Читать онлайн книгу «How to Disgrace a Lady» автора Bronwyn Scott

How to Disgrace a Lady
Bronwyn Scott
MERRICK ST MAGNUS: THIS RAKE’S REPUTATION FOR THE PURSUIT OF SHAMELESS DEBAUCHERY IS SOCIETY LEGEND! Arriving for a party, Merrick finds his season of outrageous scandal takes 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 bluestocking 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… Rakes Beyond Redemption Too wicked for polite society…



‘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.
‘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.

About the Author
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 she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.
Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:
PICKPOCKET COUNTESS
NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY
THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE
THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD
UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS
A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY
SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
and in Mills & Boon
Historical Undone! eBooks:
LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS
PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY
WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW
ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE
AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION
(Part of A Sinful Regency Christmas collection)
and in Mills & Boon look out for PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE (part of the Royal Weddings Through the Ages)
Introducing a brand-new deliciously sinful trilogy from
Bronwyn Scott
Rakes Beyond Redemption
Too wicked for polite society …
They’re the men society mamas warn their daughters about … and the men that innocent debutantes find scandalously irresistible!
The notorious Merrick St Magnus knows just
HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY September 2012
The untameable Ashe Bevedere needs no lessons in
HOW TO RUIN A REPUTATION October 2012
The shameless Riordan Barrett
is an unequalled master in
HOW TO SIN SUCCESSFULLY November 2012
Be sure not to miss any of these sexy men!

How to Disgrace
a lady
Bronwyn Scott


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

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 tantalizing 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.

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