“Too close to the mark?” he asked.
She blotted her lips with her handkerchief and averted her face, taking inordinate care to tuck the lacy square back inside her glove. “Far afield, I’m afraid. I find it hard to believe that you would confuse me with someone . . . like her.”
“Come, now. It requires no stretch of mental capacity.”
Her gaze lifted. Her brows briefly knitted in perplexity as she studied him in return. Then her lips curved into a radiant smile. “Really?”
Apparently, the comment pleased her. And now he was thoroughly baffled.
Therefore, he studied this seasoned seductress more closely. It was important, after all, to note every subtle alteration and shift to gain a better understanding of his adversary.
However, when the tip of her cherry red tongue appeared as she briefly wet her lips, his mind went blank.
Well . . . not entirely blank. There were thoughts running rampant inside his head, just none related to his current objective.
He attempted to redirect his attention, but then a warm breeze stirred the glossy curls resting against her cheek and nape. His olfactory sense picked up a pleasing scent, his nostrils flaring to draw it deeper into his lungs. He’d caught this sweet fragrance before on their previous encounters, and even then, it had reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite place.
But now his memory sparked to life—of summertime and warm Corinth grapes plucked fresh off the vine, the tiny fruits bursting with sweetness on his tongue; of autumn in the evenings by the fire in the great hall with a mug of mulled wine, spiced with cinnamon and clove, as his feet dangled from his father’s chair; winters in the morning room with snowflakes collecting on the diamond-paned windows, his mother humming a tune as she sliced soft bread and warmed the pieces on the toasting fork; and of springtime when the kitchens were filled with clouds of sugar sieved off the cone. And all his favorite scents combined in the iced buns the cooks made for the festivals at Caliburn Keep many, many years ago.
Lucien’s pulse quickened at this realization. And now he was wondering if his little wolf in sheep’s clothing would taste just as sweet.
He cleared his throat and gave himself a mental shake. Wondering such things served no purpose. The knowledge gained would not bring him any closer to reclaiming his legacy. Therefore, he dismissed the thought at once. Or tried to.
“But if you had never met this Lady Avalon before, then how did she manage to”—she pressed her lips together, then whispered—“seduce you?”
“By distraction,” he growled.
Even he—a man led more by his mind than by baser urges—could not discount her allure. In fact, he was surprised to find himself plagued again by that primitive sense of a hunter after his prey.
Though, unlike before, he’d consumed no experiment that he might attribute the effects to. Which brought him to two initial conclusions: one, that he never had been suffering the effects of the recipe; and two, that his physiology was strangely attuned to her, as though he were an automaton and she held the winding key.
Either way, Lucien was forced to admit that he was strongly and undeniably attracted to her.
A rather inconvenient realization, truth be told.
His sole focus needed to remain on methods to retrieve the book, not on errant speculations about the taste of her lips and tongue, the warmth and softness of her skin, or the likelihood that her high, firm breasts would fit perfectly into his hands. He’d already made the mental calculations and had no doubts about his findings whatsoever.
“I’m not certain I understand,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “If I remind you of this Lady Avalon, then why are you frowning down at me?”
His palms tingled, and he closed his hands into fists. “I do not like the distraction you pose. In fact, I would much rather be done with all this.”
“This?”
“Pointless tête-à-tête, flirting, what have you,” he added with a begrudging exhale. “However, my cousin told me to try to be affable in order to procure what I want.”
“Your cousin told you to—” She stopped.
At once, he became fascinated by the alteration in her eyes, the beguiling blue turning so cold and yet flaring hot with torchlight as if she were on fire from within. He was so fascinated, in fact, that he was surprised by her next words.
“And I actually thought you meant all those things you said. How foolish of me! Well, if this is all so pointless, then I will save you the effort of taxing yourself further.”
Then she turned and stormed off.
Merlin’s teeth, he thought as she marched across the sward to collect her friend. This was not going to plan at all.
A moment later, his cousin strode across the lawn, his mood decidedly no better than the little wolf’s. “What in the blazes did you say? I told you to act the gentleman, be suave and affable.”
“Indeed,” Lucien said, scrubbing the obtrusive night whiskers along his jaw thoughtfully. “I was. I even explained to her that I believed all of this was senseless, but that I was willing to talk to her regardless.”
“You didn’t say that aloud, did you?”
“Not those exact words but . . . aye, for the most part.”
Pell slapped a palm to his forehead. “For a genius, you can be such an idiot. And now the loveliest creature in the world is mad at me because of what you said to her friend.”
“I do not see that such an occurrence should matter to you. After all, Miss Hartley likely holds little information regarding the book. And you weren’t courting her with the intention of marriage.”
“So what if I wasn’t? Sometimes a man simply likes the pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company. The art of flirting takes a good deal of skill, I’ll have you know. You should try it sometime. Perhaps you would have better luck.”
“There is no such thing—”
“As luck. I know. I know. Bloody hell, I know,” Pell interrupted sourly. “But whatever you want to call it, your efforts might have proven propitious if you had deployed one iota of charm.”
A frustrated growl rumbled in Lucien’s throat. Charm was not something he possessed in any measurable quantity. And it pained him immensely to think that he would have to solicit his cousin’s tutelage in the matter. But he would do what must be done.
Standing on the gravel path as the first of the night’s fireworks burst overhead, he finally understood the statement he’d overheard from Miss Hartley earlier. Because, as he watched Lady Avalon flounce away with her friend, he realized that she’d left him wanting more. Which would serve him well, considering that he wasn’t about to let her get away.
The stakes were too high for him. And, when he surprised Lady Avalon tomorrow, he would be far better armed.
Chapter 8
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fig
The aunts and Meg spent their final day in Paris on the Champs-Élysées, perusing the finest shops and cafés until the soles of their shoes were worn thin.
On their return to the hotel, Meg tugged on the knot of her ribbons and looked for a place to lay her hat, but there was hardly any room left in the carriage. The padded leather interior was filled with parcels of all shapes and sizes. Fortunately for their purses, only some were items they’d purchased. Most were gifts from merchants and bakers, florists and confectioners who had been flattered and praised until their cheeks were ruddy and eyes twinkling as they readily offered up their wares.