The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (16 page)

Lord Maccon shifted, drawing her closer. He let go of her hands and curved one of his up into her hair, tangling his fingers
in the heavy curls. Alexia was certain, with a tiny modicum of offended sensibility, that he was probably mussing it up most
dreadfully. He was using the maneuver to direct the angle of her head in harmony with his wishes. As his wishes appeared to
prescribe further kissing, Alexia decided to let him have his way.

He began running his other hand up and down her back in long strokes.
Definitely a cat,
thought Alexia groggily. Her mind was becoming hazy. Those bizarre, sunshiny tingles that proximity to Lord Maccon seemed
inevitably to produce were coursing through her body with alarming intensity.

The earl turned them both about where they stood. Alexia was not certain why, but she was inclined to cooperate so long as
he did not stop kissing her. He did not. He arranged it so that he could sink slowly down onto the wingback armchair, taking
her with him.

It was a most indelicate thing, but there Miss Alexia Tarabotti inexplicably found herself, bustle hiked up and all her layers
of skirts askew, sitting in Lord Maccon's well-tailored lap.

He moved away from her lips, which was disappointing, but then began nibbling her neck, which was gratifying. He lifted one
dark curl away from where the carefully arranged locks fell over one shoulder. He ran the strand between his fingertips and
then pushed the silken mass aside.

Alexia tensed in anticipation, holding her breath.

Suddenly he stopped and jerked back. The wingback chair, already taxed by two occupants—neither of whom could be described
as flimsy in physique—swayed alarmingly. “What the hell is that?” yelled Lord Maccon.

He had turned to anger so swiftly; Alexia could only stare at him, speechless.

She let out her pent-up breath in a
whoosh.
Her heart was beating a marathon somewhere in the region of her throat, her skin felt hot and stretched taut over her bones,
and she was damp in places she was tolerably certain unmarried gentlewomen were not supposed to be damp in.

Lord Maccon was glaring at her coffee-colored skin, discolored between the neck and shoulder region by an ugly purple mark,
the size and shape of a man's teeth.

Alexia blinked, and her brown eyes cleared of their dazed expression. A small crease of perturbation appeared between her
brows.

“That is a bite mark, my lord,” she said, pleased her voice was not shaking, though it was a little deeper than usual.

Lord Maccon was ever more enraged. “Who bit you?” he roared.

Alexia tilted her head to one side in utter amazement. “You did.” She was then treated to the glorious spectacle of an Alpha
werewolf looking downright hangdog.

“I did?”

She raised both eyebrows at him.

“I did.”

She nodded, firmly, once.

Lord Maccon ran a distracted hand through his already messy hair. The dark brown strands stood up in small tufts. “Dog's bollocks,”
he said. “I am worse than a pup in his first season. I am sorry, Alexia. It is the moon and the lack of sleep.”

Alexia nodded, wondering if she should point out that he had forgotten proper etiquette and used her first name. However,
that seemed a little silly given their recent activities. “Yes, I see. Uh. What is?”

“This control.”

She figured at some stage in the proceedings she might understand what was going on, but now did not seem to be that time.
“What control?”

“Exactly!”

Miss Tarabotti narrowed her eyes and then said something very daring. “You could kiss the bruise and make it better.” Well,
perhaps not quite so daring for someone who was settled as intimately as she on Lord Maccon's lap. After all, she had read
enough of her papa's books to know exactly what it was that pressed hard and flush against her nether regions.

Lord Maccon shook his head. “I do not think that is a very good idea.”

“You do not?” Embarrassed by her own forwardness, Alexia squirmed against him, trying to extricate herself.

The earl swore and closed his eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

Tentatively, Alexia squirmed again.

Lord Maccon groaned and leaned his head against her collarbone, clamping both hands about her hips to still the movement.

Alexia was scientifically intrigued. Had he gotten even larger down there? What was the maximum possible expansion ratio?
she wondered. She grinned a tad maliciously. It had not occurred to her that she might have some sort of influence over the
encounter. She decided then and there that, being a confirmed spinster and averse to allowing Mr. MacDougall his druthers,
this might be her only chance to test some long-held and rather interesting theories.

“Lord Maccon,” she whispered, squirming again despite his firm grip.

He snorted and said in a strangled voice, “I suspect you could get away with calling me by my given name at this juncture.”

“Um?” said Alexia.

“Um, Conall,” prompted Lord Maccon.

“Conall,” she said, relinquishing the last hold on her scruples—once the egg was broken, might as well make an omelet with
it. Then she got distracted by the feel of his back muscles under her hands. Hands that had run afoul of his coat and unceremoniously
managed to strip it off him without her knowledge.

“Aye, Alexia?” He looked up at her. Was that fear in his caramel eyes?

“I am going to take advantage of you,” she said, and without giving him a chance to reply, she began untying his cravat.

U
h, probably not a good idea.” Lord Maccon was panting a little.

“Hush, none of that, now,” Miss Tarabotti admonished. “You started this.”

“And it would be a devilish bad lot for all concerned were I to finish it,” he said. “Or for you to finish it, for that matter.”
But he made no attempt to remove her from his lap. Instead, he seemed fascinated by the low neckline of her dress, which had
sunk considerably during their exertions. One big hand was now tracing the lace frill tucked there, back and forth. Alexia
wondered if he had a particular interest in ladies' fashions.

She dispensed with Lord Maccon's cravat, undid the buttons of his waistcoat and then those of his shirtwaist. “You are wearing
entirely too much clothing,” she complained.

Lord Maccon, who ordinarily could not agree more, was rather appreciative of it at the moment. Any additional time it took
for her to undo buttons might give him back a modicum of restraint. He was sure his control was around somewhere, if he could
simply find it. He tore his eyes away from the tops of those remarkable breasts of hers and tried to think unpleasant thoughts
of particularly horrible things, like overcooked vegetables and cut-rate wine.

Alexia succeeded in her aim: peeling back Lord Maccon's clothing to expose his upper chest, shoulders, and neck. She had stopped
kissing him for the moment. The earl considered that a godsend. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at her. Her expression
seemed more one of avid curiosity than anything else.

Then Alexia bent forward and nibbled at his ear.

Lord Maccon writhed and let out an animal-in-pain sort of whimper. Alexia considered her experiment an unqualified success.
Apparently what was good for the goose was, indeed, good for the gander.

She investigated further: moving along with little kisses down his throat and over his collarbone until she came to the same
location on his neck that on hers was currently a decorative black and blue color. She bit him. Hard. Alexia never did anything
by halves.

Lord Maccon almost reared right out of the armchair.

Alexia held on, teeth sinking into flesh. She did not want to draw blood, but she did intend to leave a mark and felt since
he was a tough supernatural type, she had better do her worst. Any mark she left would not last long once they broke contact
and he was out of her preternatural power. He tasted wonderful: of salt and meat—like gravy. She stopped biting and licked
delicately at the red crescent-shaped brand she had left behind.

“Blast it all.” Lord Maccon's breathing was very rapid. “We have got to stop.”

Alexia nuzzled against him. “Why?”

“Because pretty bloody soon, I'm not going to be able to.”

Alexia nodded. “I suppose that is sensible.” She sighed. It felt like she had spent a lifetime being sensible.

The decision, it turned out, was taken away from them by some sort of commotion in the hallway.

“Well I never,” said a lady's shocked voice.

Some quiet apologetic murmuring then ensued, the words of which were impossible to make out and probably emanated from Floote.

Then the woman issued forth once more, “In the front parlor? Oh, here on BUR business, is he? I understand. Surely notZ…”
The voice trailed off.

Someone knocked loudly on the parlor door.

Miss Tarabotti slid hurriedly off Lord Maccon's lap. Much to her surprise, her legs seemed to be working properly. She yanked
her bustle back into position and hopped up and down hurriedly to shake her skirts back into place.

Lord Maccon, in the interest of time, simply buttoned the top of his shirtwaist and bottom of his waistcoat and jacket. But
he seemed defeated in any effort to rapidly tie his cravat.

“Here, let me do that.” Miss Tarabotti gestured him autocratically over and tied it for him.

While she busied herself with an intricate knot, Lord Maccon tried, equally inexpertly, to fix her hair. His fingers brushed
the bite mark on her lower neck.

“I am sorry about that,” he said contritely.

“Do I detect an honest-to-goodness apology?” asked Alexia, but she smiled, still fiddling with his cravat. “I do not mind
the bruise. What I mind is that I cannot produce the same.” The bite mark she had given him only moments before had promptly
vanished during the few seconds they separated while she straightened her dress. Then, she added, because Alexia never stayed
silent when she ought, “These feelings you engender in me, my lord, are most indelicate. You should stop causing them immediately.”

He gave her a quick look to assess the seriousness, and then, unable to determine if she was joking or not, remained silent.

Miss Tarabotti finished with the cravat. He had arranged her hair so that it at least covered all signs of his amorous attentions.
She walked across the room to draw the curtains and look out the front window to see who might have arrived.

The knocking continued on the parlor door until finally it burst open.

Of all odd couples, Miss Ivy Hisselpenny and Professor Lyall entered the room.

Ivy was talking nonstop. She spotted Miss Tarabotti instantly and flitted over to her, looking like an excited hedgehog in
a loud hat. “Alexia, my dear, did you know there was a BUR werewolf lurking in your hallway? When I came for tea, he was squaring
off against your butler in a most threatening manner. I was terribly afraid there might be fisticuffs. Why would such a person
be interested in visiting you? And why was Floote terribly set on keeping him away? And why…?” She did not finish, having
finally spotted Lord Maccon. Her large red and white striped shepherdess hat, with a curved yellow ostrich feather, quivered
in agitation.

Lord Maccon was glaring at his second. “Randolph, you look awful. What are you doing here? I sent you home.”

Professor Lyall took in his Alpha's disheveled appearance, wondering what atrocious thing had been done to his poor cravat.
His eyes narrowed and shifted toward Miss Tarabotti's loose hair. However, Lyall had been Beta for three consecutive pack
leaders, and he was nothing if not discreet. Instead of commenting or answering Lord Maccon's question, he simply walked over
to the earl and whispered rapidly into his ear.

Miss Hisselpenny finally noticed her friend's tousled state. Solicitously, she urged Alexia to sit and took up residence next
to her on the little settee. “Are you feeling quite well?” She removed her gloves and felt Alexia's forehead with the back
of her hand. “You are very hot, my dear. Do you think you might be running a fever?”

Miss Tarabotti looked under her eyelashes at Lord Maccon. “That is one way of phrasing it.”

Professor Lyall stopped whispering.

Lord Maccon's face flushed. He was newly upset about something. “They did
what
?”
Was he ever not upset
?

Whisper, whisper.

“Well, proud Mary's fat arse!” said the earl eloquently.

Miss Hisselpenny gasped.

Miss Tarabotti, who was getting very used to Lord Maccon's ribald mannerisms, snickered at her friend's shocked expression.

Issuing forth several additional creative statements of the gutter-born variety, the earl strode to the hat stand, shoved
his brown topper unceremoniously on his head, and marched out of the room.

Professor Lyall shook his head and made a tut-tutting noise. “Fancy going out into public with a cravat like that.”

The cravat in question, with head attached, reappeared in the doorway. “Watch her, Randolph. I will send Haverbink round to
relieve you as soon as I get to the office. After he arrives, for all our sakes, go home and get some sleep. It is going to
be a long night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Professor Lyall.

Lord Maccon disappeared once more, and they heard the Woolsey Castle carriage clattering off at a breakneck speed down the
street.

Miss Tarabotti felt forsaken, bereft, and not entirely unworthy of the pitying glances Ivy was casting in her direction. What
was it about kissing her that caused the Earl of Woolsey to feel it necessary to disappear with such rapidity?

Professor Lyall, looking uncomfortable, removed his hat and overcoat and hung them up on the stand just made vacant by vanished
Lord Expletive. He then proceeded to check the room. What he was looking for, Alexia could not guess, but he did not seem
to find it. The Loontwills kept to the height of what was required of a fashionable receiving parlor. It was greatly overfurnished,
including an upright piano that none of the ladies of the house could play, and cluttered to capacity with small tables covered
with embroidered drop cloths and crowded with assemblages of daguerreotypes, glass bottles with suspended model dirigibles,
and other knickknacks. As he conducted his investigation, Professor Lyall avoided all contact with sunlight. In style since
the supernatural set rose to prominence several centuries ago, the heavy velvet drapes over the front window nevertheless
allowed some small amount of daylight to creep into the darkness. The Beta was fastidious in his avoidance of it.

Miss Tarabotti figured he must be very tired indeed to feel such ill effects. Older werewolves could go several days awake
during the daytime. The professor must be pushing his time limit, or suffering some other ailment.

Miss Tarabotti and Miss Hisselpenny watched with polite curiosity as the urbane werewolf wandered about the room. He checked
behind Felicity's insipid watercolors and underneath the infamous wingback armchair. Alexia blushed inwardly thinking about
that chair and trying not to remember what had so recently occurred there. Had she really been so forward? Disgraceful.

When the silence became too unbearable, Miss Tarabotti said, “Do sit down, Professor. You look positively dead on your feet.
You are making us dizzy wandering about the room like that.”

Professor Lyall gave a humorless laugh but obeyed her order. He settled into a small Chippendale side chair, which he moved
into the darkest recess of the room: a little nook near the piano.

“Should we order some tea?” Miss Hisselpenny asked, concern for both his peaked appearance and Alexia's obviously feverish
condition outweighing all sense of propriety.

Miss Tarabotti was impressed by her friend's resource. “What an excellent notion.”

Ivy went to the door to call for Floote, who magically appeared without needing to be summoned. “Miss Alexia is not feeling
quite the thing and this gentleman here…,” she faltered.

Alexia was appalled at her own lack of manners. “Ivy! You don't mean to say you have not been introduced? And here I thought
you knew each other. You came in together.”

Miss Hisselpenny turned to her friend. “We encountered one another on the front stoop, but we never formally made each other's
acquaintance.” She turned back to the butler. “I am sorry, Floote. What was I saying?”

“Tea, miss?” suggested the ever-resourceful Floote. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

Alexia asked from the couch, “Do we have any liver?”

“Liver, miss? I shall inquire of the cook.”

“If we do, simply have her chop it small and serve it raw.” Miss Tarabotti double-checked with a glance at Professor Lyall,
who nodded gratefully.

Both Ivy and Floote looked aghast, but there seemed to be nothing they could do to gainsay Alexia's request. After all, in
the absence of the Loontwills proper, this was Miss Tarabotti's house to rule over.

“And some jam and bread sandwiches,” said Miss Tarabotti firmly. She felt a bit more composed, now that Lord Maccon had vacated
the premises. Miss Tarabotti, once composed, was generally of a peckish proclivity.

“Very good, miss,” said Floote, and glided off.

Alexia performed introductions. “Professor Lyall, this is Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, my dearest friend. Ivy, this is Professor
Randolph Lyall, Lord Maccon's second in command and protocol advisor, so far as I can tell.”

Lyall stood and bowed. Ivy curtsied from the doorway. Formalities over with, both returned to their seats.

“Professor, can you tell me what has occurred? Why did Lord Maccon depart in such haste?” Miss Tarabotti leaned forward and
peered into the shadows. It was hard to read the professor's expression in the dim light, which gave him a decided advantage.

“Afraid not, Miss Tarabotti. BUR business.” He shut her down shamelessly. “Not to worry, the earl should get it all sorted
through in short order.”

Alexia leaned back in the settee. Idly she picked up one of the many pink ribbon-embroidered cushions and began plucking at
one of the tassels. “Then I wonder, sir, if I might ask you somewhat about pack protocol?”

Miss Hisselpenny's eyes went very wide, and she reached for her fan. When Alexia got that look in her eye, it meant her friend
was about to say something shocking. Had Alexia been reading her father's books again? Ivy shuddered to even think such a
thing. She always knew no good would come of those reprehensible manuscripts.