Shaken him. Rattled him. Or perhaps even rearranged every cell in his body.
Of course, he knew that part of this hot surge thrumming through him was basic lust. He was no stranger to matters of sexual congress. As with the majority of pursuits throughout his life, he’d studied every aspect in depth, learned every facet in order to excel. Once those were mastered, he continued for the dual purposes of mutual pleasure and exercise.
But he was never controlled by his baser urges. Never caught off guard by attraction . . . until he’d felt her lips on his.
In that brief moment, he’d been reduced to a six-foot pile of blood, bone and tissue with the mental capacity of a hungry ape, face-to-face with a five-foot-four stack of irresistibly delicious bananas. His lexicon had been diminished to two words—mine and want—along with a primitive grunt.
Indeed, she was an alluring female with inky black hair, laughing eyes and a come-hither smile. All of her lovely attributes were perfectly situated, at least as far as he could tell without a thorough, in-depth examination. And he’d already identified the reason her scent appealed to him.
Aside from that, it was important to note that he had known an ample number of women with similar qualities with varying degrees of appeal. So what was it about this particular woman that continued to cause this undefinable reaction?
The obvious answer was that she was far more skilled than he’d anticipated.
However, now he knew what he was up against. Everything was out in the open. There would be no more games. No more surprise kisses to send him off-balance. And if his little wolf thought she could gain the upper hand by using her wiles on him, well, then he would be more than happy to show her all the things that he could do.
And he was willing to do anything to retrieve his book . . . even seduce the seductress.
“Come, cousin,” he said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Lady Avalon just issued a challenge. Far be it from me to refuse.”
Chapter 11
A fine kettle of fish
The aunts were over the moon when they heard the whispers that the Duke of Merleton and his cousin were staying in the same hotel again. A thrill raced through Meg, as well. However, the feeling was combined with guilt, because she knew this would only fan their hopeful expectations. They didn’t know that this all began as a misunderstanding.
She had to tell them the truth. It would be too heartbreaking for her if she allowed them to imagine that he was pursuing her for the purpose of marriage.
“The duke isn’t here for me. At least, not in the way that you are imagining,” Meg confessed that afternoon, once they were seated in the tiny parlor of their rooms. “You see, he thinks I stole something from him.”
“His heart?” Myrtle asked with a hopeful chirrup. Even Maeve smiled.
Meg shook her head and distractedly plucked at a stray strand of yellow yarn dangling from the open mouth of their traveling valise that rested on the settee cushion beside her. “Do you remember telling me about his family’s legendary book of recipes?” They both nodded. “Well, apparently, right around the time that we were pilfering the cook’s cupboard, someone else was stealing that fabled book.”
“No!” They both gasped.
“That book is ancient,” Maeve said. “And from what I’ve heard about the jewels on the cover—”
“It would be a veritable treasure,” Myrtle concluded with a thoughtful nod.
“And there’s something else, too,” Meg said, nervously winding the yarn into a ball as she considered how to explain the more difficult aspect. “A woman by the name of Lady Avalon, who is known for behaving rather boldly”—she cleared her throat—“has taken credit for this theft.”
Myrtle let out a breath. “That is a relief.”
“Well . . . not quite.” Meg cringed. “He thinks that I am Lady Avalon, and I . . . sort of . . . let him.”
Maeve shook her head in obvious bewilderment. “But whyever would you do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “All I can say is that it was so thrilling to have him look at me like I was a woman capable of . . . behaving boldly that I didn’t want it to end. I cannot explain it, but I’ve never felt this way before.”
The aunts exchanged a look. Meg hoped she hadn’t disappointed them. Hoped they weren’t about to tell her how silly she was being and then advise her to reveal the complete truth to the duke.
“We understand perfectly,” Maeve said kindly, surprising her. “We’ve all been caught unawares by romantic feelings. That’s what makes falling in love so—”
“Oh, I’m not in love. I only want to flirt with him,” Meg clarified hastily, winding faster. “You know, have my one grand flirtation before I’m on the shelf.”
Maeve smiled softly. “Of course, dear. We understand that, too.”
“And we’ll be glad to keep your secret,” Myrtle said. “In fact, we’ll even try to act suspicious so that he imagines we’re conspiring together.”
“I’m sure he already thinks that the three of us are the most conniving females he’s ever met,” Meg said. Then she looked down at the now giant ball of yarn, only to find a neat row of stitches trailing out of the valise. Realizing that she’d been unraveling a shawl the entire time, she said, “Oh, my apologies. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Never mind all that. You’ve improved Maeve’s work, I’m sure,” Myrtle teased, her eyes dancing with delight as she narrowly missed her sister’s pinch by slipping over to the settee. She took Meg’s hand and squeezed it with affection. “As for our little conspiracy . . . I think I like being considered somewhat devious. It gives me an aura of mystique, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It gives you an aura of something, to be sure,” Maeve said dryly.
* * *
The duke and the viscount hadn’t appeared in the dining room that evening, which disappointed many of the guests who’d hoped to invite him to their own table.
The aunts made no such complaint. They did, however, exchange looks that were usually accompanied by a secret smile that Meg knew all too well. Those were wedding-breakfast smiles. And she’d fought the urge to roll her eyes several times.
After dinner, they retired to their rooms. The aunts, worn out from travel, went to bed early. Meg, on the other hand, was far too restless to sleep.
Apparently, she was not alone in this, for when she peered out the window to the hotel garden below, she saw a dark figure walking just beyond the quadrangles of light falling on the manicured lawn.
She instantly recognized that purposeful stride and those impossibly broad shoulders.
Lucien.
She peered closer, forehead pressed to the cool glass, and saw that he was carrying something. But what?
As the sounds of snoring drifted out from the aunts’ bedchamber, Meg decided to slip away and investigate for herself.
The night air was cool, a light breeze carrying the scents of water and damp earth. The river they would travel on in the morning was near enough that she could hear the occasional splash of waves against the hull of a boat.
She found Lucien beyond the garden border. He was standing behind a copse of trees, a long telescope held to his eye as he looked skyward.