How to Disgrace a Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘Better?’ St Magnus enquired, needing only a pair of eye glasses to look the consummate college professor, albeit a very handsome one.

  ‘Yes, much better, thank you.’ What was wrong with her? She did not usually think in such terms. Then again, she wasn’t in the habit of taking kissing lessons from men she hardly knew either.

  Alixe scanned the document. It didn’t take long to see his interpretation was correct. ‘It seems so obvious now that you’ve pointed it out. The rest of the document should translate easily from this point.’ His translation made perfect sense. Really, it was a marvel she’d missed it.

  Too bad swallowing her pride wasn’t as simple. She was a historian, even if she had been self-trained. She’d had the benefit of tutors and a fine education up until Jamie had left for Oxford. How was it that a well-educated person like herself had not seen what Merrick had noted immediately? She scribbled some notes on a tablet and then looked up, considering. Morning sunlight streamed through the long windows of the library, turning his buttermilk hair to the pale flax of corn silk. ‘How is it that you know so much about French?’ It seemed patently unfair this gorgeous male should also be in possession of an intellect. He’d demonstrated on two separate occasions that intellect was quite well developed.

  ‘It’s the language of love, ma chère.’ Merrick flashed her one of his teasing grins. ‘I didn’t have to be a genius to see all the uses I could find for it.’

  Alixe wasn’t satisfied. He knew far more than a passing phrase for impressing the ladies. ‘Don’t trivialise your skill.’ The vehemence of her defence startled them both. ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t have a brain. Not with me anyway.’

  An awkward silence followed in the wake of her outburst. It was one of those moments when they stepped outside their prescribed roles of rake and blue stocking and the revelation that had followed was nothing short of surprising. It was difficult to think of her and Merrick having something so significant in common.

  ‘You studied French at Oxford. I hardly think the curriculum there was limited to a few bon mots.’ Alixe cast about for a way to restore equilibrium to the conversation, not entirely comfortable with what she’d learned.

  ‘Have you ever considered that Oxford might be overrated?’ Merrick leaned back in his chair, propping it up on its hind legs, his hands tucked behind his head, an entirely masculine habit. He tried for evasion. ‘Rich men send their sons to Oxford to get an education when they know full well we spend most of our days and nights carousing in the taverns and getting up to all nature of mischief. It’s a different sort of education than the ones the dons intend for us. Our fathers don’t care as long as we don’t get sent down in disgrace.’ There was a bitterness that underlay the levity of his tone.

  ‘Jamie mentioned there was time for a few larks.’ Alixe got up from the table and absently strode to one of the long windows to take in the morning sun. ‘But I don’t believe you picked languages entirely on whim.’ She wouldn’t let him get away with skirting the question. Evasion was an unexpected strategy from a man who’d stood on the edge of the pond unabashedly naked.

  ‘I like to talk and languages are another way to talk. At the time it seemed like a kind of rebellion. I liked the idea of being able to say something that can’t quite be said in English.’

  ‘Such as …?’ Alixe faced him, her back to the window. She’d not have guessed a discussion of his personal life would send this extroverted man into full retreat, discreet as the retreat was. It touched her in dangerous ways that he would be vulnerable. It made him far more human than she’d like.

  Merrick gave a lift of his shoulders. ‘Like esprit de l’escalier. It means thinking of a retort after the moment has passed. Diderot introduced the phrase in one of his works.’

  ‘The spirit of the staircase?’ Alixe quizzed, absently lifting her hair off her neck and then letting it spill through her hands in a careless gesture as she pondered the phrase. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  Merrick was studying her with his blue eyes. She shifted uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Something had changed in the moments since her comments. The air had become charged with a sweet tension that implied impending action.

  ‘Do that again,’ Merrick ordered, a low-voiced demand edged in sensuality. ‘Pull up your hair and let it sift through your fingers.’

  She did as he commanded. He’d risen from his chair. He was stalking her now, with his eyes and his body, coming towards her in slow strides, his eyes locked on hers. She did it again, raising her hands to gather up the thick length of her hair, her teeth delicately worrying her bottom lip subconsciously. She wasn’t aware she’d even done it.

  ‘Ah, yes, Alixe, very good. Every man likes the innocent wanton,’ Merrick whispered, lifting his arms to take her hair in his own hands. She trembled at the feel of his warm hands skimming her shoulders as he dropped her hair. Her stomach tightened in anticipation. He was going to seduce her again as he had the day before. She ought to resist. There was nothing here but another lesson.

  ‘My Alixe, your body is so much more eager than you know.’ He leaned in, feathering a light kiss against her neck in the hollow beneath her ear.

  A moan escaped her lips and she swayed towards him, all thoughts of resisting vanished in the wake of the curious warmth that spread through her, conjured there by his touch, his kiss, his words. Her face was between his hands and her mouth was open beneath his. With her eyes shut, it seemed all her senses were heightened. She was acutely aware of the feel of his hips pressed ever so gently against hers. The clean smell of him enveloped her—she could make it out now, a light fougère layered with oak and moss, a hint of lavender and something else that called to mind grass on a summer day—and the taste of him was in her mouth, the sweetly pungent remnants of morning coffee.

  With the morning to guard her, Alixe had thought she’d be safe from him and the wickedness he awoke in her. She had imagined such seduction could not occur in the bright light of day. She should have known better. The afternoon had not served her well yesterday.

  Her hands needed somewhere to go and it only seemed right that they should anchor in the buttermilk depths of his hair. The move pulled her closer to him, her breasts pressed against the masculine planes of his chest. This was most wicked of her and in the light of the window, too …

  ‘Oh!’ The realisation was enough to make her jump, a hand hastily covering her mouth. ‘The window! Anyone might see us.’ She knew she was clumsy in her panicked retreat past him to the relative safety of the table.

  Merrick only laughed, in no hurry to back away from the window. Why had she thought he’d react differently? It was all a game to him, one of the many games he played.

  ‘Oh, hush!’ she scolded.

  ‘I do believe you are a hypocrite, Alixe Burke.’ Merrick returned to the table and resumed his seat, eyes full of mischief.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Alixe seethed. She’d been caught out again by that scoundrel.

  ‘Yes, you do, you little fool.’ Merrick gave a warm chuckle. ‘Look at you, sitting there with your straight back and folded hands like a genteel angel all worried about propriety when moments ago you were the very devil in my arms and propriety be damned.’

  Alixe’s face burned. She could not gainsay the truth. He was right. She’d been all hot abandon and it was positively disgraceful. She could not argue otherwise.

  ‘Come now,’ Merrick coaxed, ‘there’s no need to be ashamed. Why not admit you enjoy our lessons?’

  ‘There can be no more lessons, as you call them.’ Alixe made an attempt to return her attentions to the manuscript. He’d shown her his vulnerable side and she’d shown him hers. She was certain it was far more than either had intended.

  Merrick was letting her stew. She didn’t dare look up, but she could hear him rifling through book pages and shuffling papers. She pretended to read and scribble some illegible notes in the margins and waited. />
  ‘You do realise you’re in an enviable position to combine business with pleasure. You should make the most of it,’ Merrick said casually at last, not bothering to look away from his papers.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that,’ Alixe replied with the aloofness that had staved off most of male London.

  It didn’t freeze Merrick in the least. If anything, it had the opposite effect, encouraging him to indecently honest conversation.

  ‘Most young women would like to be in your position, privy to the secrets I can teach you.’ He leaned back again in his chair, his feet hooked about the front legs. ‘Perhaps your father has accidentally started a new fad: coaching one’s daughter in the ways of Eve.’

  Alixe slammed down her notebook. She was angry at herself for having proved so gullible as to allow herself to be seduced. She was angry at her father for forcing her into this situation and most of all she was angry at Merrick, who refused to be anything but outrageous. ‘My father may have blackmailed you into this, but he did not expect you to take such liberties. You were only assigned to raise interest in me. I dare say that can be done without the “lessons” you’ve apparently designed for my edification.’

  Merrick was thoughtful for a moment. ‘All right. No more lessons unless you ask for them. However, I do need to raise interest in you and you must allow me to do my duty—’

  ‘Without kissing, without excessive touching beyond what is expected in polite society,’ Alixe interrupted.

  ‘Agreed,’ Merrick said without hesitation.

  ‘Agreed,’ Alixe answered with equal swiftness. But deep down, her confidence faltered. She’d got her terms. There’d be no more moments like the one at the villa, like the one in front of the window. But she was going to pay—she just couldn’t determine how.

  Or when.

  Chapter Ten

  Four days into their agreement, Alixe was regretting it. Merrick had kept his word. He’d not kissed her, not tempted her to wanton passions, at least not in any way she could take issue with. He’d kept his part of the agreement, holding to the letter of the proverbial law, if not the spirit of it.

  Even the slightest of his touches at her elbow managed to send frissons of anticipation through her, reminding her of other, less-decent touches, and of possibilities that existed if she would only ask for them. Mostly those touches reminded her that this was all her fault. The frustration that plagued her late at night alone in bed was of her own doing.

  He was doing it on purpose, but she couldn’t prove it, just as she couldn’t substantiate the niggling feeling that the other shoe still hadn’t dropped.

  And then it did with a resounding clatter bright and early one morning when she’d least expected it. Of course, that was how it always happened. She should have known.

  Alixe awoke to a sun-soaked room, well aware that today held both excitement and danger. Today was the day she was to take her completed translation to Vicar Daniels and help set up the historical society’s display for tomorrow’s fair in the village. That was the exciting part. The danger was what the fair stood for—a day closer to the departure to London and the fate that awaited her there.

  She was keenly aware the house party had reached its zenith and was careening towards its conclusion: the fair in the village followed two days later by her mother’s much-anticipated midsummer ball. And she had failed to stop it—not the ball, but her imminent departure.

  It wasn’t all she’d failed at. She’d failed to shake Merrick from her side and where she’d failed, he’d succeeded magnificently. She might not be the Toast of London yet, but she’d become the Toast of the house party. Merrick’s presence at her side ensured a heightened interest in her that not even her plain, unobtrusive garb could counteract. Being in his company made her visible to others.

  She had not noticed until it was too late that he’d orchestrated their days into an easy pattern—mornings spent in the quiet seclusion of the library working on the manuscript where they were joined at times by Jamie or Ashe pursuing their own projects. During the afternoons, she and Merrick were taken up with various groups until no one even considered inviting Merrick without her. They played lawn bowls with Riordan and the young bucks he’d gathered whom he felt met his standard of debauchery. There was croquet and a badminton match against Ashe and Mrs Whitely. Merrick cheered from the sidelines for her at an impromptu archery contest among the young ladies and he saw to it that she stood beside him while he and Ashe engaged a pair of bragging riflemen in a friendly competition of marksmanship.

  She had never lived like this before. She’d never allowed herself to as part of her self-imposed exile from society. She was discovering it was fun to be the centre of a group, to play and to laugh. Most of all it was fun to be with Merrick and it was easy to forget why he was with her.

  Such forgetfulness was her biggest failure. He was luring her to London and then he’d disappear when his job was done. It had to stop. Today would be a day to start afresh in her campaign of resistance. The first thing to do was get dressed. She had a dress in mind, a sallow-yellow muslin that did nothing for her complexion.

  With renewed determination, Alixe threw open the doors to her wardrobe, expecting to be met with the usual chaos that lay inside, stockings and ribbons peeking out of drawers where she’d haphazardly stuffed them. But there was nothing. It took a moment to digest the vision. Her wardrobe was entirely empty.

  She had no clothes.

  The olive dress she’d worn to the summer house was gone. The grey riding habit was gone. The pale-blue dinner gown she’d worn the first night was gone. There wasn’t even a dressing robe she could throw over her nightrail. Alixe reached for the bell pull and yanked. There was something odd about all this. Wardrobes didn’t simply disappear and Meg was far too experienced of a maid to do all the laundry at once.

  Meg arrived in record time, having trouble hiding a smile. Alixe eyed her suspiciously. ‘You seem happy today.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s the prospect of the fair tomorrow.’ Meg nearly giggled. ‘Lord St Magnus’s man, Fillmore, has asked if he could walk down with me.’ Wonderful—now Merrick had got his well-manicured claws into her maid.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the fair, too, only I’m afraid I won’t be able to go since I haven’t anything to wear.’ Alixe gave a dramatic sigh. Meg had the good sense to look slightly sheepish.

  ‘My wardrobe is empty, Meg. Do you know anything about that?’

  Meg’s sunny smile returned in full force. ‘That’s because you have all new clothes, my lady. Isn’t it exciting?’

  Alixe sat down hard on the bed. ‘How is that possible? I haven’t ordered anything.’

  Meg opened the door and gestured out into the hallway. Her room began to fill with a procession of maids carrying box after box in all assorted shapes and sizes. ‘It’s all Lord St Magnus’s doing, although I helped him a bit since he couldn’t very well go rummaging around a lady’s bedroom.’

  Alixe listened, stunned. With Meg’s help it hadn’t been difficult to determine sizes. Nor had it been difficult to spirit her old gowns away, which had apparently been done last night while she was down at dinner.

  Meg held up a white-muslin walking dress sprigged with pink flowers. ‘This will be perfect for today, my lady. There’s a light shawl in pink and a matching parasol to go with it.’

  The gown was lovely in its simplicity, but it was not drab. She wanted her gowns back. She felt comfortable in them. She knew her limits in them. She needed them. Without them, her plans would fall apart. How could she convince St Magnus she was hopeless if she showed up wearing that pretty creation?

  Yet what choice did she have? If she didn’t put it on, there was nothing else to wear. She’d spend the day in her room, an unpalatable option. She’d miss the fair, miss seeing her manuscript on display and she’d have to explain why. The explanation sounded petty even to her. She couldn’t very well argue she wasn’t going downstairs because sh
e had nothing to wear when there were boxes piled up in her room full of new clothes.

  This all assumed Merrick would allow her to remain in her room. She fully expected he wouldn’t. If she failed to appear for the departure to the fair, he’d come charging up here to demand the reason why. There she’d sit in her nightclothes without a robe to cover herself. Those blue eyes of his would run over her body and he would say something provocative that would make her blush, then something that would make her laugh and forget his insolence. At which point, she’d give up being angry. She would dress because she had no good reason not to that didn’t sound childish and they would go about their day.

  ‘My lady, should we dress?’ Meg was still standing there, holding out the pretty muslin.

  ‘Yes,’ Alixe decided. She would not wait for the fight to come to her. The only way to stop Merrick would be to best him. ‘Where is Lord St Magnus, Meg? I want to thank him, personally.’

  ‘I believe Fillmore mentioned he was already at breakfast with Mr Bedevere on the verandah.’

  Alixe grinned. Perfect. She knew exactly what to do. A stop by Merrick’s rooms was in order. She was about to redefine sartorial elegance for him and return the ‘favour’.

  Ashe and Merrick sat at a small table on the verandah, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Most of the ladies had opted for trays in their rooms. Other male guests ate in the breakfast room or at small tables nearby, taking in the coolness of the summer morning before the heat of the day.

  ‘Riordan’s not up yet?’ Merrick enquired.

  Ashe shrugged. ‘We won’t see him until noon and when we do, he’ll be as growly as a bear. Celibacy and hangovers don’t mix well for him.’