The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (15 page)

The earl countered with a gruff “And where have you been all day?”

Miss Tarabotti was disposed to be elusive. “Out.”

The earl would have none of it. “Out with whom?”

Alexia raised both eyebrows. He would find out from Professor Lyall eventually, so she said archly, “A nice young scientist.”

“Not that butterball chap you were nattering away with at dinner last night?” Lord Maccon looked at her in horror.

Miss Tarabotti glared viciously down her nose at him. Inside she was secretly delighted. He had noticed! “It just so happens
that Mr. MacDougall has some absolutely fascinating theories on a wide range of topics, and he is interested in
my
opinion. Which is more than I can say for certain other gentlemen of my acquaintance. It was a beautiful day and a lovely
drive,
and
he makes for quite an enjoyable conversation partner. A position, I am certain, you are entirely unfamiliar with.”

Lord Maccon looked suddenly very suspicious. His eyes narrowed, and their color lightened to the same caramel hue as his cravat.
“What have you been telling him, Miss Tarabotti? Anything I should know?”

He was asking in his BUR tone of voice.

Miss Tarabotti looked around, expecting at any moment to see Professor Lyall emerge with a notepad or a metal plate and stylus.
She sighed with resignation. Clearly, the earl had come to visit her only in his official capacity. Foolish of her to hope,
she chided herself mentally. Then she wondered what exactly she was hoping for. An apology? From Lord Maccon!
Ha.
She sat down on a small wicker chair to one side of the sofa, careful to keep a proper distance between them. “What is interesting
is more what
he
has been telling
me,
” she said. “He thinks being supernatural is some kind of disease.”

Lord Maccon, who was a werewolf and “cursed,” had heard that description before. He crossed his arms and loomed at her.

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” tsked Miss Tarabotti, “do sit down.”

Lord Maccon sat.

Miss Tarabotti continued. “Mr. MacDougall… that
is
his name, you know? Mr. MacDougall. Anyhow, Mr. MacDougall believes that the supernatural state is brought about by a blood-borne
pathogen that affects some humans but not others, because some possess a certain physical trait and others do not. Presumably
under this theory, men are more likely to possess said trait, and that is why they survive metamorphoses more frequently than
women.”

Lord Maccon relaxed back, the tiny couch creaking under his weight. He snorted his contempt of the idea.

“There is, of course, one chief problem with his conjectures,” Alexia went on, ignoring the snort.

“You.”

“Mmmm.” She nodded. There was no room in Mr. MacDougall's theory for those who had no soul at all and canceled out those who
had too much. What
would
Mr. MacDougall make of a preternatural? Assume she was a kind of proximity antidote to the supernatural disease? “Still it
is an elegant theory with what little knowledge he has to go on.” She did not have to say that she respected the young man
who had thought of it. Lord Maccon could see that in her face.

“So wish him joy of his delusions, and leave it be,” the earl said grimly. His canines were beginning to show, and the color
of his eyes had gone further toward the yellow end of brown.

Miss Tarabotti shrugged. “He shows interest. He is smart. He is wealthy and well connected, or so I understand.”
He thinks I am lovely.
She did not say that out loud. “Who am I to complain at his attentions, or discourage them for that matter?”

Lord Maccon had cause to regret the words he had uttered to Professor Lyall the night Alexia killed the vampire. Apparently
she
was
thinking of getting married. And she seemed to have found someone to marry her, despite being half Italian. “He will take
you back to America, and you a preternatural. If he is as smart as you imply, he would figure that little fact out eventually.”

Miss Tarabotti laughed. “Oh, I am not thinking of marrying him, my lord. Nothing so rash. But I enjoy his company; it relieves
the monotony of the day, and it keeps the family off the offensive.”

Lord Maccon felt a rush of palpable relief at this blithe assurance and was annoyed with himself for it. Why should he care
so much? His canines retracted slightly. Then he realized she had specified
marry
and that in his experience, she was rather modern in her sensibilities for a spinster. “You are considering something else
non-marriage with him, perhaps?” His voice was practically a growl.

“Oh, for pity's sake. Would it bother you if I were?”

Lord Maccon actually sputtered slightly at that.

Alexia suddenly realized what she was doing. She was sitting, having a polite conversation with Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of
Woolsey—whom she did not like and with whom she was supposed to be extremely annoyed—about her romantic involvement (or lack
thereof). It was just that his presence caused her to become overall addlepated.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Wait a moment. Why am I speaking with you at all? My lord, your behavior last
night!” She stood and began to swish about the cluttered little room, her eyes sparking fiercely. She pointed an accusatory
finger at him. “You are not simply a werewolf; you, my lord, are a rake. That is what you are! You took advantage the other
night, Lord Maccon. Admit it! I have no idea why you felt it necessary to do”—she paused, embarrassed—“what you did, the evening
of my near abduction. But you have clearly since thought better of it. Why, if you were not interested in me as anything more
than a”—she stumbled, trying to find the right terminology—“momentary plaything, you might at least have just told me outright
afterward.” She crossed her arms and sneered at him. “Why didn't you? You think I was not strong enough to take it without
causing a scene? I assure you, no one is better used to rejection than I, my lord. I think it very churlish of you not to
inform me to my face that your breach in manners was an unfortunate impulse of the moment. I deserve
some
respect. We have known each other long enough for that at the very least.” At that, her steam began to run out, and she felt
a heat behind her eyes she refused to believe might be tears.

Now Lord Maccon was getting angry but for different reasons. “So you've figured it all out, have you? And why, pray tell,
would I suddenly be thinking better of my… what did you call it? Unfortunate impulse of the moment?” He sounded particularly
Scottish. Alexia would have been amused by the fact that the more angry the earl got, the more burr crept into his speech.
But she was too angry to notice. All tears had retracted at that.

She stopped pacing and cast her hands heavenward. “I have no earthly idea. You started it. You ended it. You treated me like
a distant and not-very-well-liked acquaintance all last evening. Then you turn up in my front parlor today. You tell
me
what you were thinking yesterday at dinner. As sure as I am standing here, I have no clue as to what you are about, Lord
Maccon. That is the honest truth of it.”

The earl opened his mouth and then closed it again. Truth be told, he did not know what he was doing there either, so he could
not very well explain. Grovel, Lyall had said. He had no idea how to do such a thing. Alphas simply did not grovel; arrogance
was part of the job description. Lord Maccon might only recently have won leadership of the Woolsey Castle pack, but he had
always been an Alpha.

Miss Tarabotti could not help herself. It was rare that anyone left the Earl of Woolsey at a loss for words. She felt both
triumphant and confused. She had tossed and turned most of the night over his disdainful treatment. She had even thought to
call on Ivy to ask her opinion of his conduct.
Ivy
of all people! She must be desperate. Yet here before her sat the object of her perturbation, apparently at her verbal mercy.

So, of course, being Alexia Tarabotti, she cut straight to the heart of the matter. She looked down at the primrose rug, because,
brave as she was, she could not quite face his yellow eyes. “I am not very”—she paused, thinking of the scandalous pictures
in her father's books—“experienced. If I did something wrong, you know”—she waggled a hand in the air, even more embarrassed
now but bound and determined to get it over with—“with the kissing, you must excuse my ignorance. I…”

Alexia trailed off, for Lord Maccon had stood up from the tiny couch, which creaked at the loss, and advanced purposefully
toward her. He certainly was good at looming. Alexia was not used to feeling so small.

“That,” the earl muttered gruffly, “was not the reason.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Tarabotti offered, hands up before her in a defensive position, “you thought better of it because you realized
how ignoble it would be: the Earl of Woolsey and a twenty-six-year-old spinster?”

“Is
that
your real age?” he murmured, seemingly uninterested and still coming toward her. He moved in a hungry, stalking way, and
under the brown of his expertly cut jacket, solid muscle shifted, all coiled energy directed at her.

Miss Tarabotti backed away and came up short against a large wingback armchair. “My father was an Italian; did you remember
that all of a sudden?”

Lord Maccon moved closer, slowly, ready to pounce if she decided to bolt. His eyes were almost completely yellow now, with
a ring of orange about the edge. Alexia had never noticed before how black and thick his eyelashes were.

He said, “And I hail from Scotland. Which origin is worse in the eyes of London society, do you think?”

Alexia touched her nose and considered the dark tenor of her skin. “I have… other… flaws. Perhaps time spent thinking over
the matter made these more apparent?”

Lord Maccon reached forward and gently pulled her hand away from her face. Carefully he brought it down toward her other hand
and then trapped both together in one big paw.

Miss Tarabotti blinked at him from a scarce few inches away. She hardly dared breathe, not quite certain if he was
actually
going to eat her or not. She tried to look away, but it was nigh impossible. His eyes had turned back to tawny brown as soon
as he touched her—his human eyes. But instead of being a relief, this color was more frightening because no threat masked
the hunger there.

“Uh, my lord, I am not actually food. You do realize this, yes?”

Lord Maccon bent forward.

Alexia watched him until she went almost cross-eyed. This close, she could smell open fields and dark cold nights all about
him.

Oh no,
she thought,
it is happening again.

Lord Maccon kissed the very tip of her nose. Nothing more.

Startled, she shied back, then opened her generous mouth, a bit like a fish. “Wha?”

He drew her back in toward him.

His voice was low and warm against her cheek. “Your age is not an issue. What does it matter to me how old or how much a spinster
you may be? Do you have any idea how old I am, and how long a bachelor?” He kissed her temple. “And I love Italy. Beautiful
countryside, fabulous food.” He kissed her other temple. “And I find perfect beauty excessively boring, don't you?” He kissed
her nose again.

Alexia could not help herself; she drew back and gave him the once-over. “Clearly.”

He winced. “Touché.”

Alexia was not one to let the matter drop. “Then why?”

Lord Maccon groveled. “Because I am a foolish old wolf who has been too long in the company of the pack and too little in
the company of the rest of the world.”

It was not an explanation, but Alexia decided she would have to settle for it. “That was an apology, was it?” she asked, just
to make perfectly certain.

It seemed to have taken almost everything out of him. Instead of answering her in the affirmative, he stroked her face with
his free hand, as though she were an animal that needed soothing. Alexia wondered what he thought of her as—a cat perhaps?
Cats were not, in her experience, an animal with much soul. Prosaic, practical little creatures as a general rule. It would
suit her very well to be thought catlike.

“Full moon,” said Lord Maccon, as though this were some kind of clarification, “is just round the corner.” A pause. “You understand?”

Miss Tarabotti had no idea what he was on about. “Uh…”

His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed. “Not much control.”

Miss Tarabotti widened her dark brown eyes and batted her eyelashes to try and hide her perplexed expression. It was an Ivy
maneuver.

Then he did kiss her properly and fully. Which was not exactly what she had intended by applying eyelash flapping, but she
was not about to complain at the consequences. Ivy might be onto something.

As before, he started slowly, lulling her with soft drugging kisses. His mouth was unexpectedly cool. He ran a path of little
fluttering nibbles over her lower lip and then applied the same treatment to her upper one. It was delightful but maddening.
The tongue phenomenon occurred once again. This time, Alexia did not find it quite so startling. In fact, she thought she
might even like it. But, like caviar, she suspected she'd have to try it more than once to be confident in her enjoyment.
Lord Maccon seemed willing to oblige. He also appeared to be staying quite maddeningly calm and cool. Alexia was beginning
to find the cluttered front parlor overly oppressive. This polarity annoyed her.

Lord Maccon stopped nibbling and went back to long soft kisses. Alexia, never one for patience, was now finding them entirely
unsatisfying. A whole new source of annoyance. Clearly, she would have to take matters into her own hands—or tongue, as the
case may be. Experimentally, she darted her tongue against his lips. That got a whole new agreeable reaction out of the man.
He deepened the kiss, almost roughly, angling his mouth over hers.