Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (3 page)

“Does what I told Lady Malloran meet with your approval, Madame Larchmont?”

The softly spoken question jerked her gaze upward. Lord Sutton was regarding her with an unreadable expression that made it impossible for her to know if he’d noticed her fascination with his mouth, but regardless, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she’d long ago lost her ability to blush. If he
had
noticed, the knowledge obviously hadn’t elicited any sort of reaction in him, with the possible exception of boredom—something that shouldn’t have, but nonetheless surprisingly pricked at her feminine vanity.

Good heavens, perhaps she
was
a candidate for Bedlam. This man, in less than an hour’s time, had ruffled her normally never-out-of-place feathers more than any other man ever had over any period of time. Indeed, the only other man who had ever ruffled her so was…him. Four years ago.
Yes, and look at how disastrously
that
encounter went
.

He must be well accustomed to gawking females. An overwhelming desire to assure him that her gawking had been a completely uncharacteristic, inexplicable aberration assaulted her, but she managed to swallow the urge. Instead, she looked him straight in the eye, and said, “As what you explained to Lady Malloran is perfectly true, yes, it meets with my approval. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He nodded toward the carriage. “Shall we?”

Waving off the footman, he helped her step up, then asked, “What is your direction?”

She named a part of the city that, while not the most fashionable, was certainly respectable. After repeating her words to his coachman, Lord Sutton joined her, settling his long frame on the soft, gray velvet squabs opposite her. Seconds after the door closed, the vehicle jerked into motion.

The confines of the luxurious carriage made Lord Sutton’s large, robust frame appear even larger, his shoulders wider, his muscular legs longer. Unsettled in a manner she neither liked nor could explain, she pulled her attention away from him and looked down, but found no relief as her gaze riveted on the hem of her cloak resting across the toe of one of his polished black boots. An odd feeling rippled through her at the sight of her clothing touching his. It somehow looked too…intimate, and she shifted in her seat so the green velvet would slide from his boot.

Refusing to examine her relief too closely, she drew a breath, and any sense of inner calm vanished like a puff of steam as her senses filled with the pleasing scents of freshly starched linen and sandalwood she’d smelled when her nose had nearly been buried in his cravat. He smelled…
clean
. In a way she normally did not think of men smelling. In her experience, they reeked either of perfumes or of unwashed body odor.

“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 everything 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.”