The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes. Bronwyn Scott
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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 tantalising mixture of oak and lavender, with something mysterious beneath.
‘I doubt it unless you have some familiarity with Old French.’ She meant to be rude, meant to drive him off with her high-handed manner. How dare he walk into her life unannounced and stir things up? And not even mean to do it. He was a stranger who knew nothing about her. He had no idea of what his mere presence had done. She’d just reached a point where she was happy with her choices, with devoting her life to her work. The very last thing she needed was to convince herself a man of St Magnus’s ilk appreciated her efforts and not her dowry. In the past, that road had been extremely dangerous, not to mention disappointing, to travel.
St Magnus’s next words stunned her. ‘It just so happens that I have more than a passing acquaintance with Old French.’
This flaxen-haired charmer with azure eyes was conversant in an obscure language? What he did next was even more astonishing. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He slid closer to her, oblivious to their thighs bumping beneath the table. She wasn’t oblivious, however. Every nerve in her body was acutely aware of each move he made.
‘The document isn’t that exciting.’ Alixe tried one last time to turn him away. ‘It’s just a farmer who writes about his livestock. He’s especially obsessed with his pigs.’
Merrick tilted his head and studied her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Just a farmer who writes? In this case, it’s not what he writes about that is important, it’s that he writes at all.’
The import of it struck her with a shocking clarity. In her hurry to translate the document she’d forgotten to look beyond the words on the page and into the context of the times in which it had been written. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘A farmer who is literate most likely isn’t only a farmer or a tenant renting fields, he’s probably of some status in the community.’
Merrick smiled. It was a different smile this time, one full of enthusiasm. ‘What’s the date of the document?’
‘My guess is mid-thirteenth century, about 1230.’
‘Post-Magna Carta,’ Merrick mused more to himself than to her. ‘Perhaps he is a self-made man, an early instance of the gentry class, not a noble or beholden directly to a king, but a man who has determined his own worth.’ He sounded almost wistful as he voiced his thoughts.
‘In pigs.’ Alixe smiled. ‘Don’t forget the pigs.’
Merrick chuckled. ‘Show me the pigs. After all your mentions of them, I want to read about them for
myself.’
Alixe passed him the pages on the pigs and he fell to reading them with surprising thoroughness, one long finger moving across the lines one word at a time, his eyes following. Within