Lucien nodded, rising. “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay until after Rose’s party.”
“I’m thankful you didn’t turn me away yesterday.”
Something she couldn’t decipher touched his face for a fleeting moment, then was gone again. “You wanted to stay.”
It wasn’t a question. Alexandra stifled a curse and turned to lead the way back to the Delacroix ladies. She hadn’t meant to let him know that. The next few days would have been so much easier if he’d thought she was merely fulfilling her obligation to Rose. “I dislike leaving a task unfinished,” she improvised.
“So do I.”
She spent the rest of the day making up underlying meanings to his response, and ending up with nothing but a splitting headache. For once, Rose played passingly well, and even Lucien was generous with his compliments. After that, every time Alexandra tried to turn the conversation to Lord Belton, it went right back to Kilcairn. By bedtime she knew that his favorite color was blue, his favorite composer was Mozart, and his favorite dessert was, surprisingly, chocolate cremes.
Even after the earl excused himself for the evening, the nonsense continued. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have thought Rose and Fiona were pursuing Lucien’s interest instead of Lord Belton’s. Alexandra paused in her tickling of Shakespeare. It couldn’t be. He detested them. Or he had, anyway.
“Oh, my,” she said into the prattle. “I hadn’t realized the time. I’d best get to bed.”
“Yes, we all need our beauty sleep,” Fiona agreed.
Alexandra excused herself and went to fetch Shakespeare’s leash. Thankfully, Lucien—Kilcairn, now, for she hadn’t any right to use his Christian name any longer—had become more lax about his “no piddling in the garden” rule, and she led the terrier downstairs and outside.
“I thought you’d end up out here.”
She gasped. Seated on a stone bench in the shadows beneath the library window, Lucien puffed on a cigar.
“My goodness, you gave me a start,” she whispered, wondering at how much had changed since their last midnight rendezvous by the roses.
The tip of his cigar glowed orange and faded as he inhaled. “I neglected something yesterday,” he said in the low, intimate drawl that made her knees weak.
“What was that?”
“Are you going to stand all the way over there?”
She looked at the dark rose blooms surrounding her. “Yes, I think so.”
“All right. I’ll shout it if you wish.”
“Fine.” With an annoyed harrumph Alexandra tugged Shakespeare out of the shrubbery and stalked a few feet closer to the earl.
He looked at her for a long moment, then lowered his gaze. “When you…refused me yesterday, I—”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” she interrupted, more harshly than she intended. If she didn’t work on keeping her anger, though, she would begin to cry.
“You may be pregnant, Alexandra,” he murmured.
She froze, blood draining from her face. “I am not!”
“Shh. You can’t know that yet. I wanted to assure you that if you are, I will take care of you.”
“Hide me away at one of your country estates, you mean?” she snapped, tears filling her eyes. “The Balfour men seem to excel at that.”
He whipped to his feet. “What would you have preferred that I tell you?” he growled. “That I would turn my back and leave you to the fates? I already asked you to marry me, and you refused. So you tell me, Alexandra. What do you want?”
With effort, Alexandra fought down her frightened, angry panic. “I am not pregnant,” she said as calmly as she could. “And I am leaving in one week. You don’t need to concern yourself at all.”
He ground his cigar out on the bench. “It’s a bit late for that.”
She pretended not to hear as she and Shakespeare returned to the house and her bedchamber. What he’d said had been correct, and noble, and in a way, exactly what she’d wanted to hear from him. And part of her—a very small part of her—wanted to be carrying his child. The decision of whether to stay or go would be removed, and she would never have to admit even to herself that she’d given in.
Alexandra sighed. That was how she knew she wasn’t pregnant. It would have made everything too easy.
