How to Disgrace a Lady. Bronwyn Scott
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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.