Stronger Than Magic, page 7
Gesturing toward Tidswell, who was now fussily tugging at one of the coat’s shoulder capes, she confessed, “I find the sight of a grown, obviously competent man being dressed as if he were an infant rather funny. You would too if you could see how ridiculous you look, standing there all stiff while Tidswell primps you like an about-to-be-presented fashion doll.”
The butler froze in the act of straightening his master’s collar, his normally immobile jaw dropping in horrified shock. Lucian merely stared at her, his face utterly void of expression.
Taking his lordship’s lack of response as a sign that he needed further instruction, she added, “What made me laugh, however, isn’t the sight of you and Tidswell, as droll as it is.” She shook her head. “But the notion that you might possibly be ignorant of how to dress yourself and thus require such services not out of arrogance, but out of necessity.”
Slowly, Lucian’s face darkened to that interesting shade of purple it had turned when she’d torn up his list. And yes, he was starting to get that same pained expression he’d gotten when Charlotte had bested him in the matter of the dressmaker.
Alys viewed her handiwork with satisfaction. Ah. She truly was a marvelous teacher. And as such, it was her duty to see to it that his soul got the utmost emotional growth from the lesson. With that end in mind, she goaded, “Well? Can you?”
“Can I what?” he spat from between clenched teeth.
“Dress yourself.”
Shoving aside Tidswell, who had regained his dignity and was now adjusting his master’s cuff, Lucian stalked toward Alys.
One look at his wrathful face was enough to send her previously soaring confidence crashing back to earth. This time she’d clearly gone too far.
Uneasily catching her lower lip between her teeth, she took a step backward. He looked furious enough to make good his thrice-delivered threat to turn her over his knee and give her a sound spanking. The thought of such humiliation was enough to send her into a stumbling retreat … a retreat that was thwarted when she tripped over the shallow bottom stair. Clawing frantically at air, she fought to regain her balance, then tumbled backward to land on the steps with derriere-bruising force.
Like a vulture spying a fresh kill, Lucian was on her in an instant. Emitting a noise that sounded alarmingly like a snarl, he grasped her arm and hauled her back to her feet. “Where the hell were you raised, Alys? In a stable?” he hissed, jerking her nearer until his anger-contorted face was almost pressed to hers.
Unwilling yet strangely compelled, she met his gaze with hers. The glow of the banking fury burning in his eyes was truly terrifying to behold. Thoroughly alarmed, she tried to look away, but he shoved his face yet nearer, completely filling her line of vision.
“You will look at me, just as you will listen to and heed my words,” he growled, giving her a shake that rattled her teeth. “I have suffered your insolence thus far because I realize that you have lacked proper discipline, and therefore know no better. My tolerance, however, as endless as it might seem, does not extend to you mocking me. So be warned, Miss Faire: though you might not choose to like me, you damn well will show me respect.” He gave her another shake. “Understood?”
Alys nodded as best she could with his face so close to hers. For the first time since they had met, she wasn’t the slightest bit tempted to argue with him.
“Good.” He released her so abruptly that she almost fell to the stairs again. “If you value the skin on your backside, you’ll remember your agreement in the future.” Without sparing her another glance, he turned on his heels and marched back to Tidswell.
The butler, ever mindful of his duty, held out his tall black hat and leather gloves. Snatching his hat from the servant’s hand, Lucian jammed it on his head, then yanked on his gloves. Turning at profile, he snapped, “Unless you wish to anger the exalted Madame Fanchon and thus forfeit her services, I’d suggest that we leave now.”
Alys started to obey, then stopped short, noting Charlotte’s absence for the first time. “Shouldn’t we wait for your sister?”
“She’s not coming with us.”
“What?” she gasped, dismayed at the notion of being alone in his company. So much for a pleasant day.
“I said that she shall not be accompanying us,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable so that his words were unmistakable. “She sent a note around earlier informing me that she’s feeling unwell. She implored me to take you to the dressmaker’s myself, which I am doing only because I went to so much trouble to secure you an appointment.”
“Look at me, Alys!” piped a voice from the top of the stairs.
Alys glanced sideways in time to see Hedley slide down the winding black and gold wrought-iron handrail. When he reached the spiraling finial, he let out a raucous whoop and in one froglike leap vaulted to the floor at her feet. Instantly she was engulfed in his nauseating odor.
Oblivious to, or more likely just ignoring, her faint gagging sounds, he cheerfully chimed, “Off to the dressmaker’s are we?”
Trying to inhale as little as possible, Alys stole a glance over to where Lucian was selecting an umbrella from the somber-hued assortment now being presented by Tidswell. Since neither man was paying her the least bit of notice, she deemed it safe to hiss, “I’m going to the dressmaker’s. You’re staying here.”
Apparently her hiss wasn’t soft enough, for both men looked at her in query.
“Did you say something?” Lucian quizzed.
“Um—I—I said that I hoped your sister isn’t seriously ill,” she improvised, though once the words were out she was glad she’d uttered them. If Hedley hadn’t distracted her, she’d have asked after Charlotte’s health sooner.
He shook his head and returned his gaze to the umbrellas. “She shall be fine. She’s just exhausted from passing a restless night. She said that she woke up this morning feeling as if she’d been pinched black and blue.”
Alys slanted Hedley a suspicious look, recalling that bedevilment by pinching was reported to be his favorite sport.
“A-rgh! Don’t ye be giving me the evil eye,” the hob objected, scratching his hairy potbelly with an offended air. “It must’ve been those Hyde Park Pillywiggin pixies that done it. They was sniggering about plaguing the bloody damn nobility last time I joined ’em in a tankard of wine.”
She was conveying her disbelief via a scowl when Lucian snapped, “Stop dallying, Alys. We must be off. Now.”
Glancing over to where he stood framed in the now open front door, she nodded. Under the cover of dropping and retrieving her reticule, she whispered firmly to the hob, “Stay here. And try to keep out of mischief. I shan’t be gone long.”
His thorny hand shifted from his belly to scratch his armpit. “Can’t.”
“You can and you will,” she ordered, wondering with repugnance if there was such a thing as fairy lice.
He eyed her craftily. “Aengus said that I was to go everywhere with ye. And ye of all people should know that it ain’t wise to cross his highness.” Without waiting for her to reply—and indeed, what could she say?—he skipped toward the door, pausing once to stamp on Tidswell’s foot. The butler flinched visibly, though whether from the abuse to his foot or from the hob’s rank scent, it was impossible to tell.
Forlornly resigning herself to a wretched day, Alys followed.
The first thing she noticed as she joined Lucian outside was how pale and pinched he was looking all of a sudden. She was about to inquire if he was sickening with something when she caught a whiff of Hedley’s stench and spied the little man merrily swinging from a vine near his head. Apparently the wicked hob was aware of his nauseating effect on his lordship, for he was furiously pumping his stubby legs so as to swing nearer to his face with every pass.
Alys sighed her exasperation. As if Lucian’s disposition wasn’t foul enough without such aggravation. Indeed, if it got much worse, even the infinitely powerful pull of destiny would be insufficient to induce a woman to love him.
Not willing to lose her immortal soul on account of Hedley’s tomfoolery, she casually reached up and grabbed hold of his vine. With the protesting hob still dangling from the end, she tossed it against the brick wall, pretending to be merely sweeping it out of the way.
There was a piercing screech, followed by a sharp “Oomph!” as the hob smashed against the wall. His face frozen into a mask of outraged astonishment, he slid to the ground where he sat shaking his head as if to jar his brains back into place.
Eyeing the greenery with disfavor, Lucian offered her his arm, muttering, “I must remember to speak to the gardener about pruning those vines. They smell as if something crawled in them and died.”
Smiling blandly in agreement, Alys accepted his escort to the waiting carriage. A much subdued Hedley tagged several paces behind, muttering in hob gibberish beneath his breath.
When they reached the stylish black, green, and gold conveyance, Alys looked over her shoulder and jerked her head toward the driver, indicating that the hob was to ride outside with him. The little man pouted, but mercifully refrained from arguing. That bit of business concluded, she climbed into the carriage.
As Lucian settled into the opposite seat, he said, “The answer to your question is yes.” At her querying look, he clarified, “Yes, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” With that he rapped on the ceiling signaling for the driver to proceed.
Though the dressmaker’s shop was only a few blocks away, the crush of wagons, carts, and carriages combined with the narrowness and slipperiness of the icy streets made their progress slow.
After he’d apprised her of his ability to clothe himself, Lucian had lapsed into silence, leaving Alys free to rethink her foiled plans for the day. To her frustration, her gaze and mind kept straying to the man in the facing seat.
What was it about him that stirred her so? she wondered, remembering their collision at the foot of the stairs and how powerfully she’d been drawn by his nearness. It wasn’t because he was handsome. She’d met dozens of attractive men over the centuries, a couple who, if she were to be brutally honest, had been better-looking than Lucian. Yet, for all their spectacular beauty not one had warranted more than a passing, albeit admiring, glance.
But, Lucian. Ah, well. He was a different story entirely. When he was in her presence, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him.
Like now. Squinting, she tried to discern his features. Between the gloom of the overcast day and the obscuring shadows from his hat brim, she was able to make out only his mouth and faintly clefted chin.
That tiny bit, however, was more than enough to distract her.
She stared at his lips as if fixated, which was exactly what she was at that moment. They were beautiful. Perfect in both size and shape. The upper one arched into a broad, well-defined bow, while the lower, more generous one swept into a sensuous curve. It was the sort of mouth that was meant to curl into a smile, the kind of lips that were created for kissing.
In that dreamy moment, Alys imagined what it would be like to kiss him; how it would feel to slowly press her lips to his and taste what lay beyond. Heat coiled deep in her belly as she imagined his tongue thrusting against hers, making her weak with pleasure as Lucan had done all those centuries ago. As she closed her eyes, licking her now tingling lips, the carriage lurched to a violent stop.
So limp from her fantasy was she that she was pitched forward out of her seat to land at Lucian’s feet in a tangled heap of bombazine and wool. In the next instant, strong hands gripped her beneath her arms and she felt herself being hauled up.
“Good God! Are you hurt?” Lucian exclaimed, setting her on the seat beside him. At least that is where she assumed she sat, though she couldn’t be certain. Her black velvet bonnet had been knocked over her face and she couldn’t see a darn thing.
There was a plucking sensation at her hair, then her blinder was lifted. She was indeed sitting next to him. In fact, if she was to move three inches to her left, her body could be touching his. Her toes curled from the odd thrill of that knowledge.
“Are you hurt?” he repeated, bending nearer.
Alys looked up to say no, but the words stuck in her throat. A hazy shaft of light filtered through the window, illuminating his face; an impossibly handsome face that was mere inches from hers; a face whose expression, if she was to venture a guess, was one of grave concern.
The creases of his already furrowed brow deepening, he cupped her chin in his palm and tipped her face into the light to study it. As her gaze touched his, she again felt an electrifying, inexplicable pull of attraction.
“Alys?” he uttered softly.
“Hmm?”
“Did you hit your head?”
“My … head?” She frowned, the exhilaration of his nearness slowing her mind to the speed of a snail on hot sand. “Um … no. Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re looking at me strangely.” His fathomless gray gaze swept her face. “Rather like a cow in need of milking.”
Alys continued staring at him for several moments as his words fought to penetrate her foggy brain. When they finally hit home, she jerked her chin from his hand with an indignant gasp. A cow in need of milking, indeed! Why, the thick-skulled … dolt! No wonder he was unable to find love on his own!
Insulted beyond outrage, and feeling like a ninnyhammer for even imagining herself attracted to him, she snapped, “Of course I’m looking at you strangely. You— you have something green stuck between your front teeth.”
To her wicked glee, he looked completely taken aback by the notion of being less than immaculate. His expression almost comic in its chagrin, he screwed his mouth this way and that, trying to dislodge the fictional green thing with his tongue.
As the footman opened the door and folded down the stairs, he tipped his face to hers and lifted his lips. “Did I get it?”
Hiding her smile, Alys pretended to scrutinize his straight white teeth. To her supreme discomfiture, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to run her tongue along those smooth, even ridges. Tempted beyond denying, she reached up and ran her gloved finger along the pearly edge, deliberately grazing the rosy lining of his upper lip in the process.
At that moment she wished as she’d never wished before that her hands were bare and that she could feel the texture of his mouth. Was it as satiny soft as it looked? Was his flesh cool as his demeanor, or was it warm with the heat of hidden passion?
“Is it gone?” he inquired from behind his bared teeth.
Distracted, as seemed to be her state every time she got near him, she frowned, slow to take his meaning. When she finally did, she snatched her hand away, mortified.
“I just got it,” she mumbled. Hating herself for her weakness and wanting nothing more than to put a safe distance between them so she could regain her senses, she slid toward the door.
His hand shot out, staying her. “One moment, Alys.”
Reluctantly she turned to face him, hoping upon hope that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
“Your bonnet,” he said, reaching up to adjust her dreary mourning creation. “Charlotte would never forgive me if I let you meet London’s premiere modiste looking like a hoyden.” Giving the crape-trimmed brim one final tweak, he nodded his satisfaction. “There. You’re ready to beard the lion in her den of fashion now.”
Thus dismissed, Alys scrambled from the carriage as fast as she could. She’d rather face a whole pride of real lions than spend another moment confined in close quarters with Lucian Warre. For she knew without a doubt that the lions would be less frightening—and dangerous—than her disturbing new feelings for this man whose fate lay in him loving another woman.
Chapter 5
Lucian stared after Alys, completely dumbfounded as she flung herself from the carriage, tripping on the steps in her haste. She tottered precariously, and if not for the lightning reflexes of the footman she’d have come to grief for certain.
What in God’s name is wrong with the chit? he wondered, releasing his breath in a sigh of relief as his servant navigated her safely to the walkway. One minute she was goading him until his hand itched to strangle her, only to lapse into a witless, staring stupor in the next. And now she was fleeing from him like she were a fox and he were the leader of a pack of pursuing hunting hounds. She was the queerest, most eccentric—
Eccentric! There was an awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Bloody hell. That was it. The girl was one of those dreadful sort of females who were every father’s or guardian’s worse nightmare … she was an eccentric. What other explanation could there be for her rattle-pate ways?
As if to confirm his hideous suspicion, she glanced from right to left, then hunched over and began muttering furiously to a traffic-flattened rat in the gutter. The sight made his sinking feeling bottom with a violence that left him in desperate need of a dyspepsia tonic. With his luck of late, she probably thought herself some celestial being whose divine mission in the world was to resurrect dead rats.
Seriously considering marching down to the Horse Guards Parade and impaling himself on the first bayonet he saw, Lucian disembarked from the carriage. Alys was still stooped over, whispering to the rodent when he came up behind her.
“No, no. You shall stay outside,” she was directing in a severe tone. “I shan’t have you following me into the dressmaker’s and stinking up the whole shop.”
He stood there unnoticed for several seconds, uncertain for the first time in his life what to say or do. How did one address a madwoman who was babbling to a dead rat as if it were her lapdog? Should he try to return her to her senses by pointing out that the animal was deceased and therefore unlikely to follow her anywhere? Or should he save himself a possible scene by humoring her in her lunacy?
The sight of Lady Jersey, the fiercest of the Almack dragons, stepping from her carriage just four doors down quickly settled the question for him. It was going to be difficult enough getting Alys to the altar, what with her wishy-washy looks and scrambled wits, without adding the shame of being denied a voucher to Almack’s to her ever-expanding list of shortcomings.
