“Has it?” muttered Alexia.
The earl began to tuck the blankets about his wife. His large hands were unexpectedly gentle. Touching his preternatural spouse, his canines disappeared. In that brief moment, he was mortal. “Are you meeting with the Shadow Council tonight?” he asked. Alexia considered. Was it Thursday? “Yes.”
“You are in for an interesting conference,” advised the earl, goading her.
Alexia sat up, undoing all of his nice tucking. “What? Why?” The blankets fell, revealing that Lady Maccon's endowments were considerable and not fabricated through fashionable artifice such as stuffed corset or too tight stays. Despite nightly familiarity with this fact, Lord Maccon was prone to dragging her onto secluded balconies at balls in order to check and “make certain” this remained the case.
“I am sorry for waking you so early, my dear.” There was that dreaded phrase again. “I promise I shall make it up to you in the morning.” He waggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously and leaned down for a long and very thorough kiss.
Lady Maccon sputtered and pushed at his large chest ineffectually.
“Conall, what is going on?”
But her irritating werewolf of a husband was already away and out of the room.
Parasol Protectorate 01 - Soulless Page 31
