Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] Page 3

  “How long have you lived in London, Madame Larchmont?”

  She gave herself a mental shake and refocused her attention on him. He appeared perfectly relaxed, but he’d stretched out his left leg, the one he favored, and she wondered if it pained him. Although his face was cast in shadows, she could see he regarded her with polite interest.

  “I’ve lived in the city for several years,” she said, then adroitly changed the subject. “According to what I’ve heard, you haven’t been to London recently, but rather have been living at your family’s estate in Cornwall.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I much prefer it there. Have you ever been?”

  “To Cornwall? No. What is it like?”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “Beautiful, although if I had to choose only one word to describe it, I’d pick ‘peaceful.’ The smell and sound and sight of the sea are things I miss deeply whenever I leave.” He spread his arm across the back of his seat in a nonchalant gesture and regarded her with another of his inscrutable expressions—something she found both frustrating and oddly fascinating, as she could normally read people easily.

  “Tell me, my lord, did you mean what you said earlier about wanting me to read your cards?”

  His grin flashed. “Of course. I am always happy to indulge in a harmless diversion.”

  She hiked up a brow. “You do not believe in the power or accuracy of card readings?”

  “I cannot say that I’ve ever given the matter a great deal of thought. But I must admit that my initial reaction is one of skepticism in giving any credence to a deck of cards.”

  “You present me with a challenge, my lord, to change your mind.”

  “I assure you that changing my mind will indeed be a challenge. I fear things of a mystical nature go against my pragmatic temperament.”

  “Yet you are willing to give me an opportunity to convince you?”

  “Convince me of what, exactly?”

  “That the cards can tell of your past, present, and accurately predict your future. In the hands of the right fortune-teller.”

  “Which would be you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let us say I am willing to allow you to read my cards. Whether you can convince me”—he shrugged—“remains to be seen.”

  “I must warn you, it may require a fair amount of time for me to do so, as skeptics always take more effort.”

  He smiled. “You say that as if I should I be alarmed.”

  “Perhaps you should.” She returned his smile. “I’m paid for my readings in quarter-hour increments.”

  “I see. And your fee?”

  Without batting an eye, she named a figure triple her normal rate.

  His brows shot upward. “With fees like that, Madame, one might be tempted to call you a…”

  “Fortune-teller second to none?” she supplied helpfully when he hesitated.

  He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. His eyes glittered in the semidarkness as they stared into hers. “A thief.”

  Thank goodness for the lack of light, for she actually felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart stuttered, and it suddenly felt as if all the air inside the carriage had disappeared.

  Before she could recover, he leaned back and smiled. “But I suppose that when your services are in high demand, as I understand yours are, one must expect exorbitant prices.”

  His expression appeared perfectly innocent, yet she could not dismiss the uncomfortable sensation that she was a mouse to his cat. She moistened her dry lips, then arranged her features into a haughty expression. “Yes, one must expect exorbitant prices under those circumstances.”

  “For that much money, I’ll expect a great deal of information.”

  “I’ll tell you everything about yourself, Lord Sutton. Even things you may not wish to know.”

  “Excellent. I truly would like nothing better than for you to inform me whom I am destined to marry so I can begin courting the young lady. I’d like the entire process to be concluded as quickly as possible so I can return to Cornwall.”

  “How overly romantic of you,” she said in a dust-dry tone.

  “I fear there is nothing romantic about a man in my position looking for a wife. It’s really nothing more than a business arrangement. Which is why I suspect there are so many unhappy marriages amongst my peers.”

  She studied him for several seconds then said, “You sound almost…wistful.”

  “Do I? I suppose because my father recently remarried and my younger brother wed. Both are deliriously happy.” A ghost of a smile flashed across his lips. “And I’m happy for them. But I cannot deny that there’s a part of me that is envious. They both married for love.”

  “And you wish to do the same?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

  “It doesn’t matter if I wish to or not, as I do not have the luxury of basing my choice for a wife on the whims of the heart.” He turned to look out the window, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. She saw his face reflected in the window and was struck by his bleak expression. “Nor do I have the time to do so,” he murmured.

  Intriguing words she would have liked to question him about, but before she could do so, he returned his attention to her. His lips curved upward in a slow smile that curled unwanted awareness of him through her. Awareness that bathed her in an unaccustomed warmth, which had her fighting the urge to fidget in her seat.

  “But now I can hope that you will tell me that my future bride is a paragon,” he continued. “A diamond of the first water. A highborn lady of impeccable breeding who is not only the perfect candidate for my wife, but with whom I shall fall insanely, ridiculously in love.”

  While she wasn’t certain about his capacity for falling in love, she didn’t doubt for an instant that female hearts littered the paths he’d walked upon. “Is falling insanely, ridiculously in love your fondest wish?”

  “Actually, if my bride were tolerable and didn’t resemble a carp, I’d be quite satisfied.”

  “Hmmm. So long as she is wealthy and from an aristocratic family whose holdings mesh nicely with yours, she’ll do nicely?”

  “A rather blunt way of putting it, but yes.”

  “I would think that a man of your—how did you describe it?—oh, yes, your pragmatic temperament would appreciate plain speaking.”

  “I do. I’m simply not accustomed to receiving it from a lady. It’s been my experience that women tend to speak in riddles rather than simply saying what they mean outright.”

  “Really? How interesting as I’ve found gentlemen to be far less forthcoming than women.”

  He shook his head. “Impossible. Men are by nature straightforward creatures. Women are so much more—”

  “Clever?”

  “I was going to say devious.”

  His expression gave nothing away, and she again experienced that unsettling sensation that he was toying with her. Well, if he was, he was doomed to disappointment, as she had no intention of allowing him to be successful. “For a man who wishes to win a wife, you do not appear to hold my gender in very high esteem, my lord.”

  “On the contrary, I greatly admire the feminine art of cunning, evasive conversation.” He smiled. “I just wish I were more adept at translating the hidden meanings.”

  Alex adopted her most innocent expression. “I’m afraid I have no idea to what you’re referring.”

  “Then allow me to give you an example. When a lady says she isn’t upset, I’ve found she is more often than not, not only angry, but furious. Why not simply say, as a gentleman would, when asked, ‘Yes, I am upset’?”

  “At which time you gentlemen would drink an excess of brandy, then resort to fisticuffs or pistols at dawn.” She gave an elegant sniff. “Yes, that is much more civilized.”

  “At least it is honest.”

  “Really? Clearly, my lord, you’ve formed this opinion without benefit of engaging in enough conversations with gentlemen. In my experience, nearly eve
rything that comes out of their mouths is fraught with hidden meaning, and that other meaning nearly always has to do with things of an…amorous nature.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “For example,” she said, “when a gentleman compliments a woman on her gown, his gaze, invariably is riveted to her chest. Therefore, while he is saying ‘I like your gown’ what he means is ‘I like your décolletage.’”

  He nodded slowly. “Interesting. What does he mean if he says, ‘Would you care to dance?’?”

  “Surely you would know better than I, my lord.”

  A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps. But I am curiosity itself at this theory of yours that everything a man says means something else. What do you think he is saying?”

  “Would you care to dance?’ really means ‘I want to touch you.’”

  “I see. And ‘You look lovely’ means…?”

  “I wish to kiss you.’”

  “How about ‘Would you care for a stroll in the garden?’”

  “I hope to ravish you.’” She smiled and spread her hands. “You see? All merely polite euphemisms for what he really wants. Which is to—”

  “Bed her.”

  His softly spoken words hung in the air between them, reverberating through Alex’s mind, skittering heat to her every nerve ending. Clearly Lord Sutton wasn’t averse to plain speaking either. She inclined her head. “Yes.”

  “You are very cynical for one so young.”

  “Perhaps I am older than you think I am. And besides, I have the opportunity to observe a great deal of human nature in my work.”

  “And you’ve concluded that everything men say has a hidden meaning of a sensual nature.”

  “Yes.”

  “I must confess I’ve not found that to be the case.”

  Her lips twitched. “Most likely because you are not telling other gentlemen that you wish to dance with them, nor are they telling you that they like your gown.”

  “Ah. I see. So you’re saying that men are honest with other men—that it’s when we speak to women that the deceptions begin.”

  “I’ve no idea if you’re honest with each other, but when it comes to conversing with women, you most definitely speak in circles.”

  “And women most definitely speak in riddles, the majority of their words merely polite euphemisms for what they really want.”

  “And what do you imagine women want?”

  “A man’s money, his protection, and his heart—the latter on a diamond-encrusted platter, if you please.”

  She hiked up a brow. “Now who’s being cynical?”

  “Actually, I rather thought I was agreeing with you, only from the point of view of my own gender.”

  “So you’re saying that women are honest with other women—that it’s when we speak to men that the deceptions begin,” she said, playing upon his earlier words.

  “So it would seem. Makes one wonder if perhaps men and women should only speak of the weather.”

  She laughed. “You wish to remove all the nuances and sophistication from conversation, my lord?”

  “No. Just the deception.” He leaned his head back and regarded her through hooded eyes. “Which begs the question, have you and I been the victims of such deceptions tonight?”

  Her amusement faded, and she fought the urge to pluck nervously at the velvet of her cloak. “Since I have no need of your protection or your heart, and you are in search of an aristocratic wife, there is no need for deception between us.”

  He studied her for several seconds, and she found herself holding her breath. “I notice you did not say you’ve no need of my money,” he said softly.

  She slowly released her pent-up breath, then gifted him with a half smile. “Because I intend to see you part with a healthy bit of it in return for my fortune-telling services.”

  A clearly reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I certainly cannot fault you on your honesty, Madame. Indeed, your candor is downright frightening.”

  “You do not strike me as a man who is easily scared off, Lord Sutton.”

  “No, Madame. I most certainly am not.”

  His gaze bored into hers, and once again Alex found herself trapped in his compelling stare, unable to look away. Her mind went completely blank of anything to say, and he’d fallen silent as well. She was saved from trying to think of a new topic of conversation when the carriage slowed then stopped. He looked out the window.

  “We’ve arrived,” he said. He opened the door, stepped down, then held out his hand to help her alight. His strong fingers wrapped around hers, and heat sizzled up her arm. When her boots touched the cobblestones, he released her, and her fingers involuntarily curled inward, as if trying to retain that unsettling heat.

  “Thank you for the ride, Lord Sutton.”

  “You’re welcome. Regarding my card reading…are you free tomorrow afternoon? Say around three o’clock at my Park Lane town house?”

  Alex hesitated, torn between the urge to end this association, which felt fraught with undercurrents, and her desire not only to find out more about him, but also for the outrageous sum of money he’d agreed to pay her. She desperately needed that money….

  “I’m afraid I’m already engaged at three. Does four o’clock suit you?” She said the words quickly, before she could change her mind.

  “That’s fine. Shall I send my carriage?”

  “Thank you, but I’ll see to my own transportation. And there’s no need to walk me to the door.”

  He inclined his head. “As you wish.”

  “Good evening, Lord Sutton.”

  She purposely did not extend her hand, but to her surprise, he extended his. Not wishing to appear rude, she held out her hand. With his gaze steady on hers, he lightly clasped her fingers and raised them. Her gaze flicked to his fascinating mouth, her entire body quickening in anticipation of his lips touching the backs of her fingers. Instead, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. The warmth of his breath penetrated the delicate lace of her gloves and heat, shocking and fierce, bolted through her. How was it possible that such a brief touch could make her knees shake?

  The contact of his lips against her skin lasted only a few seconds, yet nothing about it felt in the least bit proper. Clearly she needed to disabuse him of any notions he harbored regarding her availability for anything more than card reading.

  Slipping her hand from his and with her fingers feeling as if he’d whispered fire over them, she raised her chin. “In case you are not aware, Lord Sutton, my title of Madame is not merely for effect or part of my fortune-telling mystique. There is a Monsieur Larchmont.”

  He said nothing for several seconds, and she had to fight to hold his steady, penetrating gaze, which somehow seemed to bore straight through to her soul, laying bare every lie she’d ever told.

  Finally, he made her a formal bow, then murmured, “He is a lucky man. Until tomorrow, Madame Larchmont.”

  Not trusting her voice, she jerked her head in a nod, then hurried around the corner toward the side entrance of the modest brick building. The instant she turned the corner, she hurried forward and turned into an alleyway where she ducked into a shadowed alcove and pressed her back against the rough stone. Heart pounding, she strained her ears, listening for the sounds of his carriage departing. She didn’t move until the echo of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestones faded away. After they did, she slipped from the alcove and headed swiftly toward the less fashionable part of town, closer to St. Giles, moving like smoke amongst the dirty, narrow alleyways she knew so well.

  It was time to go home.

  Three

  Colin opened the wrought-iron gate leading to his town house. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, eliminating the silvery glow that had shimmered over Mayfair only moments ago. Tendrils of smoky fog danced around his boots, but the hazy vapor wasn’t nearly as thick here, across from Hyde Park, as it had been on the other side of the city where
he’d left Madame Larchmont an hour earlier.

  He climbed the brick steps, wincing at the pain throbbing in his left leg. As his boot hit the final step, the oak door swung open, and he was greeted by a tall figure holding an ornate candelabra. He immediately wiped all expression from his face, although he wasn’t certain how much good it would do against the ever-observant Ellis.

  “Good evening, my lord,” intoned Ellis in the same sonorous voice Colin had known since childhood. “A message was delivered for you shortly after you left this evening. It awaits you on the desk in the library, along with your usual repast. Will you be wanting a cup of chocolate?”

  Ellis knew everything that occurred inside the town house, down to the smallest detail, including Colin’s boyhood predilection for sliding down the polished banisters and pilfering sweets from the kitchen. Colin had eventually outgrown his fondness for banister sliding, but his love of sweets hadn’t abated one bit—as Ellis well knew. Along with Colin’s habit of not retiring immediately upon arriving home.

  He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m afraid brandy is called for tonight.”

  Ellis’s gaze filled with concern and flicked down to Colin’s leg. “Shall I warm a blanket for you?”

  “No, thank you, Ellis. The brandy will suffice. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, my lord.”

  After bidding the butler good night, Colin waved off the candelabra and headed down the dark corridor leading to the library. God knows he knew his way around this house well enough, and he was grateful that the deep shadows prevented him from having to look at the elaborately framed portraits of his ancestors adorning the silk-covered walls. Even as a child he hadn’t liked looking at them, always feeling that their forbidding gazes followed him, as if they knew he was up to some mischief or another, all chanting admonitions of the importance of duty and his obligations to his title. As if the words duty and obligation weren’t drummed into him every waking moment.

  After entering the library, he closed the door behind him and immediately strode across the maroon Axminster rug toward the decanters, ignoring the aching pull his long strides caused in his leg. He poured himself a generous splash of the potent liquor, frowning at the unsteadiness in his hands. He would have liked to blame that bit of tottering on exhaustion or hunger or anything other than what he knew it to be, but he’d learned long ago that while lying to others went hand in hand with how he’d chosen to live his life, lying to himself was a fruitless waste of time.