Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (11 page)

“Indeed. This conversation being a perfect example.” The glint of amusement twinkling in her eyes belied her words.

He leaned closer and filled his head with her sweet, citrusy scent and upped his offer. “A half sovereign.”

She heaved a sigh. “Lies, I fear, are…expensive.”

“More expensive than
a half sovereign?
”

“I’m afraid so. Especially lies that will most likely
result in my losing a wealthy client such as Lady Newtrebble.”

“If you think a renowned miser such as Lady Newtrebble would part with a half sovereign to have her cards read, you’ve gone mad.”

For an answer she merely smiled.

“There’s a word for what you’re doing, Madame Larchmont.”

“Yes. It’s called
payment
.”

“No. It’s called
extortion
.” For some insane reason, this exchange—which should have utterly aggravated him—inexplicably exhilarated him. In a manner he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Heaving his own put-upon sigh, he asked, “Very well, what is your price for one small lie?”

“A sovereign.”

“You realize that’s utterly ridiculous.”

She shrugged. “The decision is yours.”

“An outrageous sum to charge a friend.”

She raised an eloquent brow. “I hardly think our brief acquaintance could be described as friendship, my lord.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he said, “A circumstance I’d like to remedy.”

“In the next three seconds, I’m certain,” she said with a smile.

He smiled in return. “Yes, that would be most helpful.”

“Actually it wouldn’t. I charge friends the same rate as mere acquaintances.”

“Ah. So it really does no good at all to know you.”

“I’m afraid not.” She looked over his shoulder. “Lady Newtrebble is approaching with your brandy, my lord.”

“Very well,” he grumbled. “A sovereign it is—but I’ll pay only if you give a convincing performance.”

“Agreed. And fear not, my lord. I’m very good at what I do.”

“Yes, I’m certain you are.”

The question remains, however, what exactly is it that you’re doing?

Alex briskly shuffled the cards. As if she
weren’t already distracted enough this evening with her attempts to detect the raspy whisper she’d heard in Lord Malloran’s study last night, now she was further unsettled by Lord Sutton’s nearness. Lady Newtrebble, who hovered nearby, all but quivering with anticipation, only added to her discomfort.

Still shuffling, she asked, “What question would you like answered, Lord Sutton?”

“The one that is clearly on everyone’s mind. Who am I going to marry?”

With a nod, she set the deck on the table. “Cut the deck, once, with your left hand.”

As he did so, he asked, “Why my left hand?”

“It helps impart your personal energy to the deck.” Without another word, she turned over the cards that would predict his immediate future. And caught her breath.

Deceit. Betrayal. Treachery. Illness. Danger. Death. All the same things she’d seen during their reading that afternoon. And the last card, which denoted the
single entity around which all the others revolved, indicated…

A dark-haired woman.

If she’d been capable of doing so, she would have laughed at the irony. At least she wouldn’t have to lie about seeing a blonde in his future. Of course, the bad news was that the brunette would most likely be the death of him.

“What do you see?”

Her first impulse was to immediately tell him, warn him, but given their lack of privacy, this was neither the time nor place. Especially since his skepticism regarding her reading’s veracity meant he’d require some convincing. But convince him she must, for based on this reading, she had no doubt danger awaited him.

Later. She would tell him later. Right now she had that much-needed sovereign to earn.

“I see a woman in your future,” she said.

He spread his hands and smiled. “Well, that sounds promising. Can you tell me her name?”

“The spirits, the cards, they are not indicating a name, but…” She paused for dramatic effect.

“But what?” Lady Newtrebble interjected. “Who is the chit?”

“She is considered beautiful—”

“Of course she is,” Lady Newtrebble said in a triumphant tone.

“—Intelligent—”

“Naturally,” Lady Newtrebble said, making a rolling motion with her hand. “Continue.”

“I believe it is
my
fortune that’s being told, Lady Newtrebble,” Lord Sutton said in a dry voice.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. Carry on, Madame Larchmont.”

“And she is a brunette,” Alex said. “With brown eyes.”

A deafening silence engulfed the trio, broken by Lady
Newtrebble’s
harrumph
. “What nonsense is this? She is nothing of the kind. She is a blue-eyed blonde.”

Alex shook her head. “I’m afraid the cards indicate—very clearly and most emphatically—that the woman destined for Lord Sutton is a brown-eyed brunette.” She looked at him across the table. “Do you know anyone of that description, my lord?”

“Half the women in England answer that description, as do half the women attending this party.” He studied her intently for several long seconds, then said, “Yourself included, Madame.”

Her insides fluttered, and if she hadn’t been rendered speechless by his words and the compelling look in his eyes, she would have laughed. She was the last woman in the entire kingdom who would be destined for this man.

Before she could think of a reply, Lady Newtrebble said, “Well, I hope you’ll remember that this fortune-telling is merely a harmless amusement, my lord.”

“I’ll keep that in mind every moment I’m searching for my brown-eyed brunette future wife,” he said solemnly. “You have my deepest gratitude, Lady Newtrebble, for allowing Madame Larchmont to bring me this news during your soiree. I’m certain if the story appears in the
Times
, your name and this delightful party will be prominently mentioned.”

Lady Newtrebble blinked, then her eyes narrowed with unmistakable avarice. “The
Times
. Yes. They’ll certainly want to know all about this.” She excused herself, and Alex heaved an inward sigh of relief.

“Nicely done,” Lord Sutton said in an undertone.

“Thank you. I trust my performance was acceptable?”

“Yes. I’ll pay your fee tomorrow when you come to the town house for my reading.” He rose, but rather than leaving, he set his palms on the table and leaned toward her. “May I escort you home after the party?”

His voice was low, compelling, and his eyes appeared
impossibly green and gave away nothing of his thoughts. The prospect of being alone with him, in the privacy of his carriage, sitting close, in the dark, sent an unwanted tingle down her spine—a tingle she wished she could say was apprehension but could only be called what it was. Anticipation.

She should refuse, wanted to refuse, and surely she would have, except she needed to tell him what she’d actually read in the cards. Grasping on to that excuse, yet refusing to appear eager, she said, “It is not necessary—”

“I know it is not necessary, Madame. But as a gentleman, I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to take a hack home, especially so late at night. A lady should not be out without a proper escort in a city so rife with crime.”

A lady. Alex swallowed the humorless sound that rose in her throat, barely refraining from pointing out that she was not now, nor would she ever be, a lady.

“You’re very gallant, my lord.”

“And very accustomed to getting what I want.”

She raised a brow. “Which tempts me to refuse on those grounds alone.”

“I hope you’ll fight that particular temptation.”

Something in his voice, in the way he said
temptation
, in the way he was looking at her…her heart stuttered. “It is necessary to fight temptation, my lord.”

“In some cases, yes.”

“Not all?” Dear God, was that breathless sound her voice?

His gaze flicked to her lips, halting her breath. With his gaze once again steady on hers, he said, “No, Madame. Not in all cases. May I escort you home?”

“Very well.” Her pride forced her to add, “I’ll accept your offer, as there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

He smiled. “Not a raise in your rates, I hope.”

“No, but that is an excellent idea.”

“No, it most emphatically is not. However, I
do
have an idea that
is
excellent.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she prompted, “And what would that excellent idea be?”

His lips curved slowly upward, and he smiled into her eyes. She barely resisted the urge to fan herself with her gloved hand. Good Lord, the man was…potent. And seemingly without trying. Heaven help the woman who attempted to resist him should he actually put any effort into charming her.

“I thought you’d never ask, Madame. I shall answer your question during the carriage ride home.”

“And what am I supposed to do until then? Wither away from curiosity?”

“No.” He leaned closer and she was treated to a hint of freshly laundered linen. “You are to think of me,” he said softly. “And wonder what my excellent idea is.”

Before she could so much as breathe, let alone fashion a reply, he turned and walked away, melting into the crowd.

You are to think of me.

She blew out a long, slow breath. Most likely that would not present a problem. Indeed, since she’d seen him last night at the Malloran soiree, she’d found it nearly impossible to think of anything
but
him.

Three hours later, after giving her final reading of the night, Alex was, as she had been since he’d left her, thinking about Lord Sutton. Just as she had been while conducting her readings for more than a dozen guests. And while listening carefully to all the voices floating around her, wondering if she’d again hear the husky rasp from Lord Malloran’s study, not at all certain she wished to hear that voice again. For if she did, then what would she do?

Since he’d melted into the crowd, she’d forcibly kept her attention focused on the parade of inquirers who’d sat opposite her, not allowing her gaze to stray and seek him out. Still, he’d occupied every corner of her mind, which in itself was disturbing enough. But even more unsettling was the
way
he occupied her mind. The disconcerting direction of her thoughts.

His hair…it looked so thick and shiny, beckoning her to touch. How would it feel to sift her fingers through those silky, dark strands?

And his eyes. So deeply green. So frustratingly unreadable. Yet so devastatingly attractive when they glittered with a hint of humor. What would they look like filled with desire?

Filled with desire for
her?

A dangerous thought she’d pushed aside more times than she cared to contemplate.

Yet no sooner did she push away thoughts of his eyes than she found herself dwelling on his broad shoulders, the fascinating way he filled out his formal black jacket and breeches. His arms looked so strong…what would they feel like wrapped around her, holding her close against him?

And then there was his mouth…that beautiful, masculine mouth whose lips drew her gaze like a starving man to a feast. How would those lips feel beneath her fingertips—soft? Firm? Both? How would his mouth feel brushing over hers? God help her, she wanted to know. Desperately. And she greatly feared that if given the opportunity to know, she wouldn’t be able to resist.

All the feminine urges and yearnings and curiosity she’d ruthlessly suppressed in the past now felt about to burst from their confines, like an overripe fruit rupturing its skin. For the first time, she longed to shed her
Madame
title, to indulge in her fantasies with the man
who’d inspired them since the moment she’d seen him at Vauxhall four years ago.

A sound of self-disgust rose in her throat, and she pressed her lips together to suppress it. As she must suppress these torturous, ridiculous thoughts. And inappropriate, impossible questions to which she’d never know the answers. Yet even as her common sense told her that, sensual images of him continued to bombard her, which thoroughly irked her. She had no wish to harbor such thoughts about
any
man, but if she was going to, why, oh why, did it have to be
this
man? A man she could never have? Who was wrong for her in every conceivable way? Whom she would never be able to touch or kiss?

Thoroughly annoyed at herself, she gathered up her cards. Her last inquirer had left the table several minutes ago, and she’d sat here like a dolt, idiotically mooning over a man so far above her social strata it was laughable.

After wrapping her cards in their square of bronze silk, she reached down and felt beneath the long white damask tablecloth to locate her reticule. When she couldn’t find it, she leaned lower, lifting the cloth to peer beneath the table. Spying the bag just out of reach, she stretched lower still. Her fingers had just brushed the velvet drawstring when she heard a raspy whisper say, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

Alex froze. All the tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention, and an icy finger raced down her spine. She recognized that voice. Dear God, she’d never forget it. Heart pounding, she shot upright. A group of people were passing by the table, presumably toward the foyer to depart. Four men, two women, all of whom she recognized, all well-known members of Society. As they passed, she noticed another group consisting of three men standing about ten feet away. And a trio of women next to them. Again, all respected members of the ar
istocracy. Two footmen stood nearby as well, relieving the departing guests of their empty glasses. She strained her ears, listening, but none of the voices were the raspy whisper. Whoever had spoken was either now silent—or had resumed a normal speaking voice.

From which group had the voice come? God help her, she wasn’t certain she wanted to know. That person planned to see someone dead next week, and most likely was responsible for Lord Malloran’s and his footman’s deaths. Most likely because of the note she’d written. She had no desire to become a corpse. But the only way to stop this was to find out who the killer was. Before someone else died. Namely her.

Cold fear gripped her, but she had to find out who had spoken. She stood and quickly shoved her cards into her bag. Then she turned to hurry around the table. And walked into something solid. Something solid that smelled of clean linen with a hint of sandalwood. Something that gripped her upper arms and said in an amused voice, “If bumping into me is going to be a habit, I must say that I prefer the seclusion of the garden to the crowded drawing room.”

Alex’s heart thumped, and, to her horror, instead of pulling back, or even remaining perfectly still, she moved her nose closer to his shirtfront and drew in another Lord-Sutton-scented breath. For the space of several rapid heartbeats she felt safe, for the first time in her life. As if she were wrapped in strong, protective arms. An utterly insane notion she instantly shoved aside.

Light-headed from the combination of his scent and the warmth from his hands easing down her arms, she had to force her feet to step backwards. When she did, their gazes met. He still held her upper arms, and she found it difficult to breathe while they continued to stare at each other. Then he frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“N…Nothing.”

His fingers tightened, and he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “
Something
is wrong. You’re pale and trembling.”

The weight of a stare other than his pressed upon her, again raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She scanned the people standing near the table, yet no one was looking at her.

He cast his own quick look around, his gaze raking over the group standing nearby before returning his attention to her. “Did someone say something to upset you?”

There was no missing the ice lurking beneath his calmly spoken words, and for an insane instant she experienced a feminine thrill such as she’d never known. He looked as if he were prepared to do battle with anyone who’d dare say anything untoward to her. As if he intended to protect her against harm—

A shot of annoyance, at her herself, cut off the ridiculous thought. He wouldn’t do any such thing. Why would he risk so much as wrinkling his jacket for her? And even if he did, she didn’t need anyone to protect her or do battle for her. She’d done fine on her own all these years. More irritation flooded her for allowing her distress to show so plainly. Gathering her self-possession, she lifted her chin and stepped back. His fingers slipped from her arms, but his sharp gaze never strayed from hers.