Stronger Than Magic, page 3
“That being the case, why didn’t Aengus let him atone by guarding Lucian during the recent war?” Alys asked.
The fairy stared down at her quill-wiper as if suddenly fascinated. “He’s grown rather unpredictable and … mmm … more irresponsible over the centuries, and Aengus was afraid to trust him with the task.”
Alys gaped at Allura, too appalled by her words to speak. Oh, perfect! She had to find an emotionless man true love in four months time with only a harum-scarum hob to assist her.
She was doomed for certain.
Chapter 2
London
“Are you asleep, Luc?” the woman whispered, running her hand down the muscular back of the man lying beside her.
His eyelids lifted, revealing eyes as cold and gray as the stone walls of Newgate prison. He lay unmoving for several seconds staring at her in his odd, unreadable way, then released a soft snort and flopped over onto his back. “What the hell do you take me for, Reina? Some beef-witted cub who spills himself and then promptly falls asleep?”
“No! No! Of course not. As always your lordship’s lovemaking was”—she made a fluttering motion with her hand as she scrambled for a fitting word—“magnificent!” And it was. For all that he was the most passionless man she’d ever met, Lucian Warre truly was a magnificent lover. Not for the first time in the month she’d been his mistress, she found herself wondering how that could be.
He emitted another snort at her compliment, this one liberally laced with scorn. “Even an impotent old roué is counted as splendid by his mistress if he’s flush in the pockets.”
Reina opened her mouth to indignantly contest his words, but something in his narrowed gaze changed her mind and she instead murmured, “You mentioned earlier that you must leave me at seven to be at home for the arrival of a guest. It must be someone very important indeed for you, the mighty Marquess of Thistlewood, to be at their beck and call like that.”
“Not a guest,” he corrected her coolly. “My new ward. A chit of nineteen or twenty, I believe.”
“Ward? You?” she gasped, unable to hide her amazement. Why someone would leave a young miss in the care of a stern, somber bachelor like Lucian was beyond her scope of imagination.
“Ward. Me,” he echoed, tossing aside the sheet and slipping from the bed. “She’s the sister of an officer who died at Waterloo taking a bayonet for me.” He paused a beat to stretch his spine. “That being the case, I could hardly say no when his solicitor approached me about the matter.”
Reina let her appreciative gaze follow him as he sauntered across the room to retrieve his clothes. Powerful muscles flexed and rippled beneath skin as lustrous as tawny silk, emphasizing the athletic grace of his every move. Never in all her years as a demi-rep had she seen a man so devilishly perfect in both face and form. Indeed, if it wasn’t for his chilly demeanor, he would have been the most devastatingly desirable man in England.
Raising herself up on her elbows, she watched as he bent over to draw up his trousers, thoroughly enjoying the view of his tight buttocks and long muscular legs. When he’d pulled them up, thus occluding the tantalizing sight, she murmured breathlessly, “So, my lord. What are your plans for your new ward?”
He picked up his snowy shirt and drew it over his sculpted chest. “I intend to find her a husband, and soon,” he replied, tucking his shirttail into his trousers with military precision. “The last thing I need or want is the millstone of a milk-and-water miss hanging around my neck.” A pained grimace crossed his face. “I just pray that she doesn’t resemble her brother.”
“That bad?”
“Blonde,” he announced in much the same tone one used to discuss harelips and crossed eyes.
Reina laughed. “That’s hardly what I’d call a ruinous fault.” At his scowl, she argued, “Believe me, Luc, there are plenty of men who prefer fair women, though, lucky for me, you find them unappetizing.”
He grunted his disbelief as he turned to the mirror to tie his cravat. “Considering that her marriage portion consists of an indebted estate and a mismanaged wool mill, a man will have to find her bloody exquisite to want to marry her.”
Reina remained silent for several moments reflecting on his problem, while Lucian tugged and cursed at his wayward neckcloth. Finally he expelled a frustrated snort and turned from the mirror, his usually immaculate cravat crookedly knotted and crushed. As he shrugged on his biscuit-colored waistcoat, she pointed out, “You’re a wealthy man. If your new ward proves to be as ill-favored as you fear, you can always fatten her dowry yourself and buy your freedom. Lord Dunhurst did just that a few years back. He got stuck with a ward who had a squint, a mustache, and next to no dowry. Not a single man spared her so much as a glance until his lordship flushed her portion by a few thousand pounds. As soon as word of her newly increased settlement got out, she received not one but four offers. Granted, they were all from rakes in Dun territory, not exactly the sort of men a father would hope for for his daughter, but she did well enough considering her shortcomings.”
Lucian ran his hand through his hair as he weighed her suggestion, his tanned flesh appearing almost pale against the raven-wing darkness of his tousled locks. “It might work at that,” he mused, almost to himself. He sighed then and dropped his hand back to his side. “Unlike Lord Dunhurst, however, I feel obligated to make certain that the man she marries is the sort her brother would approve of. I owe him at least that much for saving my life.”
Reina shrugged as she rose from the bed and donned a scarlet wool dressing gown. “In that case, you must invest some blunt in improving her.” She strolled over to where he stood buttoning his chocolate-brown coat, reciting, “A wardrobe by Madame Fanchon is a must, as are a clever abigail and tutors in deportment and dancing. If she turns out to be a goosecap, you’ll need to hire Monsieur Boucher to teach her the art of witty repartee.”
Standing on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and concluded between kisses, “Add all that to her newly fattened dowry, and I don’t doubt that half the gallants in London will be cutting a path to your door.”
“Remind me on Friday, my dear,” Lucian said, disengaging himself from her embrace, “to take you to Rundel & Bridge’s and buy you that bracelet you’ve been trying to wheedle from me.”
It was all Reina could do not to squeal her delight and throw her arms around him again. Knowing his distaste for such displays, however, she settled for smiling and murmuring, “You’re most generous, my lord.”
He shook his head. “Not generous. Merely conscious of rewarding those who render me service.”
“Which you do quite handsomely,” she rejoined softly. “By the by, cook baked one of those apricot tarts you so enjoy. Perhaps you’d care to join me for dinner before you leave?” A hopeful note crept into her voice.
“The last time I stayed for dinner we ended up back in bed, and I completely missed the reception my sister held in my honor.” He made a wry face. “She still hasn’t stopped scolding me on that account.”
“What if I promise not to seduce you?” she purred, remembering the night in question with heated fondness.
His gaze met hers then, his eyes so frigid that she shivered. “Don’t flatter yourself, my dear. There’s not a woman alive with the power to rob me of my senses enough to seduce me.”
“Told ye it was a bloody damn palace!” Hedley crowed, leaping from the seat as the footman opened the door. Without waiting for Alys to respond, the foot-tall hob jumped from the coach, ran between the footman’s legs, and disappeared into the wintery darkness beyond.
Alys didn’t miss the way the servant’s nostrils flared as he passed. Like most humans he couldn’t see Hedley, but he could certainly smell him. And by the way he was eyeing her, it was apparent that he thought the stench was emanating from her.
“Oh, perfect!” Alys muttered to herself as she gathered up her skirts and prepared to exit the coach. She could just imagine how many invitations she’d receive if it got about that the Marquess of Thistlewood’s new ward smelled like the gutters of St. Giles. And if she didn’t get invited to the upcoming season’s routs, balls, and assemblies, she had about as much chance of finding Lucian Warre true love as a fairy had of entering heaven. It was clear that she was going to have to find a remedy for Hedley’s body odor and fast
She was considering luring the hob into a bucketful of lavender water when she stepped from the coach and got her first glance at the house that was to be her temporary home. Instantly her dismay melted into awe.
Hedley was right. It was a palace.
Built of soft yellow brick with white stone dressings, the mansion was four stories high and nine bays wide. Baroque in style, its origins were apparent in the elegantly carved roof balustrade and in the ornate pediments that crowned each of the flanking wings and the center entry porch. The windows, all thirty-six facing ones at least, were ablaze with light, imparting a sense of warmth that she found as comforting as a welcoming hug.
As Alys stood gaping like a green girl on her first trip to town, she was snapped out of her admiring stupor by a discreet cough. Whether that cough was meant to draw her attention or was due to the close proximity of Hedley, who was hopping around the servant on one foot chanting something unintelligible, she didn’t know. Whatever the case, the red-faced footman motioned her up the sweeping front steps to where a stooped, rather storklike butler stood guard at the open door.
With a gleeful cackle, Hedley darted up ahead of her, turning a series of cartwheels as he vanished inside. Relieved to be rid of the hob, at least for the moment, Alys followed at a more sedate pace. Her relief, however, was short-lived, for without the distraction of the little man, as unpleasant as it was, her mind was left free to meditate on her upcoming encounter with Lucian Warre.
During the long ride from Fairfax Castle, she’d attempted to coax Hedley into telling her what he’d learned of the man while spying on him. To her everlasting vexation, the nasty little hob had decided to be contrary and answered her questions with nonsensical riddles. With growing exasperation, she’d proceeded to try everything from bribery to threats to extract the information, all with equally fruitless results. At last she’d given up and had spent the remainder of the miserable trip with her head hanging out the window, breathing in the icy but mercifully hob-stench free air.
So what would Lucian Warre be like? she wondered as she followed the butler into an entry hall resplendent with Italian stucco walls and a sweeping staircase. Aside from the fact that his soul could fit into a thimble, she knew nothing about him. Her eyes narrowed with speculation. Would he bear any resemblance, physical or other, to the man he’d once been?
In her mind’s eye, she pictured Lucan de Thistlewood as he’d looked the day she’d met him. With his shimmering mane of pale gold hair and eyes the hue of turquoise, he’d been the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. It had almost hurt to look at him, he was so beautiful, especially clad as he was in his golden armor. And when he’d smiled at her, his expression so sweet and full of tenderness …
Remorse caught in her throat, choking her like it always did when she remembered Lucan. If only she’d been less selfish, less vain. If only she’d cherished him as the treasure he was instead of viewing him as a pawn to be used in her cruel little games. He’d given her his greatest gift, his love, and in return he’d received nothing but pain and torment.
So engrossed was she in her self-flagellation that she plowed right into the back of the dour butler, who’d come to an abrupt stop at the foot of the stairs. Apparently her traveling pelisse had taken on Hedley’s odor during their hours cooped up together in the coach, for the man put a distance between them with a speed she found astonishing for a person of his advanced years.
In the stiff-jawed manner she’d noticed had become fashionable, he announced, “His lordship directed me to present you to him immediately upon your arrival. Unless, of course, you care to—ahem—freshen up first?” From the disdainful way he was staring at her down his beaky nose, it was clear that he thought a liberal application of soap and water was in order before meeting the marquess.
For one brief instant, Alys was overwhelmed with the desire to accept his invitation, and to primp and fuss like she used to do when she knew she’d be seeing Lucan. Then she reminded herself that he was no longer Lucan de Thistlewood, the courtly knight, but Lucian Warre, a stranger … a stranger whom she had just four short months to find true love. It was remembering that fact that made her say, “I shall see his lordship now, if you please.” The sooner she met the man, the sooner she could decide what sort of woman would suit him and how best to go about finding her.
By the way the butler’s beetled gray brows rose almost to his sparse hairline, it was obvious that he didn’t please. However, like any servant mindful of his position, he merely intoned, “As you wish, Miss Faire. If you’ll follow me?”
Without further comment, he pivoted on his heels and marched down the long corridor at his right. Like the entry hall, its plaster walls were worked in deeply sculptured relief, these in medallions with exquisitely detailed portraits. Unlike the entry, however, whose floor was of cold white stone inlaid with diamonds of black marble, this one was carpeted in pale blue drugget bordered with a green and rose trellis design.
As appeared to be his habit, the butler didn’t slow upon approach to their destination, but came to a sudden stop in front of it. Without sparing her a glance to assure himself that she was by his side, he scratched discreetly at the paneled door.
“Yes?” responded a masculine voice, one whose cool, deep timbre bore no resemblance to Lucan’s warm, lilting one.
“Miss Faire has arrived, my lord.”
There was a long pause, as if he were deciding whether or not to receive her, then, “Please show her in, Tidswell.”
At his command the butler opened the door, then stepped back, motioning for her to enter. Alys swallowed hard and willed her feet to move. They remained firmly rooted to the spot. She tried again, but they refused to budge. She scowled down at the leather-clad offenders. What the devil was wrong with her?
Her pounding heart and trembling palms gave easy answer to that question. She was nervous … terrified if the truth were to be told. Whatever was she going to say to the man whose soul she was bound to save? Though she’d rehearsed the coming scene in her mind a hundred times, she suddenly wished that she’d accepted the butler’s invitation to freshen up so she could have practiced it a hundred times more.
“Miss?” Tidswell urged.
She looked up at him, her panic growing by the second.
He widened his eyes at her as if to command her to stop behaving like a ninnyhammer, and again waved her into the room.
Returning her gaze to her feet, she concentrated on ungluing her soles from the carpet. To her relief, she somehow managed to shuffle over the threshold. Without looking up or stopping to consider whether it was appropriate to do so in this day and age, she executed a shaky curtsy.
A deep chuckle resonated from her left. “Nicely done, Miss Faire. I’m sure my great-great-grandfather is duly impressed.”
Alys looked up swiftly to find herself staring at a huge black marble fireplace, above which hung the portrait of a gentleman dressed in the fashion popular a century earlier. Flushing what she was certain was the same shade of crimson as the full-skirted coat of the gentleman in the portrait, she stole a glance in the direction from which the voice had come. What she saw only added to her discomfiture.
There was absolutely nothing of Lucan de Thistlewood in Lucian Warre. At least nothing readily visible. Oh, Lucian Warre was handsome enough, there was no debating it, but in a dark, aggressively masculine way that she found more disturbing than pleasing. Apparently he was none too pleased with what he saw either, for he was eyeing her with an expression that could only be interpreted as distaste.
More deeply wounded than she had thought possible, Alys looked away. This was the first time since her captivity that she’d been allowed to appear in the mortal world in her true form, and she’d fully expected to be as much admired now as she had been five hundred years earlier.
When Aengus had turned her over to Allura to be trained as a matchmaker, he’d done so with strict instructions that she be transformed into either an over-plump matron or a hatchet-faced spinster every time she was sent among humans. He said that she, with her overweening vanity, needed a lesson in humility, and that the only way for her to truly learn it was to deprive her of the masculine admiration she so adored.
Alys sighed. Obviously the requirements for feminine beauty had changed so much over the centuries that Aengus no longer thought it necessary to transform her.
“Miss Faire?” Lucian prodded.
Alys forced herself to look at him again.
He was now standing courteously behind his desk, gesturing toward a comfortable-looking chair in front of him, his expression blessedly impassive. “Please have a seat.”
As she moved forward to do as he bid, the butler stopped her with, “Might I suggest, miss, that you remove your pelisse and bonnet first?”
With a nod, she did as he suggested. Holding her eau de Hob scented garments with two fingers at arm’s length, the man quickly exited the room.
“Now, Miss Faire, or may I call you Alys?” Lucian said, waiting for her to settle in her chair before sitting back down behind the massive desk. Unlike most men, who had the courtesy to grace a lady with a deferential look when asking leave to address her by her first name, he was staring at her hair as if it were a coiffure of poisonous vipers.
