by Eloisa James
She disliked Lord Wilde. No, stubble it: Willa didn’t dislike anyone. She observed them, with the same friendly curiosity with which he observed people in other countries.
She was curious about her fellow Englishmen.
But … and this was a huge but … he thought she showed only her friend Lavinia her dizzy sense of humor. Remembering the way she looked at the little skunk—a stinky animal bred to be a fur scarf—made his chest tighten with crushing weight.
Willa deserved a peaceful life with a man who would keep her safe from vulgar eyes and gossiping tongues. A man whose face was plastered across half of England was ineligible. His notoriety meant that whoever married him would always be in the public eye.
Most of the guests were upstairs in their chambers, engaged in the elaborate process of dressing for dinner, the same process that would spit forth his brother as varnished and polished as a seashell. If he encountered one of those guests right now, especially a lady, the odds were that he would be greeted with a mixture of vulgar curiosity and awe.
Looking down at the prints in his hand, he went in search of his younger siblings. They’d been giggling outside the door only moments before, but now they’d vanished.
He found his sister Betsy alone in the nursery, where she seemed to be working on a large drawing.
“Where are they?” he demanded, tossing the prints to the side.
“The boys? I have no idea.” She bit her bottom lip as she concentrated.
Alaric felt a wave of affection. Betsy had been a mere girl when he’d left England, and now, at sixteen, she was nearly grown.
“What are you drawing?” he asked, coming closer.
She scowled at him and covered it with her arm. “Don’t!”
“No wonder there are so many of these things around the house,” he groaned, catching sight of her subject. “You’re creating them.”
Betsy grinned with all the evil mischief that his siblings had in force. “It’s only fair!” she cried. “Do you have any idea how much teasing I’ve endured because of you?”
Alaric frowned. “You have been teased?”
“You do know that I’ve been attending a seminary, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “When I left, you were here, with a governess.” He looked around. “Tall, gaunt woman?”
“Mr. Calico kept bringing her letters from a gentleman whom she knew in Kent,” Betsy said. “One day she climbed on the back of his wagon and left, without a word of warning. Papa was most displeased.”
“I imagine so.”
“But it turned out for the best, because Joan, Viola, and I were sent to school, which we love, except that all the girls have prints of you on their bedchamber walls.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I apologize,” Alaric said.
“So you should!” she cried, eyes sparkling. “I can’t tell you how many girls befriended me merely because they thought I would invite them home to meet you. Or introduce you later, once we debut.”
“That is unpleasant.”
“I agree,” Betsy said, turning back to her drawing. She moved her arm, enabling Alaric to get a good look. It wasn’t the nose he saw in the glass every morning, but the likeness wasn’t bad.
“What am I doing with that sword over my head?” he asked.
“You’re fighting a polar bear,” she said. “I shall put him in this blank space once I find a picture to copy, because I can’t remember what they look like. Right now I’m just trying to get your nose right. It keeps going overly long, if you see what I mean.”
“I do,” Alaric said, nodding. “If I actually resembled your portrait, I would lose the greater part of my female admirers, which would be a blessing.”
Betsy sighed. “I tried telling the girls scurrilous things about you, but it had no effect.”
“What scurrilous things?” Alaric inquired.
“Oh, that your lover had been cooked for a cannibal breakfast, and things like that.”
“Don’t tell me you were allowed to attend that blasted play?”
“Not yet, but I’ve heard all about it. Papa says that I will be able to see it, the next time we go to London. You might as well stop taking them down,” she said, almost kindly, as she gestured at the crumpled prints he’d brought with him. “Leonidas has lots more. He bought every copy he could find. He’s adding some embellishments and then he means to put his up tomorrow.”
“Embellishments,” Alaric said hollowly. “Such as?”
“Oh, whiskers and so on,” Betsy said. “Demon horns. He has some red ink so he can make a pretty devil’s tail …”
This was all going to be marvelously helpful when it came to courting Miss Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche.
“Do you suppose there’s anything I might do to dissuade him?”
“I do not,” Betsy stated. She was sketching rapidly now. The Alaric on the page held his sword above his head in such a position that he wouldn’t be able to fight off a sparrow, let alone a bear.
“The flat of the sword does nothing in a fight,” he observed.
She glanced up at him. “Do you think I care?”
“I suppose not,” Alaric said. Truth was relative; he knew it as well as his sister did. But he had the strange feeling that Willa saw things in a less ambiguous fashion.
For her, the stream of tawdry portraits that multiplied by the day would be evidence of his ineligibility, no matter his dislike of his own fame.
He left the nursery, trying to think how to rein in the maelstrom of public attention so it was acceptable to a reserved virgin with a dislike of celebrity. Nothing came to mind.
In fact, he would say that he was the antithesis of everything Willa wanted in a spouse.
A reluctant grin curled his mouth. One thing could be said for him—for all the Wildes, it seemed.
When they went down, they really went down.
Chapter Seventeen
The following evening
Lavinia burst into Willa’s room, eyes glowing. “Let’s go! We’re playing piquet this evening.” Lavinia adored card games; Willa, less so, because she disliked the element of surprise involved.
People behaved irrationally when playing card games. They bid high when they had a weak hand. They became fearful when a simple mental tally of the cards already played would tell them that they had a good chance of winning.
“We have to be the first to arrive,” Lavinia commanded, holding the door open. “Yesterday Mr. Silly Sterling dared to inform me that ladies are never on time. You look lovely, by the way.”
Willa’s deep amber gown was designed to emphasize her slender shape by parting to reveal a saffron petticoat that frothed around her feet.
It also left most of her bosom exposed. She didn’t have Lavinia’s generous shape, but everything she had was presented for admiration. She took a last look at the glass, slipped on the striped silk shoes made to match the gown, and followed Lavinia down the stairs.
Lavinia’s eagerness to prove Mr. Sterling wrong resulted in their being the first to arrive in the green salon, where several tables seating four or six persons had been set out, just enough to facilitate a lively game of piquet. No sooner had they entered the empty room than Alaric appeared, Parth Sterling in tow.
“Could that man look any more wretchedly ill-tempered?” Lavinia whispered as they approached. All the same, she greeted both of them with a wide smile. She had a tendency to become even more charming in the face of bad humor.
Willa thought it was a habit she’d developed as a child because her mother, Lady Gray, was so plagued by nerves.
“Good evening, Lord Alaric, Mr. Sterling,” Lavinia said, ignoring Mr. Sterling’s cantankerous look. She tucked her arm under his, uninvited. “Do walk me around the room,” she cooed. “You are a trifle early, though not as early as Willa and I were.”
Willa shook her head. For some reason, Lavinia was bent on tormenting the poor man.
Alaric moved forward as Lavinia towed his friend
toward the other side of the salon. “Your friend is a menace.”
“And yours is absurdly bad-tempered,” she countered.
“He likes to keep to himself, but Lavinia deliberately provokes him.”
“That’s true,” Willa acknowledged.
“It’s because the two of you are used to having every man in the vicinity at your feet,” Alaric said.
She shook her head. “Nothing parallel to your admirers, Lord Wilde. Any moment now, an adoring horde will surge through those doors.”
He looked down at her, eyes sober. “If I’d had the faintest idea that someone would write a farce about me, leading to this lunatic situation, I would never have written my first book.”
Willa put a hand on his arm, enjoying the corded strength under her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “It’s unfair. I never paid much attention to the reason for your fame, but I do see that it is unfair.”
His eyes lightened. “Do you know what is truly unfair?”
Willa’s heart thumped. When he had that expression … “What?”
“All these ladies are making pilgrimages to my home, and adoring me from afar, yet I can’t get the one woman I want to pay me any true attention.”
“I do pay you attention! We’re friends, remember?” The look in his eyes made her prickle with warmth all over her body.
He bent close. “I want close attention, Evie. Very, very close attention.”
Willa swallowed. “There are plenty of women who would give you whatever you wish.”
“Lady Biddle and her ilk are no competition for you.” Alaric’s voice was quiet. His eyes caught hers, and then he bent his head and his lips touched hers. Willa gasped, and his tongue darted between her lips, sending a lick of flame straight down her legs.
She should push him away; guests were sure to flood the salon any moment. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder. Lavinia and Parth Sterling were standing at the far end of the room, and from the looks of it, they were engaged in yet another pitched battle.
Alaric’s grin was pure, wicked fun. “No one is here to see us. Did I tell you that I haven’t given my attentions to a lady in a very long time? I might be out of practice.”
Willa’s mouth crooked up on one side despite herself. “Am I expected to offer advice?”
He bent his head to hers again. Broad, capable fingers cupped her face, tilting it just so. His were callused hands that knew how to unfurl a sail, how to climb a tree, how to scale a mountain.
Willa’s toes curled. She didn’t move, just looked into those beautiful eyes until Alaric’s mouth came down, eyes still locked with hers, and he plundered her mouth.
For a moment she luxuriated, arms wreathing around his neck, and then she began to plunder back, her tongue fencing with his. Every touch made her body tighten, like a clock being over-wound. A whimper rose in her throat, answered by a growl in his.
As if the sound brought Alaric back to himself, he moved back just enough to kiss her nose. “You’re mine,” he growled, low and sure.
“No,” she said. But she wasn’t as certain as she’d been the afternoon before. “I don’t …”
“I want you enough for both of us,” he said in her ear. The door to the drawing room opened, admitting a cluster of guests, and he stepped back. “And with all due respect to your father, Evie, I would never be reckless when it came to your safety, and I don’t make bets I can’t win. In fact, I don’t make bets at all.”
Willa snapped open her fan, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as rosy as they felt.
The duke and his sister walked in, heading directly toward the two of them. “Alaric, what do I hear about your entourage?” Lady Knowe said with a twinkle. “The duke just informed me that Lady Biddle has departed.”
“She has another party to attend,” Alaric said, his tone bland.
“Should we expect your other admirers to flee?” his aunt asked. “Goodness, we would be left with a nearly empty house.”
“After the initial flurry of excitement, perhaps our guests are recognizing that Alaric’s fame is all out of proportion,” His Grace said.
“Not if my siblings have anything to do with it,” Alaric said. “Those wretched prints are posted all over the house, and being hourly supplemented by the artistic efforts from the nursery.”
“They’re making new images?” Willa asked, intrigued.
“Paintings and sketches.” The duke gestured toward the fireplace, which was adorned with a sheet of foolscap which bore no resemblance to the room’s otherwise elegant furnishings.
His Grace went over to the mantelpiece, plucked the picture from it, and returned. He was holding a depiction of a stick figure surrounded by blobs that vaguely resembled animals, seeing as they had four legs and a great many sharp teeth.
“I was surprised to find such artistic talent in the family,” the duke said, the mischievous look in his eyes making him look much younger than his fifty-some years. “Here my son Erik represents Alaric—or rather, Lord Wilde—in the jungle. I might add that Erik is six years old.”
“Enthusiastic, but unpracticed,” Alaric said, looking it over.
“I like the way he portrays your teeth extending below your chin,” Willa said appreciatively. “When he’s a bit older, Erik will be able to draw your profile and sell it for five shillings.”
“By then, the market for those particular images will be gone.” Alaric sounded very sure of that.
“Someone has to depict your next decade’s adventures,” Lady Knowe said. “Why not a family member? I could set up my own stall in front of the theater. Lockets would be redundant, but original portraits are sure to sell.”
Alaric dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You surprise me, dear aunt. Who would have thought you proficient with watercolors? I have never seen you sewing a fine seam. Perhaps I’ll ask Mr. Calico to bring you an embroidery hoop.”
Prism entered the drawing room. “Lord Alaric, forgive me for interrupting, but a young woman is insistently requesting to see you. I have shown her to the library.”
Willa discovered, to her dismay, that she did not care for the fact that a lady was calling at this hour of the evening. That didn’t happen in the normal course of events. Ladies paid morning calls, with chaperones and family in tow.
“Not another one,” Lady Knowe groaned.
Alaric frowned. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“Pilgrimages,” his father explained with a sigh. “They want to see the place where you were born. They invariably request to be taken to the nursery so they can gaze at your hobbyhorse.”
Willa’s tension eased, but Alaric stiffened.
“That’s bloody nonsense.”
“Not in front of ladies,” his aunt scolded, ignoring the fact that she often cursed herself. “Your father and I have developed an excellent routine for dispatching such unwanted visitors. If you make an appearance it might overcome her sensibilities. I suppose I had better send Prism for spirit of hartshorn. Or sal volatile.”
“In case she swoons?” Willa asked, reluctantly fascinated.
“Lord Wilde’s admirers do occasionally feel faint on meeting members of his family,” the duke said dryly. “Lord knows what will happen if Lord Wilde himself makes an appearance.”
“I apologize,” Alaric said, his voice colorless.
“Do you mind if I inquire about your routine?” Willa asked, wishing she could put a hand on Alaric’s arm just … because.
“We terrify them,” Lady Knowe said, with all-too-obvious glee. “It comes naturally to my brother, but I have discovered a gift for it as well.” She drew herself up—which brought her almost to the duke’s height—and regarded them imperiously down the length of her nose.
“My goodness,” Willa exclaimed, impressed.
“Do they turn tail and run?” Alaric asked.
“Pilgrims have the courage of their convictions,” Lady Knowe said. “Some of them have even read your books. But after seeing
Wilde in Love twelve times—”
“Twelve?” The word exploded out of Alaric’s mouth.
“Or twenty,” his father confirmed.
“Poor Lord Wilde. Plagued by too much love,” Willa said, wanting to lighten Alaric’s expression.
He shot her a look that reminded her of their kiss, with no need for words. Heat washed into her face and she hastily brought up her fan.
The duke chuckled. “If you wish to join us in greeting the young lady, Alaric, you are more than welcome.”
He and Lady Knowe strolled away.
“This is remarkably distasteful.” Alaric’s jaw tightened.
Willa gave in to her impulse and put a hand on his arm, her fingers curling around his strength. “I think your father and aunt are enjoying themselves.”
“Will you—” He paused.
“Will I what?”
“Will you wait a few minutes and then come to the library on some pretext?” His eyes searched hers and Willa thought there was more than one question buried in his words.
How could she say no? He had kissed her, but even more than that, he had somehow become a friend.
A strange word for a man. She and Lavinia had many suitors, whom they flattered and bandied words with. But Alaric had somehow crashed through all that.
“Evie?” The word was a rasp.
“Yes, I will.” She frowned at him. “I am only agreeing to rescue you from your uninvited admirer. Nothing more.”
That smile?
The one he gave her now?
That was the arrogant smile depicted in the engravings. It was the smile of a man who had conquered mountains.
“Thank you.” He bowed and kissed her hand. His lips pressed against her fingers and his tongue—
She snatched her hand away. “Alaric!”
Chapter Eighteen
Alaric made his way to the library, feeling generous toward the lady who had made a pilgrimage all the way to Cheshire. Whoever she was.
