Reforming a Rake (24 page)

Alexandra stared at him. “What?”

He sighed. “To be blunt, the earl has been more pleasant to us—and to everyone else—since you arrived. It wasn’t that he was cruel before, but more like he simply…didn’t notice.” The butler straightened. “Now, please get back inside.”

She lowered her head to her arms. “I can’t. I’m stuck.”

“Ah. Then I’ll fetch some assistance.”

“N—”

As the butler’s footsteps faded away, Alexandra reflected that despite the absurdity of the situation, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat flattered. Ridiculous and aggravating as being held prisoner in someone’s wine cellar was, no one had ever worked so hard to keep her safe anywhere.

Something grasped her ankles. Alexandra shrieked.

“Hush,” Lucien said from behind and below her.

“Well, close the door down there,” she hissed. “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”

“Already done, though you should have thought of that earlier.” His warm, strong hands hesitated, then slowly slid up her legs beneath her skirt.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said raggedly. “Stop that.”

“Then stop wriggling your lovely bottom like that.”

She wished she could see his face, to know whether he was teasing or if she was truly affecting him. Lucien tightened his grip and pulled on her legs. Alexandra began to slide backward, and instinctively flailed her arms to look for support before she could fall.

“Ouch. Damn it,” he cursed, and thwacked her across the bottom.

It didn’t hurt, but she felt vulnerable enough without him doing that. “Don’t do that!”

“You kicked me in the jaw, chit.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

This time she distinctly heard him chuckle. “Let’s give this another try, shall we? I won’t let you fall.”

He was taking most unfair advantage of her helplessness, for he was caressing her legs in a rather intimate manner—but it felt like forever since he had last touched her. Angry with him or not, she loved his touch—and the sound of his voice, and his lovely eyes…

She slid backward another inch or so, and then stuck.
Lucien tugged her legs again, and something tore. “Lucien, I’m caught.”

This time she could have sworn it was his cheek running along her thigh. “Yes, you are.”

Alexandra couldn’t help the tremor that warmed her all the way to her toes. “My dress is caught,” she amended. Hands caressed her thighs again, joined by a warm, slightly sucking contact that ran up the insides of her thighs with agonizing slowness. “Are you kissing me?” she gasped.

“Yes.”

“Well, stop it. I can’t breathe.”

“Right. Hang on a moment. I’ll get the chair.”

He moved away and then returned, this time to slip his hands along her hips and waist. Alexandra was beginning to feel rather warm, and experimentally she wriggled again.

“Good God,” he hissed, his voice much closer. “Where are you caught?”

“A little to the left, I think. Yes, right there.”

His hand wedged between her body and the window casing. Pressing snugly against her left breast, he paused again. “Here?” he asked, and caressed her through the thin material of her gown. “Or here?”

She gasped, wiggling her bottom against his chest again. “Lucien! Don’t…Oh, my goodness.”

Her breathing did sound somewhat strained, and whether it was because of him or her predicament, he decided they’d best conclude this on the ground. He tugged the caught material sideways, and a moment later she slid backward into his arms. She flung her hands around his neck as her sudden weight overbalanced him and they half fell off the chair. Then his mouth found hers.

They thudded against the wall, but he scarcely noticed. He had been hard and ready since he walked into the cellar and saw her very attractive bottom wriggling in his window. And as volatile as she was, and as badly as he wanted her, he had no intention of giving her an opportunity to recover her senses.

“Lucien,” she breathed, kissing him and curling her fingers into his hair to pull him closer.

At least she was using his first name again. He sank to the floor with her still cradled in his arms. And then a small, white, furry dog jumped into her lap and slathered his tongue across both their chins.

“Good God,” Lucien bellowed, recoiling as the little monster reared up against his chest.

Alexandra, her arms still around his shoulders, began laughing. “Shakespeare, no!”

The cellar door rattled and opened. “My lord,” Thompkinson said hesitantly, “I know you said not to—”

“Out!” Lucien roared.

The door closed again.

“Thank goodness we weren’t
en déshabillé
,” Alexandra managed, capturing Shakespeare in her arms and still laughing helplessly.

“We will be in just a moment.”

“No, we won’t.”

Damnation
. He knew giving her time to consider anything was a bad idea. Lucien shifted her on his lap. “Do you feel that?” he murmured, running his lips along her throat. “Do you feel me?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“You want me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” This time she kissed him, openmouthed and hot and wanting.

That was enough for him. He stood, carried her to the bed, and set her down. Her dazed, lustful expression had him aching, but first he needed to get rid of a certain canine nuisance. Lucien scooped up Shakespeare and strode to the cellar door, opened it, and set him out. “Watch him,” he ordered the startled Thompkinson, and shut the door again.

He expected another protest, but she raised up on her knees to meet him as he returned to the bed. She pulled his coat off his shoulders and tossed it aside, while he finished the work the window had begun on her burnt-sunlight hair and pulled the hanging clips free.

“This does not mean I’ve forgiven you,” she whispered, pulling his shirt over his head and licking one flat nipple.

“It will,” he returned, ripping the remaining fastenings of her torn dress open and yanking it off her. Her shift followed, and he lowered his head to her full, soft breasts.

She gasped in pleasure. “No, it won’t.” With shaking, anxious fingers she unfastened his belt and his breeches and shoved them down.

“We can argue later.” Lucien nudged her backward, drew himself up over her body, and with a possessive growl, pushed inside her.

He relished her fierce, hungry response to his lovemaking. Alexandra’s fingers dug into his back as he moved inside her, her hips moving in instinctive rhythm with his. They came together, and he muffled her exultant cry with a kiss.

As soon as he could breathe again, Lucien rolled off her and onto his back. A ragged piece of material still lay across the windowsill and fluttered in the slight breeze. She’d nearly gotten away from him, and he had
no intention of letting it happen again. Not when he was so close to clearing the jumbled, rock-covered path between them.

Alexandra turned sideways and raised up on one elbow. “I have to admit, I’m glad it was you who rescued me, rather than Thompkinson or Wimbole.”

“So am I. Don’t do that again.”

She lifted an eyebrow, beautiful and utterly arousing in her unashamed nakedness. “Or what—you’ll make love to me again? It’s not a very effective punishment, Kilcairn.” She smiled, suddenly a sultry, if sated, kitten. “I like it too much.”

He frowned, flattered and annoyed. “That is not—”

“It won’t work, you know,” she interrupted, shaking her head at him. “You’re not convincing me of anything other than the fact that you’re a charming rogue. I knew that before.”

“Hm.” Slowly he reached out and curled his fingers through her long hair. “‘Charming,’ is it? I think I am succeeding. You’ve never called me charming before.”

“You caught me at a generous moment.”

“Obviously. And speaking of generous,” he said, leaning over the edge of the bed to recover his coat, “as per my orders, Thompkinson handed me this.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and dropped the garment again.

“So now you’re stopping my correspondence?” She didn’t sound the least bit surprised, but from the missive’s contents, she hadn’t expected it to leave the house, anyway.

With a sideways glance at her, he unfolded it. “‘Dearest Emma,’” he read aloud, “‘I’m afraid my arrival at the Academy will be delayed. I have been kidnapped by my arrogant, stubborn, pigheaded, interfering, insane former employer, the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey.’”

“I left out some adjectives, I think.”

“You included quite enough of them, thank you.”

“I need to let Emma know something,” Alexandra insisted, her expression becoming more serious. “She has enough to worry about without me—or you—adding to it.”

Lucien dropped the letter onto his crumpled coat. “I’ll take care of it. A little more succinctly, I think.” He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again.

“Lucien, let me leave,” she said, when he finally gave her a moment to breathe. “It’s going to happen eventually. Don’t make it any harder than it is already.”

“Not yet. Not until there is nothing to push you in any direction but your own desire. Not until where you decide to go is completely up to you, Alexandra, and not dictated by circumstance or duty.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. “Or convenience?”

“Or convenience.” He sat up and looked around her makeshift room. “You need a rug. I’ll send Thompkinson down with one. And I’ll see to the damned window myself, if you can refrain from making another escape attempt for five minutes.”

Alexandra stretched, this time obviously teasing him. “I’m a bit tired suddenly. I believe you’re safe for five minutes.”

“So are you. But only five minutes, chit.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I do hope you realize I wouldn’t bother to kidnap just anyone.”

“And I do hope you realize I don’t believe for one second that you’re being altruistic.”

“Of course I’m not. Not entirely, anyway. I want you in my life, Alexandra.”

Turquoise eyes studied his. “Sometimes I almost believe you.”

He smiled. “You see? I’m winning you over already.”

Alexandra wished he would attempt to win her over more often. As a bonus, she got to watch him hammering the window back into place from inside the cellar. Thompkinson had made the mistake of suggesting they simply board up the opening, but Lucien insisted that she not be denied the limited sunlight the window provided.

He also insisted that she have a more comfortable chair in which to sit and read, and some more pillows for the bed. According to Thompkinson, the Delacroix ladies had gone out for luncheon, which was lucky, considering the amount of furniture being moved into the cellar.

Despite the bustle of activity, Alexandra noticed something different in the way the servants treated her. Whereas before they had always looked to Kilcairn for confirmation of any orders, now they did exactly as she said without hesitation on any subject—except, of course, for setting her free. She didn’t know what Lucien might have told them, if anything, but suddenly she didn’t feel like a fellow servant any longer.

And though no one commented about possible reasons she might have changed her gown in Lucien’s presence, she knew they had noticed that, too. Their continued respectfulness, though, had to mean something. She continued to watch Lucien, content to sit in her comfortable new reading chair and gaze at his broad, strong shoulders as he refit the cellar window. Earls didn’t do such things; earls didn’t do a great many things that he did.
Alexandra blushed. They probably didn’t do them nearly as well, either.

At half past two. Bingham hurried through the cellar door. “My lord, Wimbole says the ladies are returning.”

Lucien hammered a last nail into the repaired window casing and hopped down from the chair. “Splendid,” he said, handing the hammer to Thompkinson and retrieving his coat.

“So now you’re happy to have them about?” Alexandra asked, setting aside the Byron, unread.

“Always happy to see my relations,” he said offhandedly, and gestured the small troop of servants out the door. When the last one left, he strolled over to her chair. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, gray eyes glinting, and leaned down to kiss her.

She couldn’t help her hungry response. “Perhaps I’ll be here.”

“You’d better be, Alexandra.” He kissed her again, then slipped out the door, latching it behind him. “Behave,” he said through the door, and then was gone.

Alexandra grimaced as she lifted her poetry book again. Now the rascal was telling
her
how to conduct herself. A smile curled her lips as she glanced about at the most splendidly furnished wine cellar in England. He was learning some lessons himself.

T
he next step was simple. Lucien intercepted the Delacroix ladies in the hallway. “Aunt Fiona, might I have a word with my cousin?” he asked politely, despite the urge to spit in his aunt’s face every time he set eyes on her. He was going to have to deal with her, but he had to time it just right or he could bring the rest of his carefully laid plan down around his ears.

“Of course, nephew. Don’t be long, though, Rose. Don’t forget—we are all going to the opera tonight, and you will need your rest first.”

“Yes, Mama.”

At his gesture, Rose preceded him into the morning room. He closed the door and paced to the window and back. The urge to skip steps and end the damned game so he could spend every moment with Alexandra was overwhelming, and he fought it sternly. Jumping ahead could cost him Miss Gallant.

“What is it, Lucien?”

He sat by the window. “I spoke with Robert.”

She practically pounced on him, her blond curls bob
bing as she knelt at his side. “And what happened? Is he angry with me? How—”

“He wants to marry you.”

Rose threw her arms around him, and even kissed his cheek. “Oh, thank you, Lucien! I’m so happy. I don’t have to marry you now!”

Lucien lifted an eyebrow. “Well, thank you very much.”

“You don’t want to be married to me, either. You told me so.” She backed away, her expression suddenly suspicious. “You did give him your permission, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. With bells on.” He stood as she swooped at him again. “For God’s sake, don’t smother me.”

Still smiling happily, she folded her hands in front of her. “What happens now? How will you get word to Lex? Will she come back to London?”

Lucien hesitated. He’d spent so long detesting his relations that the idea of trusting Rose even for a moment, much less including her in his plans, bothered him. But he needed an ally. More to the point, he needed
her
. “Actually,” he said slowly, “Alexandra is still in London.”

“She is? Where is she staying? Oh, I have to go tell her about Robert!”

“Remember, this is not a subject for the
London Times
.” He grabbed her hand before she could go flailing and dancing about the room again. “This is important, Rose. We need to help one another.”

Her smile faded, and she nodded. “What do we do, then?”

“First, we need to go tell your mother that we are engaged, and that we will announce it next Wednesday, at a dinner party.”

“But—”

“And then, at the party, I will announce that it is you and Robert who are engaged.”

Rose put her hands over her mouth. “Mama will be furious.”

“Yes, I know.” That, though, was where he would implement the second part of his plan. “I’ll deal with her.”

“Does Robert know about this?”

“He does. Do you agree?”

“Y-yes. It’s very odd, but I think it’s romantic. What about you and Lex, though?”

“Alexandra is…” He took a deep breath. “She’s in the wine cellar.”

“What? The wine—”

“Perhaps you might visit her. As long as you say
nothing
to Fiona.”

“Oh, I won’t. But why—”

“I have my reasons. They will be made clear soon enough. Just be sure you don’t let her out. She’s very stubborn.”

Rose giggled. “I know. Because she won’t marry you.”

“Yet,” he stated firmly.

Robert knew most of his reasons and plans already, but he didn’t dare tell Rose any more. Alexandra would have the information out of her without the poor thing ever knowing it. The governess was so adept at addling his brain that he’d have to be careful around her himself.

“May I see her now?”

“First we should see your mother. She’ll be suspicious if we delay before we prance in with news that I proposed to you.”

“Yes. She said I was to tell her immediately.”

Fiona was damned certain of herself. “Then let’s not disappoint her.”

“May I tell Lex that I’m not to marry you?”

“Certainly. Tell her all about how happy you and Robert will be. After we tell your mother how happy you and I will be.”

Rose narrowed her eyes, suspicion entering her clear expression. “Are you certain you’re not tricking me?”

Going through life lacking the appreciation that he—and Alexandra—seemed to have for its absurdities must be damned dull. “I’m certain I’m not tricking you into marrying me, Rose.”

“Good. Because I really don’t want to, you know.”

“Yes, I had surmised that.”

They mutually agreed that Lucien should be the one to tell Fiona the news. He led the way to the upstairs sitting room she occupied when she wasn’t out gathering and spreading gossip, knocked, and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

“Fiona, Rose and I have news for you.”

“Yes, my dears?”

Her look of calm superiority irked him no end, and he couldn’t wait for the opportunity to wipe it permanently from her round face. “Rose and I have decided it would be to our mutual benefit to wed.”
But not each other
, he added silently, just for luck.

“Splendid! Oh, this is the most splendid news! Come give your mama a kiss, Rose.”

With a determined, nervous smile, Rose complied. She wasn’t very adept at skullduggery, Lucien noted. Thank God the plan needed to unfold quickly—she wouldn’t last long without blurting the whole bloody mess to Fiona.

“And you, Lucien, give me your hand.”

He stifled his expression of absolute disgust and offered her his hand.
This is for Alexandra
, he reminded himself. He could wink at the Medusa to save his goddess.

“I’m so happy,” Fiona chortled. “I shall tell absolutely everyone!”

“I have a better idea,” he said. He’d known that threat was coming; she wanted to be certain he couldn’t back out. Obviously she had no idea how little he cared about public opinion. “A dinner party on Wednesday.”

“Ooh, we could make the reason for it a surprise!” Rose clapped. “Just think! We’ll invite everyone! Do you think Prince George would come?”

“Prince George?” Fiona echoed, eyes widening.

“If I asked him, he would come.” Lucien revised his opinion of his cousin upward once again. With the proper training, she could be a fine prevaricator.

“I still want to tell some of my friends,” Fiona said stubbornly, though the suspicion in her eyes had lessened a little.

He shrugged. “I recommend against ruining the surprise, but inform whomever you like.” The woman she could most hurt with her little tale was safely tucked away in his wine cellar. As for Fiona’s own reputation, he didn’t give a flying damn.

“I would like it to be a secret,” Rose pressed. “You always try to ruin everything.”

“I do not. Who do you think arranged for you to become Lady Kilcairn? It wasn’t that flighty Miss Gallant. You may be assured of that.”

“But, Mama—”

“Bah. Your viscount will find out eventually. He doesn’t signify, Rose. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

“Well, on that note,” Lucien said, retreating to the door, “I’ll leave you two to chat. I have some arrangements to make.”

Predictably, Fiona didn’t object, and he went downstairs to collect his hat and send for a mount. “I may be some time,” he informed Wimbole.

The butler pulled open the front door for him. “Any special instructions in your absence, my lord?”

He nodded. “If—and only if—Fiona goes visiting, you may show Rose my selection of special wines.”

“Yes, my lord. I will, of course, make certain the wines are kept in their protected environment.”

“My thanks, Wimbole.”

When Vincent appeared around the front leading his black gelding, Faust, Lucien swung up into the saddle and headed for Hanover Square. He didn’t want anyone—much less any of his servants who might have contact with Alexandra—to know his destination.

As he arrived at one of the long line of elegant houses and dismounted, he was surprised to realize that he was nervous; not for himself, but for Alexandra. And because if he made a bad step now, she would never forgive him.

He swung the brass knocker against the solid oak door. When it opened, he caught the elderly butler’s startled expression before it melded back into stuffy blandness. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Lucien handed over his calling card. “I need to speak to His Grace.”

“If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll inquire.”

“I suggest you inquire strongly.”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

It had only been an hour since he’d last seen Alexandra, and he was already chafing to be with her again. It was new to him, this need to have someone in his life,
this yearning to hear her voice and feel her touch. Love had seemed cloying and suffocating—not a genuine emotion so much as a clinging neediness. But this was not like that. It was nothing like he’d expected, and it alternately amused, pleased, and horrified him.

He looked up as the morning room door opened. The Duke of Monmouth had the remains of what must have been an impressive demeanor: tall and big boned, he had lost the meat that would make him capable of intimidating by his physical presence alone. Evidently no one had informed him that without the gristle to back up his famous hostility, he only looked blustery. Lucien wondered how long it had been since Alexandra had actually seen him.

“I am not going to take her and whatever damned by-blow you’ve gotten on her into my house,” the duke growled.

Lucien lifted an eyebrow. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” His gaze returned to the shorter figure following in the duke’s shadow. “Didn’t I specify that I wanted a private audience with you?”

“You’re lucky to be allowed into this house, Kilcairn,” Lord Virgil snapped, a lion now that he was in his father’s formidable company.

“I beg your pardon. Should I be addressing myself to Lord Virgil?” Lucien barely stifled a smile. This politeness of Alexandra’s did have its uses—it was blasted difficult to defend against, as he’d discovered firsthand.

“What do you want, Kilcairn? I won’t allow you to blackmail me. I’m ready to disown her, you know. Wash my hands of her completely.”

Lucien seated himself. “I don’t recall that I’ve threatened anything, or that I’ve asked for anything but a few moments of your time.”

“We know you, Kilcairn,” the younger Retting snarled.

“Apparently you don’t.” Lucien kept his gaze on Monmouth. “Nor do I intend to enlighten you until we can speak in private.”

Blustery black eyes met his cool gray ones. Monmouth should never have allowed Virgil into the room in the first place. It put the duke in the position of having to concede a point before the conversation had even begun.

“You’ve a head on your shoulders, Kilcairn,” the duke said grudgingly. “Virgil, get out.”

“But, Father—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With another glare the younger Retting stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Monmouth seated himself on the couch opposite Lucien. “I might as well have let him stay. You’re not getting anything from me.”

“I will.”

“Damned sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Frequently.” Lucien sat back, assessing his opponent, and clicked open his watch. Alexandra was insatiably curious, and he was willing to wager that it was a family trait. He glanced down at the time. Half past three. He needed to get back soon, to see how the conversation between Alexandra and Rose had gone.

“What is it you think you’ll get from me, then?”

Lucien snapped the watch shut again. “Since the unfortunate Welkins incident, your niece has felt somewhat unsure about her place in society.”

“And so she should, the little strumpet. It took me weeks to quiet that down.”

“I thought you hadn’t been completely uninvolved. Sloppy, though. You left a mess.”

The duke narrowed his eyes. “Not where
my
family is concerned.
You
stirred that mess up again, by having her here in London.”

“The point being, a mess exists.”

“The point being, all I do is snap my fingers and she’s no longer connected to my family. Mess cleaned up. Permanently.”

Alexandra claimed to have seen Monmouth in Lucien’s own demeanor, in the way he treated his own family. Abruptly, he didn’t like that very much. “Your mess, yes. Alexandra’s, no.”

She would kill him if she knew what he was about to tell her uncle. His only hope was that the end result would outweigh her fury over his methods. She’d left him little choice, anyway. She’d made Monmouth a barrier between them; he had to remove it.

“And this concerns me because…?”

“Because Alexandra fears that without your nominal support, Lady Welkins might attempt to have her arrested, despite her innocence in the entire incident.”

The duke harrumphed, while Lucien fought his impatience and let Monmouth take a moment to absorb the information. He knew what his own response would be, but then he was in love with the victim in question. If the dilemma had concerned Rose, the answer would have been stickier—though less so now than a few weeks ago.

“It’s because she’s in London,” Monmouth finally grumbled. “She’s got everyone’s damned attention, especially because she’s living under your roof.” The old man leaned forward. “Or should I say, under your bed sheets?”

“You shouldn’t be saying anything to make the situation more difficult for her than it is already.”

“Ha! You’re a fine one to talk about propriety. I was there the night King George found your father and Lady Heffington humping in the throne room—a week after he married your mother.”

“On the throne itself,” Lucien corrected coolly, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Or so I’ve been told.”

The duke pushed to his feet and walked to the decanters of liquor on the side table. “I knew my sister’s stupidity would send me to the poorhouse. Marrying a damned painter. Good God.” He poured himself a brandy, not bothering to offer one to Lucien. “I can only imagine the stink if they dragged the chit off in chains, whether she deserved it or not. You tell her I’ll give her a thousand pounds to go up-country. She has friends at that school where they took her in before. She’ll get nothing more from me.”