hurt.”
His blue gaze fixed on her, darkness flickering behindit. “I have many enemies, Mrs. Alastair.” His voice went low. “I wish you were not so difficult to ignore.”
She was melting again. She could not do this every time he so much as looked at her, so much as brushed his fingertips over her skin. Where would she be then? She was a respectable widow of five-and-twenty, not a giddy girl who let her head be turned by any handsome man. “You are not easy to ignore yourself, my lord.”
His severe frown softened. “That is gratifying.”
His lashes were as golden as his hair. They framed his azure eyes, sweeping down to hide the blue as he studied her face.
He said, “My enemies are deadly, and their games are real.” His voice turned grim. “It would be better if you were away from here entirely. Do you have a house outside of London, Mrs. Alastair?”
She nodded hesitantly. “My husband left me a small house near Salisbury.”
“You should go there. Now.”
His severe look made her heart beat faster. She wondered what was wrong. “I cannot possibly now. But I will leave London at the end of June. To spend time in Kent with the Featherstones, as I do every year.”
He shook his head. “No. Go now to your little house near Salisbury. Stay there until midsummer at the very least.”
Alexandra hated the Salisbury house. It was a perfect little Georgian gilded cage, built in the last century by some aristocrat for his ladybird, sold when the aristocrat’s fortunes declined. Theo had liked to install her there during the summer, encouraging her to have dainty tea parties and walks, while he made the rounds of country houses to sleep with other men’s wives.
She wet her lips. “It is impossible until the month’send. I have my soiree next week, and there is much to do.”
He looked at her as if soirees were the most unimportant things in the world. His warm fingers lightly stroked the back of her neck, quite distracting her.
She babbled, “The soiree will be one of the largest of the season’s end, before we all disperse to the country. Dukes and duchesses have already accepted. I cannot possibly cancel it.”
His caressing fingers threaded her hair, and she began not to care about soirees and dukes and duchesses. “You are invited, of course. And your daughter.” She bit her lip. “Though she will have to have a proper gown. I did mean to speak to you about her clothes, if you will forgive the liberty, I mean.”
Her face grew hot as she recalled their discussion of liberties the night before.
He must have remembered as well. His eyes began to smolder with heat, as if deep inside a fire had been stoked to a furnace glow. “Tell me, Mrs. Alastair,” he said. He smoothed a feather-light curl from her cheek. “Did you do as I requested last night?”
She could not breathe. “I did, as a matter of fact.”
The corners of his mouth moved upward. “That pleases me.”
“You suggested it.”
“And would you do everything I suggest?”
“No, of course not.”
His brows lifted, his smile deepening. “Then I wonder why you did.”
She swallowed. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “To discover what it would feel like.”
No other man on her list was this unnervingly masculine. Even the duke, who was near to the handsomestof her possible suitors, was generally always—well, dressed. The viscount’s loose shirt let his heat touch her directly. She smelled the warmth of him, his sharp masculine scent.
“And what did it feel like?” he asked.
Glorious. And hot. And strange. And for some reason it had made her crave his hands on her body.
She drew a breath. “We are supposed to be talking about my soiree.”
He leaned to her, his body so close that she could no longer speak. “I do not wish to talk about your soiree.” He closed the small space between them and brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, right over the bruise.
A strange thing happened. All afternoon she
His blue gaze fixed on her, darkness flickering behindit. “I have many enemies, Mrs. Alastair.” His voice went low. “I wish you were not so difficult to ignore.”
She was melting again. She could not do this every time he so much as looked at her, so much as brushed his fingertips over her skin. Where would she be then? She was a respectable widow of five-and-twenty, not a giddy girl who let her head be turned by any handsome man. “You are not easy to ignore yourself, my lord.”
His severe frown softened. “That is gratifying.”
His lashes were as golden as his hair. They framed his azure eyes, sweeping down to hide the blue as he studied her face.
He said, “My enemies are deadly, and their games are real.” His voice turned grim. “It would be better if you were away from here entirely. Do you have a house outside of London, Mrs. Alastair?”
She nodded hesitantly. “My husband left me a small house near Salisbury.”
“You should go there. Now.”
His severe look made her heart beat faster. She wondered what was wrong. “I cannot possibly now. But I will leave London at the end of June. To spend time in Kent with the Featherstones, as I do every year.”
He shook his head. “No. Go now to your little house near Salisbury. Stay there until midsummer at the very least.”
Alexandra hated the Salisbury house. It was a perfect little Georgian gilded cage, built in the last century by some aristocrat for his ladybird, sold when the aristocrat’s fortunes declined. Theo had liked to install her there during the summer, encouraging her to have dainty tea parties and walks, while he made the rounds of country houses to sleep with other men’s wives.
She wet her lips. “It is impossible until the month’send. I have my soiree next week, and there is much to do.”
He looked at her as if soirees were the most unimportant things in the world. His warm fingers lightly stroked the back of her neck, quite distracting her.
She babbled, “The soiree will be one of the largest of the season’s end, before we all disperse to the country. Dukes and duchesses have already accepted. I cannot possibly cancel it.”
His caressing fingers threaded her hair, and she began not to care about soirees and dukes and duchesses. “You are invited, of course. And your daughter.” She bit her lip. “Though she will have to have a proper gown. I did mean to speak to you about her clothes, if you will forgive the liberty, I mean.”
Her face grew hot as she recalled their discussion of liberties the night before.
He must have remembered as well. His eyes began to smolder with heat, as if deep inside a fire had been stoked to a furnace glow. “Tell me, Mrs. Alastair,” he said. He smoothed a feather-light curl from her cheek. “Did you do as I requested last night?”
She could not breathe. “I did, as a matter of fact.”
The corners of his mouth moved upward. “That pleases me.”
“You suggested it.”
“And would you do everything I suggest?”
“No, of course not.”
His brows lifted, his smile deepening. “Then I wonder why you did.”
She swallowed. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “To discover what it would feel like.”
No other man on her list was this unnervingly masculine. Even the duke, who was near to the handsomestof her possible suitors, was generally always—well, dressed. The viscount’s loose shirt let his heat touch her directly. She smelled the warmth of him, his sharp masculine scent.
“And what did it feel like?” he asked.
Glorious. And hot. And strange. And for some reason it had made her crave his hands on her body.
She drew a breath. “We are supposed to be talking about my soiree.”
He leaned to her, his body so close that she could no longer speak. “I do not wish to talk about your soiree.” He closed the small space between them and brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, right over the bruise.
A strange thing happened. All afternoon she
Similar Books
