by Eloisa James
“No wonder she’s so plump.” He squatted down and caressed the skunk’s ears. Sweetpea swung up her tail, lost her balance, and went nose down into the dirt.
Alaric scooped her up. She looked even smaller in his large hand. “You are not a good walker.” His deep voice was coaxing and affectionate.
Sweetpea touched her nose to his.
“She’s kissing you,” Willa said, smiling.
“Let’s try again,” Alaric said, setting Sweetpea back on the path. Willa’s throat grew tight at the sight of the huge man, a warrior if there ever was one, bending over her pet.
Once again, Alaric hadn’t bothered to put on a wig or powder his hair. Dark locks fell over his forehead and around his neck as he gently traced the pretty white stripe that began at Sweetpea’s nose and ended in her plumy tail. “She’s a beauty,” he said, straightening.
“More importantly, she is remarkably polite, as well as curious,” Willa said. “This morning she dragged my slippers from under the bed and brought them to me.”
“A man of the Meskwaki tribe once told me that skunks are wiser than cats and more loyal than dogs.”
“Does an American sable even exist?”
“No. Sweetpea is a skunk. No one there would make a skunk into a fur stole, since they are famous for their odor. Thus the fancy name.”
“Sweetpea doesn’t smell,” Willa protested. Then she laughed along with Alaric. “Or not very much. After a bath, she smells woodsy, like an autumn forest. I haven’t had a chance to say thank you,” she said, feeling a surge of gratitude. “I adore her. I always wanted a cat, but I agree with your wise man. Sweetpea is better than a cat.”
“Cats are fairly uninterested in their owners,” Alaric agreed. His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“I left my knotting bag hanging from a chair overnight,” Willa said, the words tumbling out. “She pulled it down, and took everything out. She didn’t break anything, although my locket suffered.”
“How so?”
“Gold is easily marked by sharp teeth.”
Something twisted in the area of Willa’s heart every time Alaric laughed. It endangered the shell she had constructed around the inner her. The shell she’d built after her parents died, and she’d turned into Lady Gray’s perfect daughter.
“What is it like to travel?” she asked impulsively.
“There are long days when nothing happens,” Alaric said. “Weeks spent on a ship without an island in sight, and nothing but a trunk of books and some grumpy sailors for company.”
“You read all day?” It sounded like heaven.
He nodded. “You read, fish, listen to salty tales. Watch for whales and bad weather. At length, a shore appears. Contrary to those engravings, I have no interest in danger, but I am fascinated by the different ways people live.”
Sweetpea clambered into her basket and curled against the silk lining.
“Do you like roses?” Alaric asked.
“Yes, certainly,” Willa said. “The white ones are so beautiful.”
To her surprise, he took a knife out of his boot and began gathering a bouquet. His face was all the more beautiful for the austerity of his black coat. He was confident but not arrogant, likely the distinction that allowed him to walk into the midst of a tribe like the Meskwaki. Listen to their stories, eat with them, walk away undisturbed.
“The Meskwaki?” Willa repeated. “What a curious name. You don’t make up any of the stories in your books, do you?”
He turned to her, his arms full of white roses. “The world is a strange place. I’ve never had to embroider the truth. I’ll send a footman back for these so that I can carry Sweetpea’s basket.” He put them to the side of the path.
Willa suddenly realized that she would forever associate the perfume of those roses with Alaric. White roses would bring to mind smiling blue eyes, shoulders too broad for their coat, honey skin marked by a scar.
The scar gave him a wickedly rakish quality.
She could feel pink creeping up her neck. “Lord Alaric—”
“Not ‘Lord Alaric,’ ” he said firmly. “We have already agreed on that. I am Alaric and you are Willa. Actually, I learned from Aunt Knowe that you are Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche. I like Everett. Is that your mother’s name?”
“Yes.”
Most improperly, Alaric reached out and ran a hand over her hair. “I was curious to know what color it was and here it is: dark as midnight without a moon.”
“I prefer not to powder,” Willa confessed. “It’s so tiresome to wash out.”
“Obviously, I feel the same.” He had a half-smile now, direct and yet subtle. “My brother says I resemble a blacksmith.”
“It doesn’t appear to chase away your admirers,” Willa said, before she thought.
“Does it chase away detractors like yourself?”
“I’m not a detractor,” she said primly. “I now accept that the stories you recount are true.”
Alaric bit back a smile.
Willa Everett pretended to primness, but he saw through her now. She was adventuresome, but not reckless. Intelligent and logical. Funny. Behind that placid demeanor, she was funny.
“Thank you for the roses,” she said. “I’ve never had so many at once.”
“It’s mating fervor,” he said thoughtfully.
Her brows drew together. “ ‘Mating fervor’?”
Too late, he remembered that a gentleman shouldn’t discuss mating with a gently bred young lady. He shrugged mentally. “Haven’t you noticed that when spring comes, all the male animals begin flinging themselves around, trying to impress the female of their choice?”
“Like your peacock Fitzy?”
“And my brother North,” he said wryly.
Before she could hide it, he saw that she agreed.
“I need a friend more than a mate. One who isn’t impressed by Lord Wilde,” he added.
“Lavinia would be an excellent choice,” Willa suggested, her bright gaze making him want to laugh again. “She would do an excellent job of keeping your bravado in check.”
He shook his head. “Lavinia’s collection of prints makes her ineligible for friendship.”
“What if I read your books, and succumb to the appeal of Lord Wilde?” Her expression made it clear that was most unlikely.
“I wouldn’t discourage you.” He couldn’t stop grinning at the thought.
“It won’t happen.”
Willa was so sure of herself that the urge to prove her wrong ripped through every pretense of civilization that clung to him, childhood training, everything.
“Will you accompany me back to the house?” she asked, seeming not to notice his hungry gaze. Like a gazelle frolicking in sight of a tiger, he thought.
“Are we friends?”
No gazelle had such a direct gaze, unwavering and solemn, as Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche. “We shall be friends,” she said, nodding, “but only if you don’t try any nonsense.”
“Meaning what?”
She waved her hand. “You know what I mean. Gallantry.”
“I’m not known for gallantry.”
“The way you bend your head to listen to Lady Biddle,” she said. “And there’s that look. The look you have right now!”
“The one where I’m suppressing a smile because I can make neither head nor tail of the conversation? Helena Biddle has left for London, by the way. I have also informed Miss Kennet of my penchant for dark-haired women.”
“You do realize that ladies often dye their hair?” she asked, with that contained smile that made him half-mad. “Poor Eliza will probably appear at breakfast tomorrow with hair the color of Sweetpea’s fur.”
“How old were you when your parents died?” he asked, picking up the basket and turning back toward the castle.
“Nine years old.”
“A difficult age for a girl.”
“How on earth would you know?”
“My sisters. When Boadicea was nine, she was a ter
ror.”
“I haven’t met your younger siblings. Did you say ‘Boadicea’?”
Alaric nodded. “We are all named after warriors. Boadicea prefers Betsy, and Spartacus insists on being called Wilder, after spending his nursery years as Sparky.”
“Wilder?”
“I believe it is something of a jest; I am accused by my siblings of having ruined our last name with my books,” Alaric admitted.
“They do have intriguing titles,” Willa said in a tone of reserved congratulation.
But he was coming to know her. She was most polite when she was most disapproving. “You don’t like Wilde Sargasso Sea?” he asked, glancing at her. “That’s my favorite title.”
“I prefer Wilde Latitudes, if only for the boldness of renaming a significant part of the world after oneself.”
“Ouch,” Alaric said, with a grin. “In case you’re wondering, I believe that my writing days are over.”
“Over?” Her voice squeaked, waking up Sweetpea, who looked around groggily.
Alaric carefully rocked the basket back and forth; Sweetpea tucked her nose under her tail again and lapsed into sleep. “I fancy new challenges. I own an estate near here that my brother has been managing for me.”
He looked up to find her blue eyes assessing him. That’s right, he thought to himself—not letting anything but friendship show on his face—I am an agreeable man. I will stay in England and spend my days peacefully tending to my estate. I am an excellent prospect for marriage.
“I see,” she said. “As opposed to fighting off pirates, now you’re going to spend your time paying morning calls?”
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“No.”
“Paying a call on a pirate is not so different from a visit to a duke,” Alaric observed.
Willa was enormously relieved to discover they had reached the castle walls. They were carrying on two conversations at once, and she wasn’t certain that she understood the second.
Alaric’s face was harsh in its angles: the way his eyebrows flared above his eyes, the line of his jaw, the shape of his nose. It was the face of a man who strolled into a den of pirates and made friends.
He probably looked at the pirates the way he looked at her: with that piercing interest backed by raw, masculine strength. She wanted him to look at her again. To listen to her. To ask her questions.
To put his arms around her.
Willa’s heart was beating a syncopated rhythm that she’d never experienced before. Part of her—the logical part—was thinking, Flee. Flee.
Flee before he strolls in, sits by your fire, takes your stories and possibly your heart, and walks away just as casually.
And yet … he was big and strong. He would take the world and make it into a smaller, protected place.
“Thank you for the walk,” she said, marshaling years of careful civility.
He put the basket down and took a step toward her. Her back touched the castle’s stone wall.
“What’s the matter?” Alaric asked.
“Nothing,” she said, giving him a little push in the chest.
“Willa.”
The way he looked down at her surprised the truth out of her. “I do not believe that you are back in England for good.”
“Why not?”
“You’re an explorer—” Her voice died out because he was tracing the plane of her cheek with one finger.
“I’m getting old.” He was so close that the minty smell of his breath washed over her face.
“You are not old.” The look in his eyes suggested that she was about to be kissed.
She’d been kissed before. She and Lavinia had decided a great deal could be learned about a man by allowing a small intimacy. Both of them had been kissed by a reasonable number of men—eight in the case of Lavinia and two in hers.
Alaric’s mouth came close to hers, hovered, and waited. That was part of his allure. He didn’t take, from the pirates or anyone else.
He waited for an invitation. The nearness of him was like kindling, making pinpricks of fire spark throughout her limbs.
Willa felt the weight of her eyelashes sweeping down as her eyes closed. It was acceptance. Joyful acceptance. His hand slid under her hair, curled around her neck, pulling her closer. Finally his lips brushed hers, asking a silent question.
Willa welcomed him, opening her lips. His tongue took her mouth with an assured, slow masterfulness that made her ache with need, though his touch was still light. His hand clung to her neck but his body didn’t touch hers.
Enough, she thought. Yet reining in her desire felt like reining in the dusk. Or the rain. Something real, natural, uncontrollable.
That thought was absurd enough to make her eyes snap open. Alaric was looking directly at her, his blue eyes slumberous.
She gave him another push, her hand flat on his chest. He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat; under the fine cambric of his shirt his chest was hard with muscle.
“You surprise me, Willa.” His gravelly voice skittered along her skin and made her shiver with the sudden wish to demand another kiss.
He tilted up her chin and licked her lips, teasing her mouth open, then stroking inside. Their mouths clung together as Willa’s heart beat faster. He tasted potent, like brandy heated over an open flame.
“Willa,” he said. And then, again, heavily, “Willa.” He shook his head. “The name doesn’t suit you.”
“Wh-what?” she managed.
“Willa is cool and dispassionate. Willa kisses a man to know whether she could bear to meet him over the breakfast table.”
It was somewhat shocking to hear him summarize her justification for kissing suitors so accurately.
“I would like to call you by a name that’s known only to the two of us,” he told her, brushing her mouth with his again.
She pulled away. “There’s no need for that.”
In her basket, Sweetpea stretched and yawned, little teeth flashing briefly in the sun.
“It’s time to return,” Willa said, wondering what on earth had got into her. She bent over and picked up the basket, holding it against her chest.
“Everett,” he said, looking at her.
It was her mother’s name, and the very sound of it made her smile. “That is not a proper name to call anyone,” she said. “It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“Ah, but it suits you. In another world, you’d be a man.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“But thank God, you’re a woman,” he added, eyes alight with amusement. And desire. “Everett,” he said again. Then: “Evie!”
Willa shook her head and circled him so she could return inside. She was finished with this dalliance. She had another kiss to add to her tally, which was good.
Experience was always valuable. Before she chose the man she would marry, that is. Her brain felt oddly woozy, but at the same time, her senses were keenly alive.
Alaric walked just behind her, at her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his body, and a hint of spearmint.
“Why do you taste and smell like mint?” she asked abruptly.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and breathed into her ear. “Do you like the way I taste, Evie? Because I love the way you taste.” He kissed her neck.
Willa shook him off. “This is not the way friends behave.” She hesitated, then turned and told him the truth. “I don’t wish to marry someone like you.”
His face stilled.
“My father was rash and impulsive. My mother as well. They died after he accepted a bet to drive a coach and four from Brighton to Croydon in under two hours.”
“An impossible goal,” he observed.
“I would never be comfortable or happy with someone with such an adventurous nature. Please do not importune me.”
He was silent as they headed back toward the front door of the castle. Once in the entry, he paused to tell Prism about the roses.
“Your maid is waiting fo
r you in your chamber, Miss Ffynche,” the butler said.
“What’s this?” Alaric asked, staring at a print stuck to the wall behind Prism.
Willa hadn’t seen that particular one, but the subject was clear: his jaw and eyebrows were all too familiar.
“It’s entitled Something Wilde,” she said, smiling as she took a closer look. “My goodness, just look at that bull you’re riding. What a rakish hat.”
“Why is it on the wall, Prism?” Alaric asked, his voice even.
“They’re hung all over the house, my lord,” the butler said, hastily taking it down. “As soon as I discover them, your brothers put up more.”
“My brothers?”
“Master Leonidas returned home with a great many prints in his luggage,” Prism said. “As you know, Mr. Sterling bought Mr. Calico’s entire collection yesterday; Master Spartacus claimed them, I believe. The nursery is papered in prints of Lord Wilde and they are multiplying about the castle like mice.”
Willa had been in danger of forgetting the reasons why Alaric was the wrong man to kiss, but the world intervened with a reminder just when she needed it.
“My lord,” she said, curtsying. She turned without further ado to climb the stairs.
A hand caught her elbow. “Evie,” Alaric said in a low voice.
She steeled her heart against those blue eyes. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Chapter Sixteen
Wherever Alaric looked, he found the hellish prints. The escutcheon on the dining room side table boasted two, the candelabra in the drawing room was doing duty as a picture hanger, and the fireplace in the morning room was adorned with three versions of himself with Empress Catherine.
He tore them all down as he went. When he reached the breakfast room—hearing giggles floating from just outside the door—and found two more images of himself (entitled Wilde Revealed), he gave up.
It wasn’t the prints making emotions rampage around his chest. It was the look in Willa’s eyes.
For a moment she had looked stricken, and then her eyes had gone utterly blank. Courteous, but blank. The empty face that she presented to the world: that of the governed, perfect lady.
His kiss had only momentarily shattered her façade.
But he was coming to realize that he had shattered more than her reserve. Something inside himself had changed, too. He felt a sudden, desperate need to turn back the clock. Push her, force her, into acknowledging Alaric, rather than Lord Wilde.
