Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (7 page)

Her expression smoothed and, appearing completely unruffled, she inclined her head. “Lord Sutton. Good afternoon.”

When he opened his mouth to speak, he realized with a jolt of annoyance his mouth was already opened. And he’d been holding his breath. Bloody hell. This woman’s effect on him was simply…out of the question. He’d never allowed his passions to enslave him—he controlled them, not the other way around—and he wasn’t about to start now. Snapping his lips together, he arranged his features into a mask of regret and walked toward her.

“Madame Larchmont. Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was unavoidably detained.” He paused in front of her and made a formal bow, irrationally disappointed when she did not offer him her hand.

“As I was provided with such lovely surroundings and delicious refreshments while I waited, I’m not likely to complain, my lord.” Her lips twitched. “At least not overly much.”

He glanced at the silver tea service set up on the cher
rywood table in front of the settee, noting her empty teacup and the tiny crumbs left on her plate. “Would you care for another cup of tea? Some more tea cakes?”

“An offer I fear I cannot refuse. The tea cakes were heavenly.” Again her lips twitched, drawing his attention to their ripe fullness, fascinating him. “I’m afraid I harbor a tremendous affection for sweets.”

Good God, he was gawking as if he’d never seen lips before. Thoroughly irked at himself, he jerked his gaze back to her eyes, only to find himself distracted by the realization that her irises were flecked with shades of paler brown. As if cinnamon had been sprinkled over rich chocolate. Damn. He had a particular fondness for cinnamon sprinkled over rich chocolate.

He cleared his throat. “A tremendous affection for sweets…something we have in common.” He indicated the settee with his hand. “Please sit.”

She turned and moved past him, leaving a scent of oranges in her wake that had him all but salivating. “What are your favorites?” she asked, settling herself on the brocade cushion.

“Favorites?”

“Sweets. I’ve a fondness for frosted cakes and a dreadful weakness for chocolate.”

“I wouldn’t say no to either of those.”
Or anything else for which you might have a fondness
…

Swallowing a sound of self-directed disgust at his wayward thoughts, he settled himself in the leather chair opposite her. Six feet and a table now separated them. Excellent. “I also have a weakness for marzipan.”

Her eyes slid closed and a sound that could only be described as a purr came from her. “Marzipan,” she said softly, reverently. He watched her lips form the word, and found himself transfixed. And in need of shifting in his seat. Did she have any idea how bloody aroused
she looked? Her eyes slowly opened and fixed on his. “Yes, that is lovely,” she murmured in a husky voice that did nothing to dispel the discomfort occurring in his breeches. “Especially with a cup of chocolate.”

“I agree. That happens to be my favorite before-bed snack.”

She raised her brows. “Indeed? Not brandy or port and a cheroot?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s chocolate and marzipan for me.”

She smiled. “How very unfashionable, my lord.” She inclined her head toward the tea service. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.” He sat back and watched her serve with a deft skill that gave no indication she’d spent time picking pockets rather than taking deportment lessons. She appeared perfectly calm and relaxed, completely at ease in his presence, a fact that irritated him more than he’d like to admit since he had to struggle to maintain his outward calm. Indeed, in spite of his suspicions regarding her motives, he couldn’t help but admire her cool exterior. But then, it was an excellent, and much-needed, trait for a thief.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“Two, please.”

After passing him the cup and saucer, she picked up the delicate silver tongs. “Tea cake?”

He smiled. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

She smiled in return, revealing a pair of shallow dimples that flanked her lips. They formed a perfect triangle with the indentation on her chin, a shape he felt an overwhelming desire to explore. “No, as I wasn’t so much asking
if
you wanted one, my lord, but rather how many you wanted.”

“Hmmm. It seems I made a tactical error in revealing my weakness for sweets.”

“Surely a man in your position would know that re
vealing
any
weakness is a tactical error.” She placed two of the tiny frosted cakes on the plate, then raised her brows in a questioning manner.

“I’ll take three.”

She added another confection to the plate and passed it to him. Watching her carefully, he deliberately brushed his fingers against hers when he accepted the plate. If she experienced the same heated tingle as he at the brief contact, she gave no indication of it.

Pushing back the unreasonable irritation that rippled through him, he asked, “What do you mean ‘a man in your position’?”

It took Alex several seconds to answer because in spite of the barrier of her lace gloves, the brush of his fingers had seriously undermined her concentration. How could a mere touch affect her so? After clearing her throat, she said, “A titled gentleman looking for a wife. I imagine if the young, eligible Society misses were to learn of your penchant for sweets, you would be overrun with offerings of confections.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that? I believe I’ll take out an advertisement in the
Times
proclaiming my love of all things sweet.”

She laughed and deftly served herself a tea cake.

“Only one, Madame Larchmont?”

“I’ve already had two.”

“I hope that won’t stop you from indulging further.”

“It would be a social
faux pas
of the first order if I were to eat more than my host.”

His gaze slid to the silver platter on the tea tray where a trio of cakes remained. “Well, I do not intend to leave this room until that tray is empty. I hope you won’t be shy in helping me eat those.”

“I have many faults, my lord, but believe me, shyness is not one of them.”

A slow smile curved his lovely mouth, coiling warmth
in secret places she had no desire to feel warm and making her wonder what that lovely mouth would feel like brushing over hers.

“A fascinating tidbit of information, Madame Larchmont, although perhaps a tactical error on your part to admit it.”

“It wasn’t so much an admission as a warning, my lord. So as to prepare you for when I dispense with polite conversation and move on to the topic of your paying me for reading your cards.” When he raised his brows, she added, “I thought it best to be straightforward, given our conversation of last evening. I wouldn’t want you to think I was saying one thing and meaning another.”

“In this instance, I don’t believe anyone could accuse you of such. Are you normally paid before your services are rendered?”

“Yes. Based on my experience, that is best. I’ve found that if I tell someone something they don’t particularly like—”

“They don’t wish to pay.”

“Precisely.”

“Are you planning to tell me something I won’t like?”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t
plan
to tell anyone anything, Lord Sutton. I only relay what the cards themselves indicate.”

He made no comment, instead raising his teacup to his lips to sip, watching her over the rim. She forced herself to hold his gaze, feeling as if they were locked in some silent battle of the wills that she refused to lose by looking away first. After lowering his cup to the saucer, he rose and crossed to the mahogany desk by the window. He opened the top drawer and removed a leather pouch from which he spilled coins into his palm. After counting out the amount he wanted, he withdrew another, smaller pouch and placed the coins in it. He then placed
the larger pouch back in the drawer and returned to stand next to her.

Holding out the pouch, he said, “I believe this is the amount we agreed upon.”

She took the bundle then set down her teacup. “If you don’t mind, I’ll count it. Just to make certain.”

He resumed his seat and picked up one of his tea cakes. She felt the weight of his stare while she quickly counted the coins.

“All’s in order?” he asked, when she finished.

“Yes.”

“You’re not a very trusting sort.”

She met his gaze squarely. “I meant no offense, Lord Sutton. I just find it is better not to leave anything to chance.”

“No offense taken, I assure you. I was merely making an observation. Indeed, I admire your caution, especially where money is concerned. A shocking number of thieves wander about our fair city, you know.”

“Sadly, I’m aware of that,” she said, keeping her voice even, despite the quickening of her heart rate. She tried to read his expression, but his features gave away absolutely nothing, making her feel once again a mouse to his cat.

“Oh? You haven’t been the victim of footpads I hope?”

“Not recently no. But I meant that it is impossible to live in London and not be aware of the sad state of poverty in which so many citizens live. And sadly, poverty can drive good people to do bad, desperate things.”

“Such as steal.”

“Yes.”

His green gaze rested on hers. “But some people, Madame Larchmont, are simply bad.”

“Yes, I know.” God help her, she knew only too well.
Wanting to change the subject, she nodded toward the huge portrait over the fireplace. “Your mother?”

His gaze shifted to the painting, and Alex turned to look at the image of a stunningly beautiful woman dressed in an ivory gown. She stood in a garden filled with pastel blooms, an invisible breeze touching her skirts and glossy dark hair. A faint smile played around her lips and a hint of mischief glittered in her green eyes. She shifted her attention back to Lord Sutton. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his throat moved as he swallowed.

“Yes,” he said softly. “That is my mother.”

“She’s beautiful.” In a way she’d always imagined her own mother looking. Happy. Healthy. Well dressed. Cared for. Certainly cared for by more than a scraggly, hungry, frightened child who hadn’t known how to make her well once the illness came upon her.

He pressed his lips together for several seconds then nodded. “Beautiful…yes, she was. On the inside as well. The portrait was finished just before she died.” Deep sorrow edged his voice, and when he looked at Alex, she was struck by the bleakness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sure how to respond, yet understanding all too well the agony of losing a mother. “She was very young.”

A frown shadowed across his face. “The same age as I am now.”

“You have her eyes.”

His gaze wandered back to the painting. “Yes. I inherited her love of sweets as well.” Silence swelled for several long seconds, then his eyes took on a faraway look. “She used to bring my brother and me to Maximillian’s Confectionary on Bond Street. We’d spend forever making our selections, acting very serious and proper.” The hint of a smile whispered over his lips. “But the moment we entered the carriage to go home, we’d tear into the
packages and eat and laugh until our sides ached. Her laughter was magical. Contagious…”

His voice trailed off, and Alex remained perfectly still, struck by his quiet, wistful tone. She wasn’t sure he was even aware he’d spoken that last sentence aloud. Clearly he’d loved his mother very much, and she him. A pang of envy hit her. How lovely it would be to have such memories of happy outings. An odd, unsettling ache she couldn’t quite name flooded her. Sympathy for his loss? Self-pity for her own—although how could she mourn something she’d never had?

“What of your father?” she asked.

He blinked, seeming to recall himself, then shifted his attention back to her. “As I mentioned last night, he recently remarried. His wife is the aunt of my brother’s bride. A pity that Lady Victoria—my brother’s wife—doesn’t have a sister. If she did, I’d marry her like that,” he snapped his fingers, “and I wouldn’t have to waste my time looking for a suitable bride.”

“I believe you would be well served to keep the phrase ‘waste my time looking for a suitable bride’ to yourself. Even the most pragmatic of women like a bit of romance.”

“Oh? And do you consider yourself pragmatic?”

“Of course.”

His gaze bored into hers in a way that made her feel as if she sat too close to the fire. “Yet you still like romance.”

“Of course. But I wasn’t talking about me, Lord Sutton. I was speaking of the Society misses you’ll be considering for your future wife.”

“Is that how Monsieur Larchmont won your affection? With romance?”

“Naturally.” She picked up her teacup and regarded him pointedly over the rim. “That and his natural reticence.”

“Ah. He is a man of few words.”

“Very few.”

“He is more a man of…action.”

“That describes him perfectly, yes.”

“He does not possess this habit that you find males have of saying one thing and meaning another?”

“No, he does not. When he says ‘I’m hungry,’ he means ‘I’m hungry.’”

“I see.” His gaze slipped to her lips, lingering for several seconds and halting Alex in the act of reaching for her tea cake. “And therefore I take it that when he says ‘I’m hungry’ he is referring only to food…and not to any other sort of hunger his wife would inspire?”

A flash of heat sizzled through her, flooding her with an awareness of her darkly attractive host she did not wish to feel. She forced herself to continue reaching for her cake, noting with annoyance that her movements appeared jerky. “Yes. He is refreshingly straightforward.” She curved her lips into a smile. “We’re very much two of a kind.”

“You consider yourself straightforward?”

Not in the least
. “Very much so.”

“That is…refreshing. Not many people are.” Before she could decide if there was any hidden meaning behind his words, he reached out to pick up a tea cake, and asked, “He enjoys living with you here in London?”

She frowned. “He?”

He cocked his head and peered at her with a quizzical expression. “Your husband.”

Good God, what on earth was wrong with her? Annoyed at herself for losing track of the conversation, and at him for persisting in his questions, she said briskly, “Of course. Why do you ask?”