was struggling against losing his composure entirely. It was a fascinating battle to watch on his expressive face—mock seriousness warring futilely with the hilarity of their conversation. In that moment it was all too easy to forget who he was, who she was, as they had in the library.

Alixe’s eyes dropped to his mouth with its aristocratically thin upper lip. Merrick’s eyes followed her down, his head tilting to capture her lips in a gentle buss. He sucked lightly at her lower lip, sending a pool of warm heat to her belly. This slow, lingering kiss carried an entirely different thrill. There was sweetness in its tender qualities. She wanted to fall into it, wanted to feel it turn into something more passionate. She’d never guessed kissing could be such a lovely pastime.

‘That’s how you know you did it right. The proof is in the pudding. Top marks,’ he whispered playfully. ‘You’re an apt pupil. Keep this up and we’ll have London at your feet in no time.’

The words were said in jest and perhaps reassurance, but Alixe could not take them that way. How had it become this easy to forget what this man was? He was a flirt. No, he was more than a flirt. He was a consummate seducer of women. She’d been warned by her own brother. She knew precisely what his role was in this farce to see her married. And yet that knowledge had not been able to prevent it; when he kissed her, it felt real. It didn’t feel like a lesson. It was positively mortifying to forget herself so entirely.

Alixe stood up and brushed at her skirts, summoning anger to be her shield. ‘Let me make one thing clear. I do not need love lessons. Most especially, I do not need them from you.’

Merrick laughed softly at her indignation, having the audacity to smile. ‘Yes, you do, Alixe Burke. And you most definitely need them from me.’

* * *

Love lessons, indeed! Alixe fumed. She could barely sit still long enough to let Meg dress her hair for dinner that night. The man was insufferable. He treated the whole shambles as if it were a lark. More than that, he treated her as if she were a lark.

He’d merely laughed at her riding habit. If he thought he could laugh away her ugly gowns or cajole her into better looks, he would soon learn she wouldn’t give up her strategy easily. Her excessively plain wardrobe had been an excellent defence against unwanted suitors up until now. He was very much the exception. She would remind him of that this evening.

Meg had laid out her second-best dinner gown, but Alixe had opted for an austere beige gown trimmed in unassuming lace of the same colour. Meg had clearly disagreed with her choice. Her maid tugged a braid up into the coronet she was fashioning.

‘I don’t know why you want to wear that old thing. Lord St Magnus seemed plenty interested in you this morning. He’s a handsome fellow. I would have thought you’d want to wear something pretty tonight.’

‘He was just being polite.’ Alixe sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. Polite enough to trade banter at the picnic, polite enough to show her how to kiss. Polite enough to make her forget he had a job to do and that job was her. But she couldn’t confess that to Meg.

Her father had truly humbled her this time, blackmailing St Magnus into this ludicrous proposition. No. She had to stop thinking that way. She had to stop thinking of St Magnus as a victim. She was the victim. St Magnus was on her father’s side. Perhaps not by consent, but he was on the side that wanted to see her married off and that meant her father’s side.

‘Would you like a little rouge for your cheeks?’ Meg suggested hopefully, holding a little pot.

‘No.’ Alixe shook her head.

‘But the beige, miss, it washes you out so.’

Alixe smiled at the pale image she presented in the mirror. ‘Yes, it does do that beautifully.’ She was ready to go down to supper. St Magnus would see that she meant business. No matter what kind of love lessons he offered, she did mean to scare him off by revealing to him the futility of his task.

Chapter Eight

In the drawing room, Merrick discreetly checked his watch. Alixe was late and he worried that he’d overstepped himself today with his offer of love lessons. There was some irony in that offer. What did he know about love? He knew about sex and every game that went with it. But love? Love was beyond him. It had not existed in his home. His father did not love his mother. His father did not love him. He was merely another means to an end—a loose end in this particular case. Growing up, he’d loved his mother, a beautiful, delicate woman, but that had turned out poorly. His father had used that devotion with merciless regularity in order to obtain what he wanted until Merrick had finally decided to put as much distance between himself and his family as he could. That had been seven years ago. No, Merrick knew nothing about love and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

There was a rustling at the door and Merrick spied Alixe immediately. He’d been hoping she would not meekly accept defeat. Part of him was intrigued about what she would do next, and he was certain there would be a ‘next’. He understood his situation was precarious for a bachelor wishing to avoid matrimony. But regardless of the peril, he’d been intrigued by Alixe Burke again today, proving that his earlier fascination hadn’t been a one-day novelty.

She was a beautiful, spirited woman attempting to hide in dismal clothing. He suspected she was hiding not only from the world, but from herself. It had been difficult for her to acknowledge the passionate side of her nature today. The responses he’d drawn from her had surprised her greatly. Watching her let go and simply be herself for even a few moments had pleased him immensely.

Alixe made her much-anticipated entrance and Merrick smiled. She had not disappointed. The beige gown was even ‘better’ than the grey riding habit because there was less one could technically take issue with. The gown was cut in the latest fashion. She wore very proper pearls around her neck and her hair was done up neatly. But she looked invisible. Everything about her ensemble was completely unassuming, from the colour to the sparse trimmings. She was almost convincing. Almost.

Her head was held too high for the kind of woman who would wear that gown and her eyes were too sharp. Her natural disposition betrayed her in ways the gown could not hide. Merrick would be damned if he’d tell her.

Merrick made his way to where she stood surveying the room and probably wondering where best to put herself out of notice.

‘You look beautiful tonight.’

‘I do not.’ She responded proudly. ‘I’m the plainest woman in the room.’

He took her arm and tucked it through his own. It was a lovely proprietary act, one that everyone in the drawing room noticed while they were trying hard not to. He was well aware every woman’s eyes in the room had discreetly watched him cross the floor to Alixe’s side.

‘Beauty is often found in the eyes of the beholder,’ Merrick replied smoothly, strolling them around the perimeter of the drawing room.

‘A very useful cliché.’

‘A very true cliché. You’ll see.’ Merrick winked slyly. She was not nearly as seasoned at the games of flirtation as he was. She only knew how to avoid them. He knew how to play them. She didn’t quite understand what he was doing. But he did.

A man’s undivided attentions were a potent lure for other males. Once other men saw his attentions they would swarm: some out of curiosity, wanting to see what he saw, others out of fear that something of merit might slip beyond their grasp and still others because men were by nature competitive creatures and could not stand to be bested. And the women in the room would make sure the men noticed. Already, a few of them whispered to companions behind their fans.

Ah, yes, Merrick thought. He would pretend the beige gown was beautiful and by the end of the evening the other men would think so, too.

* * *

Merrick was up to something. The knowledge that the ‘game was afoot’ had Alixe on edge throughout dinner. But she could detect nothing. Merrick sat beside her, solicitous and charming, his manners without fault. She heartily wished she knew more about the games men and women played with one another. She was starting to see the large flaw in her strategies. Her tactics had all been focused on avoiding the game. As a result, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to play the game or even what the rules might be.

The ‘rules of engagement’ was taking on a vastly differently meaning. Before Merrick, Alixe had thought of the term solely in its military capacity, part of the historic vocabulary of war. But now she was starting to see it in a different light, unless one wanted to speculate that love and war were fought on similar fields of battle.

Rules, like the ones Merrick had introduced, were not the rules she’d learned from her governesses. Governesses taught a person how to walk, how to sit and how to make polite conversation; all of which were apparently useless skills in spite of society’s argument to the contrary. What a girl really needed in her arsenal was the ability to coax a kiss. A man, too, for that matter.

Merrick hadn’t said as much, but Alixe suspected the converse was indeed true. Merrick had demonstrated that quite aptly this afternoon at the villa. His allure most definitely did not stem from his ability to make polite conversation or from his talent for sitting ramrod straight. In fact, he was proving it right now across the drawing room while they waited for the games to begin. It was the first time all evening that he’d left her side.

Merrick lounged where other men stiffly posed against the mantelpiece. Merrick said what he thought while others searched for careful phrasing.

And it was working. The pretty Widow Whitely tilted her blonde head to one side, giving Merrick a considering look, a coy half-smile on her lips, her eyes dropping to his mouth and then to an unmentionable spot just below his waist.

Oh. Alixe felt a blush start to rise on Mrs Whitely’s behalf. Had Mrs Whitely really done that? It had happened so quickly, Alixe couldn’t be entirely sure of what she’d seen. Merrick was leaning forwards and smiling, a behaviour that sent an unlooked-for surge of jealously through Alixe. He had smiled at her in a similar manner up at the villa today. Jamie had warned her Merrick liked women. But a warning wasn’t quite as effective as seeing the evidence first-hand.

Watching him with Widow Whitely was a gentle reminder that these were the tools of his trade. It was also a reminder that he wasn’t hers to command. He was merely her unconventional and secret tutor at the moment. If he wanted to flirt with Mrs Whitely, she had no right to countermand him.

As if drawn by her thoughts, Merrick looked up from his tête-à-tête with the engaging widow, his eyes discreetly finding hers.

Five minutes later, he materialised at her side. ‘Did you learn anything, ma chère?’

Other than that Mrs Whitely might have a fascination with certain parts of yours? That could absolutely not be said out loud. Alixe elected to say nothing. She shook her head.

‘I did,’ Merrick continued, his voice low at her ear. ‘We were noticed at the picnic today and again in the drawing room. I’ve been approached by no less than three ladies who have commented on it.’

‘In a good way, I hope.’ Alixe could imagine the ways they might have been noticed. She was not used to deliberately drawing attention to herself. ‘The last thing I need before going to London is too much attention.’ She would prefer no one had spied them up at the villa or actually heard what they were laughing over at the picnic.

Merrick gave one of his easy smiles. ‘There is no such thing as too much attention. Don’t be confusing attention with scandal. They are two different animals entirely. One is good and the other is to be avoided at all costs.’

Alixe raised an eyebrow in quizzing disbelief. ‘And you’re a prime example of avoiding scandal?’

‘Scandal is to be avoided at all costs, if you’re a woman,’ Merrick amended.

‘Quite the double standard since it’s pretty hard to fall into scandal without us,’ Alixe said drily.

‘Still, there are ways.’ Merrick laughed, then sobered. Alixe followed his narrowing gaze to the arrival of a newcomer to the drawing room. Archibald Redfield entered with Lady Folkestone on his arm, his golden head bent with a smile to catch a comment.

‘Your mother seems quite taken with our Mr Redfield.’

‘My father, too. They dote on him.’

‘Whatever for? He’s a sly sort. Surely they can see that.’

‘They only see his manners, his standard-bred good looks. He’s solid, not the sort to stir up trouble. He’s exactly what this sleepy part of England is looking for in a landowner. He took over the old Tailsby Manse last year. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Folkestone for ages. Everyone with a daughter under thirty was thrilled.’

‘Do you include your mother in that grouping?’ Merrick’s eyes followed Redfield about the room in a manner reminiscent of a wolf stalking prey.

‘Of course.’ Alixe shrugged, hoping to fob off any further inquisition.

‘But to no avail?’ Merrick probed. This was uncomfortable ground.

‘To no avail on my end. I was not interested in Mr Redfield’s attentions.’

‘But he was?’

‘Yes. Yes, he was interested,’ Alixe replied tersely. She’d retreated from London to avoid men like Archibald Redfield. Merrick looked ready to ask another question. ‘This is not a seemly topic of conversation for a drawing room,’ Alixe said quickly. She had no desire to delve further into just how interested Mr Redfield had been or how naively she’d been taken in for a short time.

‘Then perhaps you’ll do me the honour of continuing the conversation later in the garden after the games. I believe I am to join old Mrs Pottinger and her cronies at whist shortly.’ Merrick was all obliging affability at the thought of an evening spent at cards with old ladies.

‘I hadn’t planned on staying for the games,’ Alixe admitted. ‘I am behind on my manuscript. I’d hoped to sneak off and get some work done tonight.’ She’d lost so much time since the house party had begun and the manuscript was still giving her fits.

‘Oh, no, that will not do,’ Merrick scolded. ‘You can’t be noticed if you’re not here. You need to stay and you need to enjoy yourself. Go over and join Miss Georgia Downing and the young ladies by the sofa. I promise they’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance. With luck, you can all make plans to call on one another in London.’

It would be fun to spend an evening in the company of people her age—well, roughly her age. She knew she was a bit older. Still, Jane Atwood was in that group and she was twenty-two. ‘But the manuscript...’ Alixe protested weakly.

‘I’ll help you with it in the morning,’ Merrick promised.

That coaxed a smile. Alixe could feel it creeping across her mouth. ‘So you really do understand Old French?’

‘Did you think I didn’t?’ Merrick feigned hurt. He touched a hand to her wrist. ‘You doubted me?’

‘Well, I did suppose rumours of your abilities might have been greatly exaggerated in that regard.’ Alixe found herself flirting in response to the light pressure of his hand at her gloved wrist. It was impossible to hate him; his charm proved irresistible even when she knew precisely what he was.

‘Bravo, that was nicely done, quite the perfect rejoinder—definitely witty and perhaps even a bit of naughty innuendo thrown in. Why, Lady Alixe, I do think you might have the makings of a master yet.’

Alixe let herself be drawn into the fun of conversing with Merrick. She dropped a little curtsy. ‘Thank you, that’s quite a compliment.’

‘Then I shall depart on a good note and take up my chair at the whist table.’

‘Do take care. Mrs Pottinger is sharper than she looks.’

Merrick gave her a short bow. ‘I appreciate your concern. But I assure you, I can hold my own against county champions of Mrs Pottinger’s skill.’

Alixe laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so certain of that. She counts cards like an inveterate gambler.’

* * *

Damn, but if Alixe wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have played his heart. He’d suspected Mrs Pottinger was out of them and would trump his jack, but he’d lost count. Apparently there were only two hearts left against his jack and not three. From under her lace cap, the elderly dame gave him a smug look of triumph and led her ace of spades.

Merrick gathered his wandering attentions and focused on the game. If he wasn’t careful, he and his partner would lose this rubber. There’d be no living it down in London if word got back he’d lost at cards to a group of old country biddies.

Mrs Pottinger let out a sigh and tossed her last card. ‘You’re a wily fox, after all, St Magnus. For all my finessing I can’t wheedle the eight of spades out of you and it will be my undoing. My poor seven will fall to it and the game is yours.’

‘But your skill is not in doubt, Mrs Pottinger,’ Merrick said gallantly, tossing his eight of spades on to the trick. ‘You are a most impressive player. I was rightfully warned about you.’ Merrick rose from the table and helped each of the ladies rise after their long sit. ‘Thank you for the game, ladies. It’s been a delightful evening.’

He’d done his duty for Lady Folkestone. Now it was time to give his full attention to the interesting situation with Archibald Redfield. He’d meant to confront Redfield about the questionable nature of the wager. ‘Rigging’ a wager was not honourable conduct among those who gambled and Merrick, as one who wagered rather often, knew it. He was not going to let Redfield slip by on this one. Redfield’s attempt at rigging the wager had nearly jeopardised a lady’s reputation. It had most definitely jeopardised the lady’s future.

Not all of his attentions had been diverted to the ‘Redfield situation’. The lady in question had done her share of distracting, too. Many of his thoughts had, in fact, been diverted to the ‘Alixe conundrum’. On more than one occasion, his eye had been drawn to her across the room where she’d taken his advice and joined a group of young ladies. Why had she refused Redfield’s attentions? Her past association with Redfield put an entirely different cast upon the wager, one that suggested the wager hadn’t been about himself, but about Alixe and quite possibly retaliation.

Revenge seemed a long way to go merely because a lady rejected the man’s attentions. But perhaps there was more to it. Alixe had seemed loathe to discuss the situation in detail. Originally, he’d attributed her reticence to their circumstances. A drawing room full of people was hardly conducive to divulging secrets. Now, he was starting to wonder if the reticence didn’t come from something more.

Merrick strolled towards the wide bay of French doors leading out to the spectacular Folkestone gardens. Games were breaking up and people were starting to mill as they waited for the end-of-evening tea cart. Once he caught Alixe’s eye, it would be easy to slip outside unnoticed and wait for her.

* * *

Waiting was the harder part. He’d been about ready to go inside and detach her from the group when she finally came out. ‘This is dangerous.’ She scolded. ‘What if someone sees us?’

‘I hope they do. There’s nothing to hide. I’d have to be completely foolish to try to steal a kiss with the entire house party looking on.’ Merrick scowled, tossing a hand to indicate the long bank of French doors. ‘I thought you were never coming out.’

‘I didn’t think we had anything urgent to discuss.’

‘I disagree. We aren’t done talking about Redfield.’

He recognised defiance. Her chin went up a slight fraction, just as it had at the villa.

‘I’m starting to think he made the wager on purpose, that perhaps he wanted revenge. The wager was meant to land you in the suds. I was merely a tool.’ Merrick laid out his hypothesis, noticing that she didn’t rush to deny the claim. ‘Is there merit to that? What might have transpired between you that would cause him to take such drastic measures?’

Alixe smoothed her skirts, another gesture he was coming to associate with her when she was not certain what to say. ‘I don’t think it has any bearing on our current circumstances,’ she replied coolly.

‘I do.’ Merrick crossed his arms over his chest, studying her in the light thrown from the drawing room. He wished he could see her eyes more clearly. They would tell him if she was as cool as she sounded. ‘Redfield tried to fix the bet and not for his benefit. He knew you’d be there; if I succeeded, he would lose money, not to mention the money his friends would lose. Have you thought about why a man would set himself up for a likely failure?’

‘Perhaps he thought I’d resist your attempts.’ She squirmed a little at that. ‘For that matter, how do you know he knew I’d be there?’

‘He brought your father, hardly someone who’d be interested in who I was kissing unless it was his own daughter. Your father wouldn’t care two figs if I was in there kissing Widow Whitely. Besides, Ashe told me Redfield was boasting he knew someone would be there.’

‘Oh.’ It came out as a small sigh and her shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit, the only acknowledgement she’d make that he was quite possibly right. ‘I refused him when he put the question to me. Needless to say, he was stunned. He should not have been. The daughter of an earl is quite a reach for a man of his modest antecedents. We did not discuss it, but I had reason to believe his intentions were not as true as he represented them to be.’

Merrick believed that. It was how polite society conducted its business. Redfield would never know the reasons she’d refused him. He would have hidden his disappointment just as she’d hidden her true reasons. It did not take great imagination to envision them sitting properly in the Folkestone receiving rooms, voicing polite platitudes of having been honoured by the other’s attentions and regretful the outcome could not be otherwise. Then they’d gone about the business of being courteous neighbours because there was no other choice. Neighbours must first and foremost always maintain a veneer of politeness, which often precluded being able to speak the truth.

The situation with Archibald Redfield was untidy beneath the placid surface. It made her anxious to speak of it. Even now, her gaze was drawn towards the doors, looking for distraction. She found it in the tea cart’s arrival. ‘We should return inside.’

‘You go in first and I’ll follow after a decent interval.’

He’d wait five minutes before returning and then he’d stay at her side for what was left of the evening. He counted off the minutes, letting his mind wander, mulling over what Alixe had revealed and even what she hadn’t.

Redfield’s former relationship with Alixe put an entirely different cast on his motives for the dangerous wager he’d made. Redfield had been taken aback by her refusal—so stunned, in fact, that he wanted revenge enough to plan a compromising situation, to see Alixe Burke ruined. But to want revenge seemed an uncharacteristically harsh action.

More questions followed. Alixe had hinted she’d discovered something unsavoury about Redfield’s intentions. Did Redfield suspect she’d made such a discovery and did he fear she might expose it? What would Redfield have to hide?

All of it was supposition. But if any of it were true, Alixe Burke might be in danger from more than an unwanted marriage. Whether she realised it or not, she was in need of a champion.

Ashe would be the first to point out the hero did not have to be him. Merrick was not required to champion Alixe Burke against jilted suitors. Yet he could not help but feel a need to champion this woman who had dared to carve out a life contrary to society’s preferences. Her daring had left her alone. Perhaps that was the kinship he felt with her. In spite of his notorious popularity, Merrick St Magnus knew what it meant to be alone.

* * *

Archibald Redfield considered himself a man who was rarely surprised. Human nature held little mystery for him. Yet St Magnus had managed to surprise him. He had not expected to see the devil-may-care libertine that morning. St Magnus had stayed. Not only had he stayed, he’d played his role to the hilt at the picnic, never once leaving Alixe Burke’s side. It was not what he had expected and that made him nervous.

What made him even more nervous was the sight of Alixe Burke slipping back in to the party, trying hard not to be noticed. No doubt she’d been sneaking out to see St Magnus. He didn’t like that in the least. The last thing he needed was for Alixe to decide she actually liked the rogue or for St Magnus to do the deciding for her. It would be death to his plans if anyone caught St Magnus and Alixe being indiscreet.

Redfield knew rogues. He feared that the reason St Magnus hadn’t left was that St Magnus wanted to woo Alixe for himself, compromise her if need be and the dratted man was now perfectly positioned to do that, having been given carte blanche to act the role of an interested suitor. This was a most unlooked-for complication. Redfield would have to keep his eye on the situation most carefully.

Fortunately for the present, no one else had noticed Alixe’s return. She wasn’t the ‘noticeable’ type, not dressed like that anyway, in a beige gown that matched the wallpaper. He was astute enough to know the Earl of Folkestone’s well-dowered daughter could afford better, but he simply didn’t care what she wore or why. He didn’t care if she’d rather live in the country with her books. He only cared that she came with a great deal of money. Plain women, ugly women, beautiful women—he’d had them all when it served his purposes. In the dark they were all the same. Except that Alixe Burke was the richest prize he’d ever gone after. She’d be the last, too, if he was successful.

Scratch that. There could be no ‘ifs’ about it. He had to win her. He’d sunk his funds into the Tailsby Manse, the first step in his bid to be a respectable gentleman. The manor was definitely a gentleman’s home, but that also meant it was in a certain state of disrepair. The roof leaked, the chimneys smoked and it took servants to run the place. All those things required money. Alixe Burke had money and prestige. Marriage to her would solidify his claim to a genteel life.

But she had turned him down. He had not expected it. A woman on the shelf didn’t turn down offers of marriage, earl’s daughter or not. It was a setback he could not easily afford. She would find she could not afford it either. He would push the choosy Miss Burke into a corner until she had no choice but to accept his twelfth-hour offer and this time she’d be all too glad to accept.

As long as St Magnus played by the rules and did not compromise her for himself, all would be well. Not even St Magnus could turn her into an interesting woman, the kind of woman who could be labelled a Toast. Yes, there’d be fortune hunters like himself who wouldn’t care what she looked like, but she was to be made a Toast precisely to avoid those men and draw the right kind of man to her side. Folkestone would know the difference. Redfield was confident the right man would not emerge.

He was even more confident Folkestone would not want to see his daughter married to St Magnus, a man with his own social ghosts and demons to contend with. That would be when he made his generous offer to marry Alixe, saving the family from the scandal of attaching themselves permanently to St Magnus. It would all be wrapped up neatly by Season’s end and there’d be time to have his roof patched before winter set in.

Chapter Nine

Alixe was dressed hideously again in a shapeless work dress when she met Merrick in the library the following morning, her hair left to hang loose in her hurry to make up for oversleeping. There was no one to notice this grooming oversight on her part. The house party had taken themselves off to the village for a day of shopping and touring the local church. But one would have thought the king was coming to call the way St Magnus was turned out in sartorial perfection for the simple and isolated task of working in the library with her.

He was waiting for her, attired in fawn breeches, crisp white linen shirt and a sky-blue waistcoat in a paisley pattern that managed to deepen the hue of his already impossibly blue eyes. He’d been freshly shaved and his hair was brushed to the pale sheen of cream. His morning elan was perhaps a not-so-subtle commentary about her own choice of clothing. But if she’d meant to get a more obvious rise out of Merrick over her clothes, she was to be disappointed.

His comment extended merely to a raised eyebrow. Instead, he turned his attentions to the project at hand and after a few minutes of study to familiarise himself with the text, he said ‘I think you’re taking the translation too literally again. The sentence makes more sense if profiter means taking advantage of. You’re using it to mean making money, the way one would use the word today.’

Merrick slid the document back across the long library table to let her look at the section in question, the understated scent of his morning toilette teasing her nostrils as he leaned forwards slightly to push the document towards her. He smelled clean, the very idea of freshness personified. Then he pulled his arm back and the delightful scent retreated. She wanted more. Alixe wondered what he would do if she acted on the impulse to lean across the table and sniff him, a great big healthy sniff. A giggle escaped her at the very thought of acting on the notion.

‘Is there something humorous?’ Merrick was all stern seriousness.

‘Um, no.’ Alixe blushed and feigned a throat-clearing cough. ‘A tickle in my throat, I think.’ I was just thinking about sniffing you. Alixe hastily shifted her gaze to the manuscript and pretended to read, using the pretence to gather her scattered thoughts. She’d worked on this manuscript for weeks without distraction until St Magnus’s arrival. Now, her focus fled at the smallest provocation from him. The isolation of the country must be getting to her. She took a deep breath.

‘Better?’ St Magnus enquired, needing only a pair of eye glasses to look the consummate college professor, albeit a very handsome one.

‘Yes, much better, thank you.’ What was wrong with her? She did not usually think in such terms. Then again, she wasn’t in the habit of taking kissing lessons from men she hardly knew either.

Alixe scanned the document. It didn’t take long to see his interpretation was correct. ‘It seems so obvious now that you’ve pointed it out. The rest of the document should translate easily from this point.’ His translation made perfect sense. Really, it was a marvel she’d missed it.

Too bad swallowing her pride wasn’t as simple. She was a historian, even if she had been self-trained. She’d had the benefit of tutors and a fine education up until Jamie had left for Oxford. How was it that a well-educated person like herself had not seen what Merrick had noted immediately? She scribbled some notes on a tablet and then looked up, considering. Morning sunlight streamed through the long windows of the library, turning his buttermilk hair to the pale flax of corn silk. ‘How is it that you know so much about French?’ It seemed patently unfair this gorgeous male should also be in possession of an intellect. He’d demonstrated on two separate occasions that intellect was quite well developed.

‘It’s the language of love, ma chère.’ Merrick flashed her one of his teasing grins. ‘I didn’t have to be a genius to see all the uses I could find for it.’

Alixe wasn’t satisfied. He knew far more than a passing phrase for impressing the ladies. ‘Don’t trivialise your skill.’ The vehemence of her defence startled them both. ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t have a brain. Not with me anyway.’

An awkward silence followed in the wake of her outburst. It was one of those moments when they stepped outside their prescribed roles of rake and blue stocking and the revelation that had followed was nothing short of surprising. It was difficult to think of her and Merrick having something so significant in common.

‘You studied French at Oxford. I hardly think the curriculum there was limited to a few bon mots.’ Alixe cast about for a way to restore equilibrium to the conversation, not entirely comfortable with what she’d learned.

‘Have you ever considered that Oxford might be overrated?’ Merrick leaned back in his chair, propping it up on its hind legs, his hands tucked behind his head, an entirely masculine habit. He tried for evasion. ‘Rich men send their sons to Oxford to get an education when they know full well we spend most of our days and nights carousing in the taverns and getting up to all nature of mischief. It’s a different sort of education than the ones the dons intend for us. Our fathers don’t care as long as we don’t get sent down in disgrace.’ There was a bitterness that underlay the levity of his tone.

‘Jamie mentioned there was time for a few larks.’ Alixe got up from the table and absently strode to one of the long windows to take in the morning sun. ‘But I don’t believe you picked languages entirely on whim.’ She wouldn’t let him get away with skirting the question. Evasion was an unexpected strategy from a man who’d stood on the edge of the pond unabashedly naked.

‘I like to talk and languages are another way to talk. At the time it seemed like a kind of rebellion. I liked the idea of being able to say something that can’t quite be said in English.’

‘Such as...?’ Alixe faced him, her back to the window. She’d not have guessed a discussion of his personal life would send this extroverted man into full retreat, discreet as the retreat was. It touched her in dangerous ways that he would be vulnerable. It made him far more human than she’d like.

Merrick gave a lift of his shoulders. ‘Like esprit de l’escalier. It means thinking of a retort after the moment has passed. Diderot introduced the phrase in one of his works.’

‘The spirit of the staircase?’ Alixe quizzed, absently lifting her hair off her neck and then letting it spill through her hands in a careless gesture as she pondered the phrase. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

Merrick was studying her with his blue eyes. She shifted uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Something had changed in the moments since her comments. The air had become charged with a sweet tension that implied impending action.

‘Do that again,’ Merrick ordered, a low-voiced demand edged in sensuality. ‘Pull up your hair and let it sift through your fingers.’

She did as he commanded. He’d risen from his chair. He was stalking her now, with his eyes and his body, coming towards her in slow strides, his eyes locked on hers. She did it again, raising her hands to gather up the thick length of her hair, her teeth delicately worrying her bottom lip subconsciously. She wasn’t aware she’d even done it.

‘Ah, yes, Alixe, very good. Every man likes the innocent wanton,’ Merrick whispered, lifting his arms to take her hair in his own hands. She trembled at the feel of his warm hands skimming her shoulders as he dropped her hair. Her stomach tightened in anticipation. He was going to seduce her again as he had the day before. She ought to resist. There was nothing here but another lesson.

‘My Alixe, your body is so much more eager than you know.’ He leaned in, feathering a light kiss against her neck in the hollow beneath her ear.

A moan escaped her lips and she swayed towards him, all thoughts of resisting vanished in the wake of the curious warmth that spread through her, conjured there by his touch, his kiss, his words. Her face was between his hands and her mouth was open beneath his. With her eyes shut, it seemed all her senses were heightened. She was acutely aware of the feel of his hips pressed ever so gently against hers. The clean smell of him enveloped her—she could make it out now, a light fougère layered with oak and moss, a hint of lavender and something else that called to mind grass on a summer day—and the taste of him was in her mouth, the sweetly pungent remnants of morning coffee.

With the morning to guard her, Alixe had thought she’d be safe from him and the wickedness he awoke in her. She had imagined such seduction could not occur in the bright light of day. She should have known better. The afternoon had not served her well yesterday.

Her hands needed somewhere to go and it only seemed right that they should anchor in the buttermilk depths of his hair. The move pulled her closer to him, her breasts pressed against the masculine planes of his chest. This was most wicked of her and in the light of the window, too...

‘Oh!’ The realisation was enough to make her jump, a hand hastily covering her mouth. ‘The window! Anyone might see us.’ She knew she was clumsy in her panicked retreat past him to the relative safety of the table.

Merrick only laughed, in no hurry to back away from the window. Why had she thought he’d react differently? It was all a game to him, one of the many games he played.

‘Oh, hush!’ she scolded.

‘I do believe you are a hypocrite, Alixe Burke.’ Merrick returned to the table and resumed his seat, eyes full of mischief.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Alixe seethed. She’d been caught out again by that scoundrel.

‘Yes, you do, you little fool.’ Merrick gave a warm chuckle. ‘Look at you, sitting there with your straight back and folded hands like a genteel angel all worried about propriety when moments ago you were the very devil in my arms and propriety be damned.’

Alixe’s face burned. She could not gainsay the truth. He was right. She’d been all hot abandon and it was positively disgraceful. She could not argue otherwise.

‘Come now,’ Merrick coaxed, ‘there’s no need to be ashamed. Why not admit you enjoy our lessons?’

‘There can be no more lessons, as you call them.’ Alixe made an attempt to return her attentions to the manuscript. He’d shown her his vulnerable side and she’d shown him hers. She was certain it was far more than either had intended.

Merrick was letting her stew. She didn’t dare look up, but she could hear him rifling through book pages and shuffling papers. She pretended to read and scribble some illegible notes in the margins and waited.

‘You do realise you’re in an enviable position to combine business with pleasure. You should make the most of it,’ Merrick said casually at last, not bothering to look away from his papers.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that,’ Alixe replied with the aloofness that had staved off most of male London.

It didn’t freeze Merrick in the least. If anything, it had the opposite effect, encouraging him to indecently honest conversation.

‘Most young women would like to be in your position, privy to the secrets I can teach you.’ He leaned back again in his chair, his feet hooked about the front legs. ‘Perhaps your father has accidentally started a new fad: coaching one’s daughter in the ways of Eve.’

Alixe slammed down her notebook. She was angry at herself for having proved so gullible as to allow herself to be seduced. She was angry at her father for forcing her into this situation and most of all she was angry at Merrick, who refused to be anything but outrageous. ‘My father may have blackmailed you into this, but he did not expect you to take such liberties. You were only assigned to raise interest in me. I dare say that can be done without the “lessons” you’ve apparently designed for my edification.’

Merrick was thoughtful for a moment. ‘All right. No more lessons unless you ask for them. However, I do need to raise interest in you and you must allow me to do my duty—’

‘Without kissing, without excessive touching beyond what is expected in polite society,’ Alixe interrupted.

‘Agreed,’ Merrick said without hesitation.

‘Agreed,’ Alixe answered with equal swiftness. But deep down, her confidence faltered. She’d got her terms. There’d be no more moments like the one at the villa, like the one in front of the window. But she was going to pay—she just couldn’t determine how.

Or when.

Chapter Ten

Four days into their agreement, Alixe was regretting it. Merrick had kept his word. He’d not kissed her, not tempted her to wanton passions, at least not in any way she could take issue with. He’d kept his part of the agreement, holding to the letter of the proverbial law, if not the spirit of it.

Even the slightest of his touches at her elbow managed to send frissons of anticipation through her, reminding her of other, less-decent touches, and of possibilities that existed if she would only ask for them. Mostly those touches reminded her that this was all her fault. The frustration that plagued her late at night alone in bed was of her own doing.

He was doing it on purpose, but she couldn’t prove it, just as she couldn’t substantiate the niggling feeling that the other shoe still hadn’t dropped.

* * *

And then it did with a resounding clatter bright and early one morning when she’d least expected it. Of course, that was how it always happened. She should have known.

Alixe awoke to a sun-soaked room, well aware that today held both excitement and danger. Today was the day she was to take her completed translation to Vicar Daniels and help set up the historical society’s display for tomorrow’s fair in the village. That was the exciting part. The danger was what the fair stood for—a day closer to the departure to London and the fate that awaited her there.

She was keenly aware the house party had reached its zenith and was careening towards its conclusion: the fair in the village followed two days later by her mother’s much-anticipated midsummer ball. And she had failed to stop it—not the ball, but her imminent departure.

It wasn’t all she’d failed at. She’d failed to shake Merrick from her side and where she’d failed, he’d succeeded magnificently. She might not be the Toast of London yet, but she’d become the Toast of the house party. Merrick’s presence at her side ensured a heightened interest in her that not even her plain, unobtrusive garb could counteract. Being in his company made her visible to others.

She had not noticed until it was too late that he’d orchestrated their days into an easy pattern—mornings spent in the quiet seclusion of the library working on the manuscript where they were joined at times by Jamie or Ashe pursuing their own projects. During the afternoons, she and Merrick were taken up with various groups until no one even considered inviting Merrick without her. They played lawn bowls with Riordan and the young bucks he’d gathered whom he felt met his standard of debauchery. There was croquet and a badminton match against Ashe and Mrs Whitely. Merrick cheered from the sidelines for her at an impromptu archery contest among the young ladies and he saw to it that she stood beside him while he and Ashe engaged a pair of bragging riflemen in a friendly competition of marksmanship.

She had never lived like this before. She’d never allowed herself to as part of her self-imposed exile from society. She was discovering it was fun to be the centre of a group, to play and to laugh. Most of all it was fun to be with Merrick and it was easy to forget why he was with her.

Such forgetfulness was her biggest failure. He was luring her to London and then he’d disappear when his job was done. It had to stop. Today would be a day to start afresh in her campaign of resistance. The first thing to do was get dressed. She had a dress in mind, a sallow-yellow muslin that did nothing for her complexion.

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