Lord of Fire (13 page)

She whirled to face the room.
What time is it?
she thought frantically. If the debauchees of the Grotto were already up and about, it must already be midmorning! The mantel clock affirmed her realization.
Eleven o’clock
!
she read with a groan. Now, she, Caro, and the servants would be forced to get a late start on the road. Once more, they would have to travel the last leg of their journey in the dark, but at least the way home was more familiar than the hills of
Somerset.

She hurried over to the chest of drawers, where she poured water from the pitcher into the porcelain washbowl, thoughts of Lucien continuously plaguing her. Splashing the fresh, bracingly cold water on her skin, she resolved to forget him. He was tricky, dangerous, and bad. She could not begin to figure him out, but he was hardly the lackadaisical diplomat she had been led to expect. He was as fierce as a tiger, as quick as an adder, and as wily as a fox, and when he wanted to, she thought as a few droplets of water rolled sensuously down her throat into the valley between her breasts, he could be totally, irresistibly charming.

She shivered and kept moving, toweling her face and chest dry. She slipped into the fresh chemise and clean stockings she had stashed in her satchel. Rolling the thin, white stockings up and fastening them to her garters, she ignored the little thrilling flashes of memory of his hands skimming so expertly up her thighs. Such thoughts! She did her best to keep her mind fixed on poor little Harry, who was waiting for her to come home.

Rising briskly to don her dark blue carriage gown once more, she prayed that she would never cross paths with Lucien in Society—especially not this Season, for by then, she would have turned twenty-two, which was practically at a woman’s last prayer. That meant it was time to choose once and for all which of her longtime suitors she would accept for her husband.

Blast!
she thought suddenly, pausing with a scowl. She had forgotten all about her suitors last night when Lucien had turned her own pointed question upon her, asking who loved her. Unfortunately, she knew why she had forgotten they existed in that moment—because they paled into invisibility next to him. She batted away this vexing realization like a badminton shuttlecock. “Draco” was beyond redemption. If any woman ever agreed to marry him,
Alice felt sorry for her.

All three of her suitors were agreeable, sincere young gentlemen of good family and fine prospects; all had courted her chivalrously “by the book” for the past four Seasons since her debut. Roger was clever; Tom was brave; Freddie was amusing. Only, in her heart of hearts,
Alice wanted a man who was clever, brave, and amusing all in one person, and so much more. Bless them, they had been so patient with her, waiting for so long for her to make up her mind, for all the good it had done them. But her tepid reaction to her suitors was not the only problem.

Larger still loomed the fact that she could not possibly leave Harry with Caro acting such a thoughtless and irresponsible mother. She could never simply abandon her nephew to the care of servants, no matter how good and capable Peg and the others were. A person needed family around them to grow properly—her own experience had shown her that. If Caro did not start acting like a mother to her son,
Alice was never going to be able to leave
Glenwood
Park
and marry. She would end up on the shelf, never having a child of her own to love. With a frustrated sigh, she plunked down on the stool before the mirror, pinning her hair up in a sleek topknot with a few curls dusting her neck.

Just then, a knock sounded on the door. She glanced toward the door in the reflection. “Come in!”

At her call, the door opened and a plump, cheerful maid carried in her breakfast tray. Removing the silver lid,
Alice discovered an assortment of mouth-watering pastries and toast with various jams and honey, fruit, and a slab of the local Cheddar Gorge cheese, but her eyes widened with intrigued delight to see the pink rose laid carefully alongside her silverware. Resting under its thorny stem was a small piece of fine linen paper folded in thirds and sealed with a drop of red wax.

She reached for it at once while the maid poured her tea. She cracked the seal and unfolded it with a slight tremble in her hands; then she read, hearing his deep, smoothly modulated voice in her mind, so casually seductive:

Good morning,
Alice. Come to me in the library at your earliest convenience.

Your servant, etc.

L.X.K.

An order! Well, she should have known. His high-handedness made her indignant, but the thought of seeing him again made her slightly light-headed. She read the note five times over, her heart pumping with fear and thrill.
What did he want with her now?
she wondered, trying to summon a proper annoyance.
Should she even heed the summons?

There was no possibility of eating much after that. The maid carefully presented her with her teacup, but
Alice’s hands shook so that a few drops sloshed onto the saucer and nearly onto her gown. All she could force past her lips was a single slice of toast and jam. Admittedly, she was highly curious to see him one last time. She had hoped to slip away from

Revell Court

without having to clash with him again, but she should have known the man was too perverse to make it so easy on her. Perhaps he wished to apologize for his shocking advances he had made on her last night—or perhaps, she mused with a slight, wry smile, he merely wanted to try again. She decided that it could not hurt to indulge him briefly, since she was on her way out, in any case. After all, it was beneath her pride to hide from him like a coward.

As soon as she had finished eating and had quickly scrubbed her teeth, she stole a nervous glance in the mirror, frowned at the high blush of anticipation in her cheeks, and smoothed her hair, then asked the maid to conduct her to the library.

A few minutes later, she traipsed through the maze of hallways on the upper floor until they reached the main staircase, where the first marquess of Carnarthen spied down from his portrait upon the bickering knot of guests who bustled about in the entrance hall, taking their leave. Mr. Godfrey and a half dozen footmen dodged hither and thither, trying to pacify the guests’ last-minute demands, while two of the brawny armed guards in black coats stood like brooding pillars in opposing corners, watching over all.

Draco’s faithful appeared to have recovered a modicum of shame, shading their faces from one another under the brims of top hats and bonnets. Some of the ladies had even draped veils over their bonnets to more thoroughly conceal their faces, but the portrait of the marquess smirked down at them from the landing; his sly smile seemed to say that, hide as they may, he knew all of their nasty little secrets.

The guests’ frayed, fretful bickering faded as
Alice followed the maid down a quiet corridor. By the light of day, the Elizabethan splendors of

Revell Court

dazzled her. She peeked into the various rooms they passed—soaring, oak-timbered spaces with creamy plaster walls, imposing Renaissance chimneys, and colorful, age-faded carpets covering the taupe-colored granite flagstones of the floors. Sunlight streamed in through the diamond-shaped panes of the mullioned windows, danced over the square, heavy furniture with its mellow patina of age, and warmed the rich, old tapestries depicting stag hunts and scenes of falconry.

The austere, manly atmosphere of the place was a world away from the relaxed, airy lightness of
Glenwood
Park
, with its pastel rooms and cozy scroll couches, but the sturdiness of Lucien’s house was comforting. She liked the way it smelled—of leather, of beeswax polish for all that gleaming dark wood, and of a faint, piquant trace of a gentleman’s tobacco pipe. The maid stopped before a closed door at the end of the main corridor.

“The library, miss,” she murmured with a quick curtsey.

“Thank you.” With a nod,
Alice reached for the doorknob, but having learned her lesson last night about walking in on places where she had not been invited, she gathered her courage and knocked.

Her heart skipped a beat as Lucien’s strong voice answered, “Come in!”

She squared her shoulders and opened the door. She saw him at once on the far end of the room. Leaning idly against a bookcase by the window, he was reading a slim, leather-bound volume, the morning sunlight gleaming on his jet-black hair, which was slicked back, she noted, still damp from his morning ablutions. Staring at him, she took two cautious steps into the room, dazzled by the transformation in his appearance. This morning he was dressed with the casual elegance of a country lord at his leisure. His morning coat was a rich shade of burgundy, worn over a single-breasted silk waistcoat with a high standing collar and fawn twill trousers. With his head bent over the open book, he did not look up at her arrival. She was momentarily distracted by the way he held the book in his hands, his fingertips subtly caressing the kid-leather binding. He had princely hands; they were large and manly, full of strength, yet ineffably elegant. She routed a shivery-sweet memory of those smooth, warm hands gliding up under her skirts.

“You wished to see me, my lord?” she asked in a studiedly formal tone, one hand still on the door latch.

“ ‘Come live with me and be my love,

And we will some new pleasures prove,

Of golden sands and crystal brooks,

With silken lines and silver hooks.’ ”

Alice
blinked with surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

He slid her a disarming, rather wily smile and continued in a low, magical singsong:

“ ‘There will the river whispering run,

Warmed by thine eyes more than the sun.

And there the enamored fish will stay,

Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,

Each fish, which every channel hath,

Will amorously to thee swim,

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.’ ”

A blush crept into her cheeks as pink as the rose he had sent her, but she gave him an arch look. Did the cad really expect her to fall for this?

“Shut the door,
Alice.”

She obeyed with an arch smirk, then clasped her hands behind her back and began strolling cautiously toward him while he resumed reading:

“ ‘If thou, to be so seen, beest loath,

By sun or moon, thou darkenest both;

And if myself have leave to see,

I need not their light, having thee.’ ”

“Andrew Marvell?”

“No.”

“Christopher Marlowe?”

“Ignorant girl, it is John Donne, ‘The Bait.’ May I?” he asked with feigned annoyance.

“By all means,” she replied with equally feigned gravity. He was a scoundrel and a cad, but he really was rather amusing, in his way.

“ ‘Let others freeze with angling reeds,

And cut their legs with shells and weeds,

Or treacherously poor fish beset

With strangling snare or windowy net.’ ”

“Windowy net,” he echoed, shaking his head. “That is superb.”

“It is good,” she admitted. Sidling up next to him,
Alice looked down at the text and read the next verse aloud:

“ ‘Let coarse bold hand from slimy nest

The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,

Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,

Bewitch poor fishes’ wandering eyes.’ ”