Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (8 page)

He shrugged. “I only wondered if he missed his native France.”

“Oh. Sometimes. However, he’s adapted very well.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three years. About your reading—”

“Do you have any children?”

“No. Your reading—”

“He doesn’t accompany you to the soirees you attend?”

If he hoped to provoke a reaction from her, she refused to oblige him. “No. He does not enjoy crowds.”

“Is he a fortune-teller as well?”

“No. Tell me, Lord Sutton, once you choose a wife, do you intend to remain in London?”

“No. What is his occupation?”

“Who?”

“Monsieur Larchmont.”

She set down her teacup and lifted her chin a notch. “He is a ratcatcher, my lord.” Her tone dared him to cast aspersions upon such a lowly occupation. Indeed, she dearly hoped he would so as to incite her anger, so she felt something,
anything
other than this almost painful awareness of him. She’d lambaste him with the fact that if not for ratcatchers, the homes of lofty peers such as himself would be overrun with the vermin. But he merely nodded, his gaze never leaving hers.

“He’s been a ratcatcher for a long time?”

“For as long as I’ve known him.” Botheration, why did he ask so many questions? None of the other members of the peerage showed such curiosity. And how had he managed to turn the conversation back to her? Determined to regain—and this time retain—the upper hand, she said firmly, “The hour grows late, Lord Sutton. We’d best begin your reading as I must soon leave.”

“You’ve another engagement this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Newtrebble’s soiree?”

She nodded, and realization dawned, bringing a jolt
of alarm, followed immediately by a wash of tingling warmth. “You’ll be attending as well?”

“Yes. Must keep looking for my bride, you know.” His grin flashed—mischievous and far, far too attractive. “I’m hopeful you’ll be able to tell me who she is during our reading.”

Whoever she was, Alex wished her luck in resisting this dangerously attractive man. “Yes. To cut down on all that time wasting. Shall we get started then?”

“By all means.”

Colin slid his chair closer to the table, then
moved the tea service to one end, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand and not the delicate whiff of oranges he had just breathed in. “Do we have sufficient room here?”

“This is fine.” She opened the drawstring on her reticule and pulled out a rectangular bundle wrapped in a bronze silk.

“Who taught you how to read cards?”

Staring at the bundle in her hands, she said, “My mother.”

“Do you see her often?”

“No. She’s dead.”

He heard the hurt, the pain in her brusque words—hurt and pain with which he was intimately acquainted—and he couldn’t stop the sympathy that welled in him. “I’m sorry. I understand how deeply that loss cuts.”

“These cards are all I have left of her,” she said softly.

She looked up, and their gazes met. And he found himself holding his breath. Her expression was frustratingly unreadable, but something in her eyes, something
he fancied was vulnerability, beckoned him. In an unprecedented way that confounded and confused him.

Silence swelled between them. Did she feel this thick, unsettling tension, or was it just him? Her gaze lowered to rest on his lips. Bloody hell, he felt the impact of that look like a caress. To his utter irritation, he swelled behind his breeches, and it took all his concentration to keep from shifting in his seat to relieve the unwanted ache.

Damn it, after only a few years out of the spying game, he’d obviously lost his touch. His control. And in such an inexplicable way. Why, this woman wasn’t even in the least bit beautiful in any conventional sense. Nor was she a lady of his class.
And
she was a
thief
.

She was a thief four years ago
, his conscience broke in.
People can, and do, change.

He mentally cursed his annoying inner voice. Fine.
Four years ago
she was a thief. Most likely she still was.
That’s
what he was supposed to discover—not that his wayward body found the mere sight and scent of her irrationally and intensely arousing.

He clenched his jaw, and she blinked rapidly, as if recalling herself. Swiftly setting the bronze-wrapped bundle on the table, she said in a brisk tone, “In order for me to focus my psychic energy and maintain my concentration, it would be best if we refrain from further unnecessary conversation until your reading is finished. Your role here is that of inquirer. While I shuffle, I want you to think of the question you would most like for me to answer.”

He realized with no small amount of chagrin that he still held his breath. After pulling in a lungful of air, he said, “All right.”

With the room silent except for the ticking of the mantel clock and the snap of the burning fire, Colin watched her unwrap her cards, then carefully fold the
square of bronze silk. She didn’t remove her lace gloves, and he wondered why, but decided not to ask at the moment as she’d no doubt deem his question “unnecessary conversation.” Heaven knew he wouldn’t want to disrupt her “psychic energy.”

She closed her eyes and drew slow, deep breaths. His gaze wandered down, lingering on the delicate hollow of her throat, which deepened with each inhalation. Her chest slowly rose and fell, and he found himself matching the rhythm, waiting for the creamy skin above her bodice to swell with her next breath. Damn it all, she truly did have the oddest effect on his breathing.

Looking up, his gaze riveted on her slightly parted lips, and he pressed his own lips together to tamp down the coil of lust snaking through him with growing intensity. Unfortunately, his effort proved supremely unsuccessful. Especially when he was hit with the overpowering urge to trace the fullness of her lush mouth with his fingers. Then with his tongue—

She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. Once again, the impact of that clear, chocolate brown gaze hit him like a heated wallop.

“What is your question, my lord?”

A frown bunched his brows. “Question?”

“Have you decided what you wish to ask me?”

May I kiss you? Touch you? Make love
—

He clamped his jaw tight. Bloody hell. Not
that sort
of question. Some other question. One that didn’t involve her lips and his tongue and naked bodies and indulging in ridiculous, inappropriate fantasies.

“Er, I wish to know who will become my bride?” Yes. Perfect question. Concentrate on some other woman. Some beautiful, young, nubile, wellborn, nonthief.

She nodded, then briskly shuffled and cut the cards. Setting the deck on the table, she said, “Cut the cards. Once. Using your left hand.”

He made a mental note to ask her later why he had to use his left hand. After he completed the task, she picked up the deck in her left hand and began turning over cards.

The cards appeared old, their colors faded, and they depicted people and things completely unfamiliar to Colin. After she finished, she looked over the spread. And went completely still. Colin looked up. Something flickered in her eyes, then she frowned. He barely resisted the urge to look toward the ceiling. Clearly she intended to play this charade out to the fullest and give him his money’s worth. Relieved to have something other than her to concentrate on, he focused his attention on the cards and prepared to be entertained.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, when she remained silent, trying not to sound amused.

“N…no.” She drew several slow breaths, then indicated a grouping of cards. “These represent your past.” She studied them, then said, “You enjoyed a privileged childhood and a close relationship with someone younger than you. A brother.”

Again Colin had to force himself not to look heavenward. He’d told her he had a brother—

“But in spite of your closeness,” she continued, “you felt…lonely. Weighted down by responsibility.” She brushed her gloved fingers over the cards. “Responsibility first to your family, your title, but then to something else. Something that meant a great deal to you but caused a deep, hurtful rift with someone you cared for very much. You experienced profound pain and guilt because of this rift and blamed yourself. I see betrayal. Lies. Your actions shamed you, and you’re still experiencing guilt because of them.”

An uncomfortable sensation washed over him, as if his cravat were suddenly too tight. He forced his features to remain impassive, his fingers loosely knitted between
his spread knees. Her attention remained fixated on the cards, and her hands indicated the next grouping.

“These represent your present,” she said, her voice low and serious. “They strongly indicate inner turmoil. You’re deeply troubled…concerned about your future. These concerns weigh heavily on your mind. Your spirit is at war with itself, with your mind telling you one thing, your instincts insisting something else. Important decisions must be made, yet while you’re worried about choosing wisely, you also feel a need for urgency. To make these decisions quickly. A sense of dread surrounds you, pushing you to act—perhaps in ways you might not wish to.”

Ignoring the odd prickling sensation slithering over his skin, he remained perfectly still, watching her carefully as her gaze slid to the final grouping. Her frown deepened, and she pressed her lips together. Finally, she said, “These show your immediate future.”

Silence stretched between them, during which she appeared increasingly troubled. Something about her demeanor rushed a chill down his spine and he inwardly frowned. Good God, what was wrong with him? Finally, forcing a note of lazy amusement into his voice, he prompted, “I do hope you intend to tell me before we creep into the next outrageously expensive quarter-hour increment of your time, Madame.”

She raised her gaze, and he stilled at her troubled expression. “The things the cards are indicating…I don’t wish to alarm you.”

He waved his hand. “Fear not. I’m made of very stern stuff, I assure you.”

“Very well.” She looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I see danger.”

He nodded encouragingly. “Marriage is considered a dangerous pursuit by most men. What else?”

She shook her head. “This danger is not related to
marriage, at least not strongly. It’s something else. Something that isn’t clear. There is a woman…”

“But surely that’s good news. My future wife? Have you divined her name? Her hair color at least? Is she blond or dark?”

Again she shook her head, her eyes intent on his. “No. This woman isn’t what she appears to be. You need to beware. Of her, and your surroundings as well. The cards strongly indicate treachery. Betrayal. Illness.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Death.”

Silence descended once again. An uneasiness he refused to acknowledge crept over him, irritating him. And his irritation snapped him back to his senses.

“Well done,” he said, nodding approvingly. “I must say you’re very good. Very gypsylike and atmospheric. I’d think such dire predictions might cast a pall upon the festivities at one of the elegant parties at which you’re hired to entertain, but then again, I suppose one cannot ignore the bloodthirsty side of human nature.”

Unmistakable anger flashed in her eyes before she retreated behind the mask she wore so well. It was the first hint of true emotion she’d shown, and he found himself fascinated.

“You’re mocking me, my lord.” Her voice throbbed with a hint of the same anger he’d detected in her eyes.

“I’m simply not taking an entertaining pastime too seriously. You told me nothing that you couldn’t have gleaned from conversations with any of my acquaintances, or indeed from your own conversations with me. Your statements were vague and could apply to anyone. And to any number of situations. You did some research, embellished a bit, and acted your part flawlessly. I applaud you.”

Her expression chilled and she lifted her chin. “I had no such conversations about you. With anyone.
I conducted no research. And I embellished nothing. I only interpreted what the cards themselves told me.”

“I mean no offense, Madame. I’m not disputing your talent at providing an entertaining quarter hour. I’m merely stating no ‘psychic energy’ was required to divine that I enjoyed a privileged childhood. My position in Society would indicate as much. I’d also mentioned that I had a brother.”

He leaned back and regarded her steadily, forcing himself to swallow the urge to inform her that the woman who “isn’t what she appears to be” of whom he needed to be wary was sitting directly across from him. “As for your other statements, I’d be hard-pressed to name a person who reaches adulthood without experiencing some form of loneliness, hurt, guilt, lies, and betrayal. Thanks to the
Times
, you and everyone else in London know perfectly well that my future is very much on my mind. My duty to my title, finding a wife so as to produce heirs, is the precise reason I’m here. As for illness and death, sadly, they eventually touch us all.”

“I was not speaking about ‘eventually’ but rather of your immediate future,” she said stiffly. “I take no pleasure in delivering dire predictions, Lord Sutton. I wish I had better news, but everything in your reading points to your need to be wary. On guard. And mindful of your health.
Now
. I hope you will heed and take care.”

“Duly noted. Luckily my brother is a physician. Should I fall victim to the headache or a stomach ailment, he’ll put me back to rights.”

It appeared she wished to belabor the point, but she said nothing, just jerked her head in a nod, then quickly wrapped up her cards in the square of silk and replaced the bundle in her reticule. Then she stood and looked at him with her usual calm, unreadable expression.

“I’d like to read your cards again, my lord, if you’d
permit it. Here, at your house, but in a different room. Using different cards. To see if the readings are the same.”

He rose and crossed his arms over his chest. “And why would you want to do that?” He barely refrained from adding
other than to relieve me of another outrageous reading fee
.

“Because I want to make certain that the reading is true. Be positive that I’m correct. And perhaps gain some further insight as to what danger awaits you.”

“I’d much prefer to concentrate on discovering the identity of the woman I’m destined to marry,” he said dryly, “but by all means, let us schedule another appointment. Shall we say tomorrow, at three o’clock?” he said, deliberately choosing the same time he’d originally suggested for today’s meeting.

“I’m afraid I’m already engaged at three. However, I’m available for four o’clock.”

“Excellent. I shall look forward to it. As I told you, I’m always delighted to indulge in diverting pastimes.”

Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he moved around the table to stand directly in front of her. A mere arm’s length separated them, and he found himself staring at her. The creamy texture of her skin looked so incredibly soft, he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching out to brush his fingers over her cheek.

The firelight coaxed subtle highlights from her shiny hair, and his palms itched with the urge to pull the pins from her carefully arranged chignon and run his fingers through the glossy tresses.

When he realized to his chagrin that he was once again holding his breath, he pulled in a slow lungful of air. The subtle scent of oranges filled his head, mixed with something else that, God help him, smelled like sugar. He barely suppressed a groan. Bloody hell, how could a woman smell like
sugar
? He instantly imagined
leaning forward to brush his tongue up the length of her graceful neck, to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. His pulse quickened at the thought, and as much as it galled him to admit, there was no getting away from the fact that he desired this woman. Badly.

More galling, however, was the realization that she apparently suffered from no such affliction. She looked at him with her perfectly calm expression from those huge chocolate brown eyes. How was it that she appeared so composed while he felt so…not composed?

Annoyed at himself, and determined to put them on a more equal footing, he lightly grasped her hand and raised it. “I’m especially delighted to indulge in any pastime that includes the company of a beautiful woman.” His gaze locked with hers, he lightly kissed her lace-covered fingertips, then, as he had last evening, turned her hand and pressed his lips to the pale, silky skin of her inner wrist.