Reforming a Rake (9 page)

“You’d make a fine major general, Miss Gallant,” Lucien said, taking his seat as the coach rocked out of the drive.

“Thank you, my l—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Fiona squawked. “I feel as though I’m being kidnapped!”

“We should be so lucky.”

“My lord,” Alexandra chastised, but completely unrepentant, he only grinned at her.

“I’m just glad to escape.” Rose fanned at her face. “So many people, all looking at me!”

Lucien looked at her, wondering if he’d ever been so callow and naive. It didn’t seem likely. With his father’s reputation paving his way, either flaw could easily have proved ruinous. “You are the
ton
’s newest oddity. They’ll look at you until they find new game to ogle.”

“Mama!”

Before he could explain himself, Alexandra cleared her throat. “In a sense, Lord Kilcairn is correct.”

“He is?”

“Well, yes. I would have worded it a bit differently, but—”

“Coward,” he interrupted.

“—but that is precisely what I meant by first impressions. In a month, some of those gentlemen and ladies will have only a vague recollection of whether they wish to be seen in your company or not.” She smiled in the dim light, and something odd thumped and skittered in Lucien’s chest.

“And?” he prompted.

“And after tonight, with perhaps an additional evening of the same quality, I should think none of them would mind engaging in a conversation with you, Miss Delacroix.”

“Oh, thank you, Lex.”

“Splendid.” Aunt Fiona chuckled. “But I didn’t see your friend, Lucien. Lord Belton, wasn’t it?”

He kept his gaze on Miss Gallant, trying to decide what, precisely, had just happened, and whether he was pleased or annoyed by it. “Robert has good sense. He didn’t attend, obviously.”

He spoke more sharply than he’d intended, but Fiona’s softheaded gloating irritated him no end. For God’s sake, the woman would have ruined the evening for all of them—and for the other Howard guests—in another two minutes. When Alexandra sent him another glare, he smirked at her. At least his comment had shut up his relations; he’d put up with more than enough prattling for one evening.

By the time he disembarked from the coach and strolled into the house, all three ladies had already vanished up the stairs. “Wimbole, cognac,” he ordered, heading into his study.

With a sigh he undid his cravat and sank into the armchair nearest the fireplace. The butler appeared at his elbow a moment later, and Lucien lifted the amber-filled
glass off its silver tray. He took a swallow, letting the warm liquid burn down his throat to his gullet. “Find Mr. Mullins.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The solicitor must have been hovering nearby, because the door opened immediately after the butler left. Lucien continued watching the crackling fire through half-closed eyes.

“Mr. Mullins, scratch Georgina Croft off the list. I asked her to name her favorite author, and she said, ‘I rather like the original one.’ Thinking she meant the Bible, I then asked her which passage she preferred. Her answer was something along the lines of ‘the passage where he goes looking for Guinevere.’”

“She thought you asked her to name her favorite Arthur. I would have picked the same one.”

At the sound of Alexandra’s soft voice, it took every bit of willpower Lucien possessed to remain seated and look calmly back at her, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. “All of which makes her either deaf or dim.”

“So you only carry on affairs with intelligent females?” she asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

“Are you asking out of general or personal interest?” he returned, watching her approach. This looked like a seduction, but considering she’d been annoyed with him five minutes earlier, he thought it more likely that she planned an ambush. She would find that he didn’t succumb easily.

“I’ve never heard of anyone making a list of potential spouses and then eliminating candidates when they don’t pass literary snuff.”

“Actually, it seems a rather sound method.”

“And yet, didn’t you tell me you preferred more mature females? Miss Croft looked barely eighteen.”

“I don’t believe in setting limits.” He sipped his cognac, grateful that his headache had departed—by supreme coincidence at the same time his relations had retired for the evening.

“But you have your solicitor keep your list of women for you.”

Slowly he smiled, and noted with satisfaction that her gaze lowered to his lips. “Did you have a reason for coming in here? Other than to express your jealousy, of course.”

“You—”

The door opened again. “You wanted to see—”

“In a moment, Mr. Mullins,” Lucien growled.

“Apologies, my lord.” The door shut again.

“You were saying, Alexandra?” he prompted, taking another swallow of cognac.

“It would be impossible for me to express jealousy, because I feel none.” She stalked over to his desk and back again, the firelight catching the beading of her dress and making the length of her shimmer.

“Then why are you here?” he murmured, his pulse stirring. That dress hadn’t been a mistake, after all.

“To ask why you continue to censure your cousin and your aunt for their behavior when yours is ten times worse!”

His grin deepened. “Ten times? It’s a wonder anyone tolerates me at all.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Please, tell me what you find lacking about my character.”

She turned to face the fire. “I will not.”

“Why not?”

“You know very well that you aggravate people. You do it on purpose. I am not about to humor you by listing your carefully cultivated faults.”

“I’m positively diabolical.”

“You’re mean,” she corrected. “Giving the description extra syllables doesn’t alter the fact.”

Lucien eyed her, the veriest twinge of a headache resuming. Alexandra had probably spent the entire ride home deciding exactly what she wanted to say to him and how he might attempt to parry each thrust.

“How am I
mean
, then?” he asked, setting aside the cognac, and more curious about her answer than he cared to admit.

“You constantly insult and belittle your relations, to begin with.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “There’s more?”

“There is.” Alexandra squared her shoulders, pinning him with her direct, angry gaze. “And I say this only because you indicated that you wanted my assistance in perfecting your manners.”

“So I did. Continue.”

“The Delacroix ladies have just lost their closest male relation, and you flatly refuse to show even the least bit of compassion for their bereavement, much less for their plight. That is hideously insensitive.”

“They’re here, aren’t they?” he growled, becoming less amused.

“Because of a piece of paper—not because of any feelings on your part. You made that quite clear. Did you even send them your condolences?”

Lucien clenched his jaw. She knew how to argue, for damned certain, but he had no intention of letting her goad him into revealing anything he wished to keep private. “I paid for the funeral.”

“That is
not
the same thing.”

Something in this wasn’t about the Delacroix harpies, or even about him. She was too angry for anything less than a personal pain. “Whom did you bury?” he asked quietly.

Alexandra opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. “As if you would care, when you can’t even be moved to mourn your own family,” she finally snarled, and turned on her heel.

Lucien surged to his feet. As he grabbed her wrist she spun to face him, her face flushed and her bosom heaving with her fast, angry breathing. His electrified reaction to her wildly flying pulse immediately altered what he had been about to say. “I do mourn,” he said. “But not for public display.”

Alexandra stared up at his face, the anger leaving her expressive countenance. “It’s your cousin James you mourn, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t that transparent; he knew it. Yet more than half the time, she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. “Why did you let me kiss you?” he countered.

She flushed. “Don’t change the subject.”

Still gripping her wrist, he drew her nearer. “My subject is more interesting.”

“N-not to me, my lord.”

Lucien smiled, then leaned forward and softly touched his lips to hers. “Is that more interesting?” he murmured.

“I do not think—”

He kissed her again, more deeply. “Or this, perhaps?”

Her head tilted up and her eyes closed. Completely lacking the will to resist his beckoning goddess, he kissed her once more. “I’m very interested myself.”

Slowly Alexandra opened her turquoise eyes to look at him. “You can stop the argument,” she said in a low,
soft voice that sent tremors skimming along his muscles, “but not the reason behind it.”

The words sounded cool and courageous, but he knew her moods well enough to sense how unsettled she was. He wasn’t about to give in now. “That’s right; we were discussing my ill manners. A proper gentleman wouldn’t have kissed you. Therefore, in this instance, behaving makes no sense.”

“
You
make no sense,” she countered, pulling her arm free of his grip. “You can’t mourn one relation and pretend to care nothing about another.”

“But I can choose whether I discuss it or not—and I choose to discuss a more interesting topic. Your lips, to begin with.”

“That subject is closed.”

Lucien couldn’t resist grinning at that. “Good night, then, Miss Gallant.”

Before he could move away, she gripped his sleeve in her fingers. The gentle tug brought him up short. “Why won’t you talk about it—about my subject?” she asked. “I would listen.”

Lucien looked down at her face, only inches away. “I don’t require anyone else to listen to my expressions of grief,” he murmured. “What I’m interested in is having you in my bed. Does
that
subject interest you, Alexandra?”

She released him and backed away. “N-no.”

“Are you certain? I know you enjoyed kissing me. This would be much better.”

“Good night, my lord,” she stammered, and fled.

After a moment Lucien called in Mr. Mullins and resumed his seat. She hadn’t said no, that last time. And that was more interesting than anything he and his solicitor could discuss.

E
vidently Lord Kilcairn thought Rose had passed her first test. By the end of the week he had accepted invitations on his cousin’s behalf to two more dinner parties, an evening at the opera, a fireworks festival at Vauxhall Gardens, and the first grand ball of the Season. As his acceptances went out, more invitations began to pour in.

Apparently everyone wanted to be a part of the phenomenon of Lucien Balfour’s venture into proper society—though Alexandra knew he was using the ploy only to gain more attention for Rose.

However, he had scheduled Rose’s various appearances without consulting Alexandra, which annoyed her no end. There were steps to be followed, ways to smooth someone’s way into society’s highest circles, and he was ignoring all of them—if he had even considered them in the first place.

That was the reason she’d been avoiding him for the past three days: she simply didn’t want to speak to him. It had nothing to do with the way he’d suggested they
become lovers, or the way she’d fled the room instead of telling him
no
in no uncertain terms. Or the way she’d been dreaming about his intoxicating kisses for the past few days. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t even like him. Besides, she was supposed to be teaching him propriety; he was not supposed to be instructing her on behaving like a shameless strumpet.

Shakespeare at her side, Alexandra left her bedchamber. Kilcairn had been correct about the scarcity of her free time—her early morning walks were now so early they were verging on becoming late evening walks.

Halfway to the stairs, she paused at the black-banded portrait of James Balfour. His complexion and his hair were both lighter than his cousin’s, and his half-smiling expression made Alexandra want to smile back at him. His face was so open, and she wondered what had made Lucien so mysterious and enigmatic, and why she found that to be so much more compelling.

“What are you puzzling out now?”

Alexandra jumped as Kilcairn materialized out of the dark hallway behind her. “My goodness!” she whispered when her heart resumed beating. “You frightened me half to death!”

“If you hadn’t been concentrating so intently, you might have heard me stomping up behind you.”

She couldn’t imagine him stomping anywhere. “You are supposed to simply apologize.”

“For your lack of attention?”

Alexandra sighed. “You’re up and about early,” she amended.

“So are you.”

“Shakespeare and I are taking a walk.”

The earl moved a step closer. “With Sally or Marie.”

“Of course.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. “A pity.”

She sternly stopped herself from leaning into his gentle caress. “Lord Kilcairn, there is something I need to make clear to you.”

His fingers dropped. “First, let me make something clear to you, Alexandra. I want you. I desire you. But I am not some mindless beast, nor am I an idiot. You are in my employ. I will
ask
you—a few more times. I won’t order you. After that,
you
will have to ask
me
.” He leaned still closer, favoring her with the sensual smile that was so different from his cousin’s open, affable expression. “But I will say yes.”

“And what about the kissing, my lord?” she whispered, hoping the Delacroix ladies were still abed, and that he wouldn’t realize—or at least he wouldn’t admit that he knew—that she was asking for his embrace.

“The kissing,” he repeated, his gaze lowering to her mouth. “Yes, that, too.” Leaning down, he brushed her lips in a featherlight kiss that immediately left her aching for more.

He straightened, and she nearly toppled over as his mouth left hers. Hurriedly she righted herself. “My lord,” she said shakily.

“Just ask me if you want another,” he said, grinning.

“You are very arrogant,” she snapped.

“Yes.” Lucien stepped around her, bending down to pet Shakespeare as he passed.

For a moment Alexandra had to close her eyes and concentrate on breathing. Lucien probably thought he had shocked her, but she appreciated his blunt words. The problem was that his lessons were so much more interesting than hers.

Since she was headed the same way, not following him down the stairs seemed foolish. “Where are you
going so early this morning, my lord?” she asked, as they reached the foyer and Wimbole appeared with the earl’s caped greatcoat. “Surely you don’t rise this early to ride.”

He accepted his coat and hat from the butler. “Unfortunately, I won’t be riding this morning. I’m going on a picnic.” Kilcairn flashed her his devastating smile again. “Jealous?”

Alexandra flushed, very conscious of the apparently deaf Wimbole. “I am only curious about which duties and attentions to your cousin you mean to neglect today.”

His expression immediately darkened. “All of them, if possible,” he snapped.

Wimbole hurriedly pulled open the front door, and the earl strode out to his phaeton and a waiting groom. A moment later the horse and carriage left the drive at a fast trot.

“A picnic?” she repeated skeptically, trying to decide whether she was more frustrated or annoyed with the earl. “At six o’clock in the morning? Whom does he think he’s fooling?”

“Mrs. Halloway the cook packed the basket herself,” the butler unexpectedly contributed, as he closed the door again. “Sally will be present to accompany you in just a moment.”

“That’s fine.” Alexandra donned her own heavy cloak. Her attention on the front door and the departed earl, she fastened the wrap’s single clasp at her neck. “It seems awfully early for luncheon, don’t you think?”

“His lordship said I shouldn’t expect him back until evening. I would surmise that wherever he’s going is some distance away, or that he had other business to see to first.”

“He didn’t inform you of his destination?”

The butler smiled briefly. “Lord Kilcairn keeps his own counsel, Miss Gallant.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

A moment later Sally joined them, and they headed out for a brisk walk in Hyde Park. It didn’t do anything to clear her head, but she suspected it would be the quietest hour of her day. And by the time she returned and changed for breakfast, the chaos had indeed begun.

Leaving Shakespeare on her bed for his morning nap, Alexandra closed her bedchamber door. She scarcely had time to register Rose’s presence before the girl pounced on her.

“Lex, Mama says I must wear my new green gown to Vauxhall Gardens!” she wailed.

“Good morning, Rose,” Alexandra returned pointedly, curtsying.

“Oh, good morning,” the girl said, bobbing, and wiped a tear from one cheek.

“Well, as long as you bring a shawl, your green gown should be fine. Join me for breakfast, and don’t fret. You look splendid in gree—”

“But then I shall have to wear my pink silk to Lady Pembroke’s ball, and cousin Lucien will never dance with me!”

Feeling distinctly as though she’d missed a step somewhere, Alexandra guided the younger girl toward the stairs. “And why wouldn’t your cousin dance with you, pray tell?”

“He hates pink! The last time I wore pink, he said I looked like a flamingo.” Rose stamped her foot and began crying in earnest. “I don’t even know what a flamingo is!”

That didn’t bode well. Lord Kilcairn had made it
clear, though, that Alexandra was only to educate his cousin socially; anything academic, other than music and conversational French, would only take time from her primary task. “It’s a bird,” she explained, leading the way into the breakfast room. “Don’t cry, dear. It makes your skin blotchy.”

Rose wiped at her cheeks. “It does?”

“Yes. And you have such a lovely complexion.”

“Thank you, Lex.”

Alexandra had half hoped that the transparent distraction wouldn’t work, but Rose immediately became more concerned with studying her reflection in the mantel mirror than with whatever had caused her tears in the first place. Alexandra had hoped for a bit more substance. They sat to breakfast, the student in far better humor than the teacher.

“What do you wish to do today?” Alexandra asked. “I believe your cousin will be absent until evening and your mother has a luncheon, so we have the house practically to ourselves.”

“I want to practice dancing again. Waltzing, especially.”

“Your waltz is incomparable already, Rose,” Alexandra countered, hiding another frown behind her morning cup of tea. “And you can’t waltz in public until you’ve been presented at Almack’s, which won’t happen until you’re presented at court, which—”

“Which won’t happen for another two weeks, when I turn eighteen. This is so silly. I’m the cousin of the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey. Can’t I just be presented a little early? It’s not as though my birthday won’t happen.”

“No one is presented early,” Alexandra said firmly, a bit surprised at her charge’s sudden self-confidence.

“Well, Mama says I should be.”

That explained it. “I might have known.”

“Beg pardon?” Rose looked up from the peach she was dissecting.

Alexandra hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “Since we’re alone,” she amended in a louder voice, “I thought we might try a bit of drawing room French.”

“Oh, Lex, yesterday was drawing room etiquette, and the day before that was stupid country dances and quadrilles. Can’t we at least do something fun?”

“And tomorrow night is the Hargrove dinner, and the night after that is Vauxhall Gardens. I leave it up to you, Rose.
You’re
the one who wants to marry a title.”

“Do you really think you can teach me French in one day? Miss Brookhollow tried for six months, and we hardly got beyond
je m’apelle Rose
.”

Trying not to flinch at the girl’s accent, Alexandra pasted on a smile instead. “I can teach you drawing room French in a day. That will suffice for now.”

Rose slumped in her chair and sighed. “I’m already getting a headache.”

Alexandra felt a headache coming on, as well. “Nonsense,” she said brightly. “We’ll begin at once.”

“Oh, all right.” The girl nodded. “What sort of bird is a flamingo, anyway?”

Ah, academic curiosity, after all
. “A…tall, long-legged, pink one. It gets its unique coloring from eating shrimp found—”

“Does it look anything like a swan?”

She sighed. “Somewhat. With a slightly larger beak. They are known to—”

“A larger
beak
?” Rose shrieked, and began crying again.

“Damnation,” Alexandra muttered, and scooted her
chair closer to pat the girl on the back. “There, there, don’t fret now.”

“Where is my nephew?” Fiona demanded, sweeping into the breakfast room. Her orange hair, tied into ribbons to promote curling, stood out in every direction, eclipsing the faint sunlight peeking in through the window.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dela—”

“It is
not
a good morning. Where is Lucien?”

“He left nearly an hour ago, I believe,” Alexandra answered when Wimbole vanished out the door. “Is something amiss?”

“Of course something is amiss. My maid has informed me that he’s gone off to have a picnic today, with some marquis’s daughter!”

“Yes?”

“Yes! He leaves my poor Rose here all alone so he can go spend time with complete strangers! I am shocked. Shocked and aghast!”

“Well,” Alexandra began slowly, “I’m certain he—”

“No! Do not try to comfort me! Rose, you must work harder if we are to soften Lucien’s heart.”

“Yes, Mama.”

With that, Lucien’s aunt fled back upstairs, calling for muffins and chocolate to settle her nerves in time for her luncheon. Alexandra was ready for a stiff brandy herself.

Despite what the earl had told Wimbole, he showed no sign of returning home in time for dinner. Alexandra spent another two hours after the evening’s meal with Mrs. Delacroix, listening to her new-gathered gossip and an accompanying diatribe on scandalous Paris trends and the shameful new fashion of dampening one’s chemise to make the dress fabric cling to one’s curves.

Finally she escaped into the library with a glass of warm milk and an edition of Byron’s poetry. She could just as easily have retreated to her bedchamber, but she knew very well why she didn’t.

Just why she felt the need to wait up for the earl required a much more complicated answer, one she wasn’t quite ready to think through. All day she’d caught herself staring off into space, remembering the caress of his mouth on hers. His shocking propositions didn’t seem quite so outrageous when she thought of how very well he kissed. She would never do anything about it, of course. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel warm and even flattered. Lord Kilcairn knew much more of the world than she did, and still he claimed to desire her.

“I wasn’t aware that young, single ladies were supposed to read Byron,” his low voice mused from the doorway.

She jumped. “Most gentlemen don’t seem to be aware that women should read at all.” Alexandra took in his impeccable dress and the intelligent gray eyes that seemed to study every gesture she made, and felt herself growing warm and fluttery all over again. “How was your picnic?”

He scowled. “Hellish. How was your day with the harpies?”

“I assume you refer to Mrs. Delacroix and Miss Delacroix? Very productive, thank you. And Mrs. Delacroix has become acquainted with Lady Halverston, who shares her negative views on the trend of dampening chemises.”

“It’s the best damned trend since bare breasts on Amazons.” He sat in the chair opposite her. “Is Rose ready for dinner tomorrow?”

“You might have asked me that before you accepted
the invitation,” she said, closing the book and setting it aside.

“I don’t intend to design my social schedule to accommodate my cousin’s governess,” he said without heat. “If it matters, I have been selective in my choices for my dear cousin. And for my aunt, though you might not believe it.”

“Yes, I had noticed,” she answered, annoyed at his arrogance and knowing he was deliberately behaving that way. Kilcairn apparently
liked
being insulted by her, so not obliging him would simply be rude. “I wouldn’t have expected someone of your reputation to know so many staid peers.”