“My aunt knows that you and I are lovers.”
Alexandra flinched. “Wewerelovers. We aren’t any longer. And I’m leaving tomorrow, so I don’t care what she knows.”
Absently he scratched Shakespeare’s head. “She’s struck up an acquaintance with Lady Welkins.”
“She…” The room began spinning, and she sat down hard on the floor.
“Alexandra,” Lucien said sharply, and knelt beside her. “You’re not the fainting sort, remember?”
“I’m not fainting,” she rasped, putting a hand to her forehead. “I’m going to be ill. Lady Welkins in London is…one thing. But Mrs. Delacroix knowing her…Oh, my goodness.”
“It’ll be all right. I have a solution.”
Suddenly he was her white knight again, charging in to her rescue. Something, though, didn’t make sense. She took Shakespeare out of his arms and tried to ignore the rush of her blood as their fingers brushed. “Why did you break down my door?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“I said, ‘Why did you break down my door?’”
“Because you didn’t answer me. And—”
“And why did you say ‘we’ have a problem? It seems to me that Lady Welkins is my worry.”
“For God’s sake, Alexandra.” Lucien took a deep breath, his gray eyes somber. “Fiona’s threatened to cause trouble for you, unless…”
The last piece of the puzzle fell neatly into place. “Unless you agree to marry Rose.”
He blinked. “How did you know that?”
“I have eyes and ears. And I’ve spent more time with your relations than you have.”
Reaching out, he took hold of her fingers, his grip warm and sure. “Alexandra, my name can protect you. Even if Lady Welkins and Fiona both started spewing nonsense, if…if you were my wife, no one would dare come near you. Marry me, Alexandra. Please.”
He was definitely getting better at proposing, and the part of her that longed for him wanted to sag into his arms and let him simply take care of her. But the other part of her, the cool, logical part that knew she couldn’t rely on anyone but herself, couldn’t ignore a very obvious chink in his plea—or a seventeen-year-old girl who regarded her cousin with some affection.
“And if you married me, you wouldn’t have to marry Rose.”
“I don’t have to marry Rose anyway. Alexandra—”
“No.” She climbed to her feet. “Fiona only wants me gone because she sees me as a rival to Rose. Thanks to Emma Grenville, I have somewhere else to go.”
He looked up at her. “And the next time Fiona gets angry with me, she can spout enough nasty nonsense that even Miss Grenville’s Academy won’t employ you.”
“Just to spite you?”
“Because she knows I care for you.”
She set Shakespeare on the bed and went back to packing. “No. I am not going to be some chess piece for everyone to try to maneuver about the board. I’m leaving in the morning, and you can turn your antiquated ideas of chivalry toward helping Rose, who may be under the mistaken impression that she likes you.”
Lucien climbed to his feet and grabbed her shift away from her. “You are not leaving. You are not leaving me.”
He was much bigger and stronger than she was, but she’d never been afraid of him, and she wasn’t now. Alexandra yanked her clothes back. “You’ve known for a week that today was to be my last day here. Don’t pretend to be concerned over me now, when we both know it’s yourself and the parentage of Kilcairn Abbey’s descendants that troubles you.”
“It is not—”
“And don’t bellow at me. Volume is not going to change my mind.” She flung the shift, uncaring of wrinkles, into the trunk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will say my good-byes now, so Rose will have her party to cheer her up.”
Her voice wasn’t at all steady, but he was so upset at having his brilliant little plan foiled that he probably didn’t even notice. And after he stalked out of the room and left her to sit crying on her bed, he couldn’t have known just how much she wanted him to say that he loved her, instead of coming up with some other reason that she needed to stay.
