Stronger Than Magic, page 4
Reaching up self-consciously to touch the neatly coiled hair at her nape, she murmured, “Alys will be fine, my lord.”
“And you may call me Lucian in private, though I do expect you to use the proper forms of address when we’re in public.” His gaze had dropped and he was now scanning her length. “As your guardian, I shall expect you to show me deference at all times and in all matters. Understood?” By the scornful curl of his lips, it was apparent that her figure didn’t meet with his approval any more than her face and hair did.
Hating herself for caring and him even more for making her, for she truly was trying to conquer her cursed vanity, she glanced down at herself. Granted, the black bombazine mourning gown Allura had pronounced appropriate didn’t do much to flatter either her figure or coloring, but she hadn’t thought that she looked all that dreadful.
“Pompous ass, ain’t he?” It was Hedley, who had materialized on the corner of Lucian’s desk where he now sat swinging his stubby legs. Apparently he’d been stealing pastries, for there were crumbs in his matted brown beard and if she didn’t miss her guess, the red gob on the corner of his mouth was preserves.
“Do you understand, Miss Faire?” Lucian repeated, loudly this time as if he suspected that she was hard of hearing.
Alys nodded, more in agreement to the hob’s observation than to his lordship’s instructions. Even after only three minutes in his company, it was clear that the Marquess of Thistlewood was the stiffest-rumped aristocrat she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. A truly dismal fact in light of the task before her.
“Good,” he more snapped than replied. “You follow all my directives so readily and we shall get on well enough.”
“Follow my directives. Follow my directives,” Hedley mimicked, making a noise reminiscent of flatulence. “Just like ye was his bloody damn dog.”
Alys watched as Lucian picked up a letter and scanned the contents, obviously so used to everyone meekly obeying his orders that he fully expected her to let his last remark pass unchallenged. That bit of high-handedness gave her an almost irrepressible urge to do something to deflate his overinflated sense of self-importance.
His beady brown eyes gleaming with deviltry, Hedley baited, “Ye ought to shove a bur up Lord High-Horse’s tight arse and ask him what he’ll do if ye don’t follow his frigging directives.” He guffawed. “Bet having someone talk back’d be something new for him.”
Alys transferred her gaze from the hob to Lucian, whose nostrils were quivering slightly as if he’d just caught a whiff of the little man’s stink. Hedley was right. It probably would be a new experience for someone to question the mighty Marquess of Thistlewood’s commands.
She ducked her head to hide her face, certain that her expression was every bit as mischievous as Hedley’s. Allura had said that any new experience, pleasant or not, would make Lucian Warre feel the emotions he needed to increase his soul. And since it was her duty to foster these emotions …
“What if I disagree with your directives and don’t choose to follow them?” she blurted out abruptly.
He continued to read for a moment, then slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. Though his face was impassive, his annoyance was apparent by the narrowing of his eyes. “It’s not your place to disagree with me. You shall do what I say, when I say it.”
Alys forced herself to smile sweetly, though it made her face ache to do so. “That doesn’t answer my question, my lord.”
“That’s because it does not warrant an answer.”
As she leaned forward to challenge his reply, Hedley skittered to the center of the desk where he stood waving his fists, shouting garbled fairy nonsense at Lucian. Lucian’s nostrils flared violently and his slitted eyes widened almost to the point of popping as he expelled, “Good God, Miss Faire. When was the last time you bathed?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug, but refrained from response.
“When I ask you a question, I fully expect an answer,” he bit out, retreating from the smell as far as his chair back would allow.
“I don’t see that your question warrants an answer.”
Apparently Hedley was correct about nobody naysaying him, for he looked almost stunned by her rebellious response. But only for a second. Quickly recovering his composure, he said in a surprisingly reasonable tone, “I can see that this situation is no more to your liking than it is to mine. Unfortunately, there is nothing either of us can do about it.” He slid the paper he’d been reading across the desk to her. “As you can see for yourself, my dear Miss Faire, you are legally bound to my guardianship, just as I am bound by my honor to see to your welfare.”
Alys picked up the letter and made a show of perusing it. After several moments she lowered it a fraction to meet his gaze over the top. “Where does it say that I must follow your directives?”
“In the same place it states that you’re not to question your elders. It’s an unwritten law, one that I’d have thought you’d have been taught while you were still in your cradle.” He sighed as he plucked the letter from her hands. “I fear that finding you a husband is going to be a more difficult task than I had hoped.”
She sniffed. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own husband, thank you very much. However, I must warn you that I’m in no hurry to marry. Perhaps I’ll consider the matter seriously in, oh”—she waved her hand dismissively—“five or six years.”
Apparently Allura wasn’t jesting about the discomfort involved in an unfeeling soul learning new emotions, for if he weren’t so young and obviously fit, she’d have thought by the color of his face that he was suffering a fit of apoplexy.
“You will be married when I say and to whom,” he finally choked out from behind gritted teeth. “Your brother charged me with finding you a suitable husband, and I intend to do so as soon as possible.”
Alys met Hedley’s gleeful gaze as she said, “When Bevis entrusted you with me and my happiness, he fully expected you to behave like the honorable man he thought he was dying for. I’m certain he never dreamed that you would force me into a loveless marriage.” She couldn’t resist the temptation to heave a quivering sigh. “My poor, poor—darling—brother. We were so close. I doubt he’ll be able to rest in peace if I’m miserable.”
Hedley cackled so hard, he almost fell off the stack of ledgers he was now perched on. “Shove that bur an inch higher, and it’ll be coming out Lord Tight-Arse’s mouth.”
At that moment Lord Tight-Arse seemed hard-pressed to push anything past his lips. No doubt he’d planned to lock her in the attic and force her to subsist on moldy bread and brackish water until she agreed to marry whatever odious creature he selected. By bringing up Bevis’s sacrifice and appealing to the speck of honor he possessed within what Alys had determined was his pinhead-sized soul, she’d effectively pulled the rug out from under him and left him at a loss. By the way he was looking at her, being at a loss was apparently another first for him.
As before, Lucian was surprisingly swift in recovering his senses. “Your brother realized that, as a woman, you are susceptible to romantic fancies and are therefore incapable of selecting a husband for yourself. He wanted you to marry for sensible reasons, like financial security and social position, not out of the absurd illusion you females call love. He left it up to me to make certain you do just that.”
Alys emitted an incredulous snort. “I didn’t see all that in the letter from Bevis’s solicitor. Is that another of your unwritten laws?”
He shrugged. “No. Just common sense, something which, as an inexperienced young miss, I don’t expect you to have much of.”
It was Alys’s turn to be struck speechless. By the ease with which he said the condescending words, it was shockingly clear that he truly believed them. She gripped the arms of her chair so hard in her fury that it hurt her palms. Of all the arrogant, pigheaded … tight-arsed! … autocrats she’d ever met, he was the worse. She might as well have Hedley summon Allura now and surrender her soul, for she couldn’t imagine any woman liking, much less truly loving Lucian Warre.
“I promise, Alys,” he continued in a clipped voice, “that I shall select you a husband worthy of the sister of the man who saved my life. Though you might not approve of my choice at first, over time you shall see the wisdom of my judgment and undoubtedly thank me.”
He looked so damnably smug that her tongue snapped out before she could still it, “Oh? And what sort of man would you, in your bloody wisdom, consider worthy? Someone as humorless and overbearing as yourself, I suppose?”
Apparently humorless and overbearing were terms frequently applied to his lordship, for he merely made a tsking noise and chided her, “Ladies do not use the word bloody. I see that we shall have to work on improving your speech as well as your manners and”—his nostrils twitched meaningfully—“grooming.”
“I am not the one who needs a lesson in manners, and there is nothing wrong with either my speech or my grooming,” she flung back indignantly.
He made a clicking noise between his teeth. “Why must you challenge everything I say? Surely you see that you cannot win in our battle of wills?”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that if I were you.”
“Mark my words, Alys, and mark them well: no matter how much you fight me, you shall do as I say. You will be betrothed before the end of the season and married by the end of the year.” She could almost hear the sizzle in the air as his icy gray gaze met with her burning blue one. “You see, my dear, I never lose … in anything.”
Alys’s eyes narrowed at his cocksure reply, then a slow smile curved her lips. “Never say never, my lord,” she warned him cryptically.
Lesson number two? Losing.
Chapter 3
Lucian muttered an expletive beneath his breath and slumped deeper in his chair, ignoring the curious glances from his fellow club members. He had never felt so odd in his life, so wretchedly … disturbed. And it was all the fault of that damn Alys Faire.
He gave his head a mental shake of astonishment. That she, an inexperienced miss, had put a crack in what he prided himself as being his invulnerable composure was beyond all comprehension. In truth, this lapse of control was so alien to his restrained nature that he was utterly at a loss at how to deal with it.
“Demme, Thistlewood. Can’t say as I’ve ever seen you looking so blue-deviled.”
Lucian glanced up from the glass of port he was contemplating to see his best friend, Stephen Randolph, Earl of Marchland, drop into the chair next to him. Unlike the other gentlemen at White’s who were attired in proper evening dress, the horse-mad Stephen was decked out in riding clothes that looked as if they had endured a recent tour of Tattersall’s stables. Lucian smiled in spite of his misery. Indeed, if he didn’t miss his guess, that was straw protruding from Stephen’s unruly auburn hair. Glad to see his unfailingly jolly friend, he admitted, “I am feeling rather out of sorts this evening.”
Stephen cocked his head to one side, his warm brown eyes bright with curiosity. “Odd admission from you. Can’t imagine what could put you in the dumps, unless”—he tilted his head to the other side—“you’re having a problem with a woman or a horse.” A sudden flush of excitement rose to his lean cheeks. “Say, this doesn’t have anything to do with your new stallion, does it? Be glad to take him off your hands, you know.”
“It’s a woman.”
“Oh.” Stephen didn’t bother to mask his disappointment. “Ah, well. I warned you about Reina. Quick temper, sharp tongue. Spanish blood, you know.”
“Not Reina. Alys,” Lucian said, tossing down the entire contents of his glass. Just uttering her name was enough to drive him to drink.
Stephen signaled for the attendant to bring Lucian a refill. “Alys? New bit of muslin, eh?”
Lucian made a derisive noise. “I’m hardly the sort of man to brood over an unsatisfactory mistress. No. Alys is my new ward. And the most whey-faced, undisciplined little hellion I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“Like blazes, you don’t say! A ward?” Stephen’s expression was every bit as shocked as Reina’s had been. “Who was cracked enough to do something like that? No offense, but”—he gestured toward Lucian—“you’re hardly the fatherly sort. I mean—”
“You mean that I loathe children.” He released a humorless grate of laughter. “No offense taken, Stephen. I’m not the sort of man I’d wish as a father for my own children, if I had any. Too bad Lord Fairfax wasn’t as accurate a judge of character as you.”
“Lord Fairfax, eh? Isn’t he the fellow who took the bayonet for you?” At Lucian’s solemn nod, he let out a long whistle. “That does put you in a pickle. You do rather owe him the favor of seeing to his daughter.”
“Sister,” Lucian corrected.
“A young lady?” Stephen’s interest sharpened visibly. “I’d assumed we were discussing a child.”
“She might as well be a child for all the figure she has,” Lucian muttered. “All straight lines and no bosom to speak of. As if that’s not bad enough, she’s blonde.” He released a groan as despairing as if he had just been sentenced to transportation to Australia. Indeed, the hardship of Australia looked mighty tempting when compared to life with Alys. “The worse tangle of this coil,” he added, “is that the man left me charged with the duty of finding her a husband. Given the choice, I’d have taken the bayonet myself.”
“There, there, Luc,” Stephen consoled, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Plenty of fellows like blondes. Taken to a few myself.”
“Yes. But at least your blondes had bosoms.”
Stephen shrugged. “I’m not adverse to a slender figure. Less likely to look like a Christmas goose after squeezing out an heir.”
“Thistlewood! Marchland!” greeted voices from behind them.
Lucian glanced over his shoulder. Lords Stanton and Bradwell. He almost groaned aloud. The pair were the biggest prattle-boxes in London. They had noses like truffle pigs when it came to sniffing out juicy morsels of gossip. By the way they were peering down at him, their eyes agleam with interest, it was apparent that they’d caught a whiff of scandal-broth brewing in his corner.
“Was just telling Bradwell here that you’re looking deuced out of sorts tonight, Thistlewood,” Stanton said, his squinty blue eyes narrowing on Lucian’s face. “Said, ‘See here, Bradwell. We ought to try to boost Thistlewood’s spirits.’ Didn’t I say just that, Bradwell?”
Lord Bradwell bobbed his pie-faced head in agreement.
This time Lucian vocalized his groan. Even at his best he had little tolerance for the pair’s chitchat. In his current mood, he had the uneasy suspicion that his patience might snap altogether, giving the men something truly scandalous to talk about. He was just opening his mouth to discourage them when Stephen piped in. “Please join us, gentlemen.” At Lucian’s wrathful glower, he shrugged. “Thought they might help us with your problem.”
Lucian’s glare grew more intense.
Unlike most people, who turned to pudding when faced with the Marquess of Thistlewood’s displeasure, Stephen merely grinned. He’d known Lucian since their boyhood at Eaton and had learned long ago that his friend wasn’t nearly as ferocious as he looked.
“See here, Luc,” he said in a low voice as the men seated themselves in the two facing chairs, “Bradwell and Stanton know more about the ton than the ton knows about itself. Stands to reason that they will know which men are searching for wives this season. Could even suggest a prospect or two for your new ward.” He nodded. “At the very least they will let slip that you have a ward on the marriage market. When the news gets out, you’ll both be invited to every affair this season. And the more places she’s seen, the better your odds of finding her a husband.”
Lucian considered his words for a moment, then nodded his grudging agreement. As much as he dreaded the thought of enduring Stanton’s and Bradwell’s company, Stephen was right.
After settling himself in his chair, Lord Stanton pursed his thin lips and leaned forward. Everything about the man, from the shape of his ferretlike face to his black kidskin-clad feet, was rather thin and narrow. As Lucian coolly returned his gaze, he was reminded, not for the first time, of one of those oddly elongated figures one saw carved atop medieval tombs.
“So, Thistlewood,” he finally said, reaching over to thump him on the shoulder. “Need our assistance, hmm?”
“Perhaps,” Lucian replied, his voice gruff with reluctance. So protective of his privacy was he, that just the thought of opening himself up, even to the slightest degree, made him feel all fluttery inside. He frowned at the foreign sensation. Is this what people meant when they complained about having butterflies in their stomachs? He pressed his palm to his midsection. Whatever it was, it was damned uncomfortable.
He was saved the further discomfort of having to explain his predicament by Stephen, who interjected, “Thistlewood has found himself saddled with a ward … a young lady. Her brother, Lord Fairfax, left her to him with the express wish that he find her a husband. Thought you gentlemen might suggest a likely candidate.”
Bradwell visibly puffed up with importance at being asked to act as an adviser to the powerful Marquess of Thistlewood, while Stanton slowly rubbed his gloved hands together. “Might be able to help you at that,” Bradwell said with a nod. “Provided, of course, that the gel is acceptable in looks, nature, and, a-hem, dowry.” He looked at Lucian expectantly.
Lucian stared back, struggling to think of a way to portray Alys in a positive light without lying. Lying in any matter, even for the purpose of extracting one’s self from a difficult situation such as this, was out of the question.
