“An endless selection of governesses and tutors,” he said quietly.
“I’d heard your father was somewhat indiscreet in his affairs, but even so, I can’t believe someone as intelligent as you would actually hold to that view of wom—”
“I barely knew my father, love. I had set eyes on him a total of five times by my eighteenth birthday.”
“I…Oh. I’m sorry,” she fumbled, sitting again as she thought of her own amusing, affectionate father.
“So you think you have the key to my soul now, eh?” he continued, smiling a little. “You don’t—but that is another tale.” He stretched, the movement doing wonderful things to the muscles of his thighs. “Good night then, Miss Gallant.” The earl braced his hands on either arm of his chair and rose.
She blinked, ready for practically anything—except the end of the match. “So you concede?”
“I concede nothing. You were the one who called me fastidious.”
“I still say you are,” she countered, “and you know it’s true. That’s why you’re fleeing.”
“Don’t tempt the devil, Alexandra,” he murmured, stepping closer, “unless you want to get burned.”
She caught her breath. “I thought the phrase was ‘don’t play with fire,’” she corrected unsteadily.
Instantly Kilcairn strode forward, grabbed her hands, and yanked her upright. Before she could utter a word, his lips clamped over hers in a hard, hot kiss.
Her mind splintered into a thousand little pieces, so all she could do was feel. As his mouth molded with hers, he bent her backward. The only thing keeping her from collapsing back into her chair was his arms around her waist. With a low groan he tightened his grip, pulling her close against him as he deepened the embrace of their mouths.
If being kissed by Lucien Balfour was to be burned, she welcomed the fire.Passion, her mind kept saying as her heart thudded and her arms swept around his shoulders in a fervent embrace,this is passion.
As he shifted to nuzzle her throat and jaw, Alexandra became aware of his growing arousal, and of the warmth between her own legs. Tangling her fingers into his black, wavy hair, she gasped and tugged his head back. “Stop!”
He lifted his head and looked down at her with glinting gray eyes. “Then let go,” he murmured in a voice that shook just a little.
Realizing she still had one hand grasping the back of his coat and the other twined into his hair, Alexandra reluctantly released him. They stood immobile for a long moment, with him towering over her and still holding her close in his arms, and then he slowly lifted her upright.
“You are a very unusual woman, Alexandra Beatrice Gallant,” he whispered, and then turned and left the room.
Alexandra collapsed into her chair, every bone and muscle turning to pudding. She knew what he’d meant by his last comment—undoubtedly every other woman he’d ever kissed like that had become his lover without protest or delay. She’d been so tempted to let him continue; to make him continue. More than anything she wanted to feel his warm, strong hands on her naked skin.
With a deep, unsteady breath she pushed to her feet again and crept out of the library to her bedchamber. That was what she needed—privacy and a chance to sort things out in her head. After ten minutes of restless pacing before the fireplace, Shakespeare uneasily following in her wake, she realized that she’d learned three very important things about Lucien Balfour. Firstly, he was much more of a gentleman than he claimed, or perhaps even realized, because he’d stopped when she’d asked, when she hadn’t even been all that certain she meant it. Secondly, when he claimed to be attracted to her and to want her, he wasn’t just teasing. And third, she had been close to figuring out an important part of him—which she intended to discover.
Lucien sat with his chin in his hand and stared out his office window. Across from him Mr. Mullins read the list of monthly expenses aloud for his approval. Usually, out of contrariness and because he had taken a reluctant liking to his solicitor’s determined and unflagging mildness, he demanded detailed explanations for at least half the items. Today, though, Mullins might have been speaking Mandarin Chinese for all the attention Lucien paid.
He was getting soft; that was the only explanation. At thirty-two years of age he’d become a doddering old fool, softheaded and with the wit and will of a gnat. The other Lucien Balfour—the sane one—wouldn’t have stopped when she asked; he would have cajoled and persuaded her until she willingly changed her mind. Yet for some absurd reason he’d desisted and spent yet another frustrated night stomping about his bedchamber.
If there was something he wanted, he obtained it. That was the law, as far as he was concerned. Alexandra Beatrice Gallant seemed to have made up an entirely new set of rules, though, and he seemed utterly unable to ignore or bypass them, just as he couldn’t forget or ignore the woman herself. Sweet Lucifer, maybe she was right—he was becoming fastidious.
“Is that acceptable, my lord?”
Lucien blinked. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Mullins.”
“You’re…entirely welcome, my lord.”
He resumed staring out at the garden as Mr. Mullins departed the room. Before he could sink into another Alexandra-scented daydream, a small, white ball of fluff pranced into the room through the half-open door and sat on his foot.
“Good morning, Shakespeare,” he said, leaning down to scratch the terrier behind the ears.
“Shakespeare!” A tall, slender from dashed into the room behind the dog, then stopped short.
“Good morning, Miss Gallant,” Lucien continued, considerably more heartened by the arrival of the second intruder.
She curtsied. “Good morning, my lord. I must apologize. Shakespeare escaped when I opened my door. It won’t happen again.”
