The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes: How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
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