“That’s correct.” He started around her for the stairs.
“And he also says that you haven’t approved my purchase of decorations.”
Wimbole was becoming entirely too chatty. “It’smypurchase of decorations, and I am not going to approve two hundred yards of pink bombazine.”
Rose appeared in the doorway. “Mama, you said you would decorate in yellow.”
“Perhaps a combination of the two would be more to everyone’s liking,” Alexandra said, strolling into view behind her charge.
Lucien gazed at her. He had no choice; she drew every part of him. So much for a night—and an all-too-brief morning—together curing his obsession for her. That previous torment had been heaven compared with this torture. Now he knew what he was missing.
“Lucien must decide,” Fiona declared.
He shook himself. “Decide what?”
“Pink or yellow?”
“Why would you think I gave a damn?”
“Then why won’t you purchase the bomba—”
“Because I will not have any room in my house looking like a whore’s boudoir unless you intend to supply the whore,” he snapped.
“Lucien!” Fiona gasped.
Alexandra made a sound that might have been either a cluck of disapproval or a stifled laugh. “Please, my lord. Your language.”
Rose sniffled. “Now I’ll never have a party.”
He had already opened his mouth to tell his cousin what a relief that would be, when Alexandra’s put-upon expression stopped him. Skittish as she’d been, he had no intention of allowing her to use his “meanness” as an excuse to continue avoiding him.
“Of course you’re having a party,” he grumbled. “Miss Gallant is in charge of your presentation into society, so she will also decide your color scheme and decorations.” He glanced at his aunt. “And she will approve your invitation list.”
Aunt Fiona’s face reddened. “I will not have a governess dictating who will attend my parties!”
He took a step closer. “Yes, you will, unless you wishmeto dictate who will attend.”
“I am only here to advise,” Alexandra said hurriedly. “We all want Rose’s birthday to be spectacular.” She glanced at Lucien. “I must earn my keep somehow.”
He knew exactly where that came from, and ignored it. Governess, lover, or mistress, he would call her whatever she wished. “Excellent. We’re all agreed, then.”
“Oh, very well.” Fiona smoothed the frown from her round face. “But, Lucien, I must insist that you go over the guest list with us, anyway.”
“I’ll be happy to throw as many bachelors in Rose’s direction as will fit in the house. Other than that, only my purse intends to be involved.”
To his surprise, Rose put a hand on his sleeve. “You’ve been to so many more elegant soirees than I have,” she said. “I want my party to be the grandest one ever. I would like if you would help us plan it.”
Good God, now they wanted him hanging about. If not for the turquoise-eyed goddess standing in the doorway, he would have made certain his cousin knew just what he thought of her party plans thus far, and then he would have fled to one of his clubs. That, though, would have left him with two major problems: First, Robert would no doubt find him if he went out, and he would have to reschedule Rose’s picnic, and then Robert would offer for Rose just to annoy him. Rose would marry, and Alexandra would leave.
The second problem would be nearly as unpleasant, because it would involve apologizing to Alexandra for being mean again, at which point she would insist that he make amends to Rose—and he would do it, because the blasted governess had him wrapped around her little finger, and her smile was swiftly on its way to becoming his sunlight.
He cleared his throat. “If you insist, cousin, I would be…happy to help.”
That sent Aunt Fiona into raptures, which annoyed him no end. He was willing to ignore it, though, because Alexandra sat beside him on the couch, and for the first time in three days he was able to spend over an hour in her company. It belatedly dawned on him that if he wanted to extend his time with her, all he needed to do was spend more time with Rose—and to a lesser degree, thank God, with Fiona. Abysmal as that was, it was better than having Alexandra evade him until the end of time.
After an hour in his relations’ presence, he was beginning to wish the end of time were somewhat nearer. “No. Take him off the list,” he said.
“But Lord Hannenfeld has been looking for a wife for two years,” Alexandra countered, continuing to write.
