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. “Touche.”
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.
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.