“I’ve plenty of money,” she assured him, “so you needn’t worry about paying my way.”
Rafe finished his glass and topped hers off as he filled his again. “Believe me my dear, finances are the least of our worries.”
She ignored the sarcasm in his voice and continued. “I was thinking that I might travel with you under the guise of a governess for your sister.”
He looked at her and snorted. “You’re too young and too pretty. There isn’t a man from here to Calais, leastways not one with blood flowing through his veins, that would believe that one. Try again.”
He took a long swallow of wine, and Alix found herself following suit. He topped off her glass again.
“Well then, I could travel as your maid.”
He swirled the remaining contents of his glass, staring intently at the small red whirlpool. “No one would believe that either.”
Alix drained her glass, trying to quell her rising annoyance. It was as if he had already worked out how he was going to get her to London and was testing her to see if she could come up with the correct answer.
“I suppose, I might continue dressing in Jervis’s clothes and pose as a footman or a groom.” The wineglass in transitto Rafe’s mouth arrested. How had she ever imagined his eyes looked like a sun-specked pool, she thought as she poured herself another glass of wine. They looked more like a swirling torrent as they swept the length of her body. Moving slowly at first, they roved across her face, lingering on her mouth, then picking up speed raced down her neck, paused at her breasts, sped the length of her waist and her long slim legs. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, her skin burned and her heart pounded as if she had been caught up in a raging current.
“No,” he said softly, “that definitely won’t do.”
Though Jervis’s clothes were by no means tight or revealing, Alix suddenly felt as exposed as if they had been painted on. She crossed her hands on her lap, pulling at the full sleeves of the shirt as if they might hide the jointure of her thighs from his probing gaze. Rafe, still watching, said nothing. She took another swig of wine, the heat of her body flaming into anger.
“You clearly don’t approve of any of my ideas,” she finally snapped, “so pray, enlighten me. What’s your brilliant plan?”
Rafe’s glass dropped with an abruptthunkonto the table and wobbled precariously. Ignoring the teetering glassware, he stared fiercely into her eyes. “Marriage.”
A strangled noise, something between a gasp and a laugh, escaped Alix’s throat. “You’re mad,” she managed to choke out. “No, you’re drunk. No, drunk and mad.”
“Not nearly drunk enough, my dear,” he responded dryly. “You see, it is understood that I come to Paris to pursue certain, ah, discreet pleasures. Should it become known that you arrived in London traveling under my auspices, whether as my sister’s governess, my maid, or”—he added, amusement in his voice—“my groom, the conclusion would be the same. Everyone would believe that you had been my mistress. You would be ruined. Completely.”
Rafe poured more wine for them both, tossing his quickly back. “Moreover, your mother is not the only one acquainted with Lady Melbourne. She and my stepmother share a passion for roses and gossip. If Lady Melbourne were to take into her pea-sized brain the idea that I had taken advantage of you, then cast you off, she would make certain my disgraceful behavior was published in every fashionable drawing room and ballroom in London. It would be, quite simply, disastrous. So you see, my dear, there’s nothing for us to do but marry.”
“That’s absurd, there’s no reason for us to pay such a heavy price simply because you were gentleman enough to rescue me.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”
Alix continued. “My future has been uncertain for some time. If I have to live in England with a ruined reputation, so be it. It’s better than winding up on the guillotine.”
“A dramatic statement, though I doubt you’ll feel the same way in a year’s time, when you are shunned by society and the proposals you are offered are far less respectable than mine.”
Feeling emboldened by the wine, she continued. “What difference will a little scandal make to you? You’re a man. The ladies will call you a rake and rap you with their fans while slipping you their room keys, and the men will hail your conquest. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times at Versailles.”
“Ah, but London society is definitely not Versailles. Even if I were the type of man to despoil and abandon a young girl, which, I might add, I am not, think of the others who might be harmed by such a scandal—your mother, my sister. I, for one, have worked too hard to ensure Elizabeth has a bright future on the marriage mart.” His voice sounded suddenly tired. “Come now,mademoiselle, it’snot as if people in our position marry for love anyway. Marriage is about responsibility.”
It crossed Alix’s mind that she should ask him exactly what his position was, but then he might infer that she was considering his crazed proposal. She rubbed her temples with her fingers, her head beginning to ache. She heard him rambling on about position, responsibility, and marriage. Such familiar themes, she could almost hear her father’s voice chorusing in. And the way he talked about marriage, so dull, so dry, he might have been discussing new methods of irrigation.
She had the insane urge to throw something at him.
Why was it that men became so pompous when they thought they were in the right? And why on earth did they have to go on and on about it? She was well aware she was in desperate straits. She needed to get out of France, she needed to find her mother, but she didn’t need to be straight-laced into marriage with a man she’d met on the street. A man, who, however, attractive, seemed to have far too many opinions on what was best for her. She took a long swallow of her wine and scowled at him. Finishing off her glass, she said sharply. “If you’re quite finished, would you please stop?”
Rafe looked taken aback, and she was satisfied to see that he did, indeed, stop.
“Well,” he said finally, “you see my point.”
“Yes,” she responded, refilling her glass. “I see your point. But I don’t want to get married.” Silence fell on the room. Rafe gave Alix a look that made her feel like some exotic species of livestock. Finally he asked, “Don’t want to get married at all or don’t want to marry me?”
“You’ll forgive me if my mind isn’t on courtship,” Alix said with deceptive calm, carefully enunciating her words. “But right now I am mourning the death of my father, trying to find my mother, and trying to escape France with mylife.” She took a long swallow of her wine and studied his face. “I suppose I’ll marry sometime, but not here, not now, and not you.”
Rafe was astonished. He’d expected protests, tears, gratitude, perhaps some soothing of maidenly fears. What he hadn’t expected was to be so adamantly refused. She was being ridiculous. As he saw it, there was no other way out. He couldn’t help asking, “Why ever not?”
