the tools of his trade. It was also a reminder that he wasn’t hers to command. He was merely her unconventional and secret tutor at the moment. If he wanted to flirt with Mrs Whitely, she had no right to countermand him.
As if drawn by her thoughts, Merrick looked up from his tête-à-tête with the engaging widow, his eyes discreetly finding hers.
Five minutes later, he materialised at her side. ‘Did you learn anything, ma chère?’
Other than that Mrs Whitely might have a fascination with certain parts of yours? That could absolutely not be said out loud. Alixe elected to say nothing. She shook her head.
‘I did,’ Merrick continued, his voice low at her ear. ‘We were noticed at the picnic today and again in the drawing room. I’ve been approached by no less than three ladies who have commented on it.’
‘In a good way, I hope.’ Alixe could imagine the ways they might have been noticed. She was not used to deliberately drawing attention to herself. ‘The last thing I need before going to London is too much attention.’ She would prefer no one had spied them up at the villa or actually heard what they were laughing over at the picnic.
Merrick gave one of his easy smiles. ‘There is no such thing as too much attention. Don’t be confusing attention with scandal. They are two different animals entirely. One is good and the other is to be avoided at all costs.’
Alixe raised an eyebrow in quizzing disbelief. ‘And you’re a prime example of avoiding scandal?’
‘Scandal is to be avoided at all costs, if you’re a woman,’ Merrick amended.
‘Quite the double standard since it’s pretty hard to fall into scandal without us,’ Alixe said drily.
‘Still, there are ways.’ Merrick laughed, then sobered. Alixe followed his narrowing gaze to the arrival of a newcomer to the drawing room. Archibald Redfield entered with Lady Folkestone on his arm, his golden head bent with a smile to catch a comment.
‘Your mother seems quite taken with our Mr Redfield.’
‘My father, too. They dote on him.’
‘Whatever for? He’s a sly sort. Surely they can see that.’
‘They only see his manners, his standard-bred good looks. He’s solid, not the sort to stir up trouble. He’s exactly what this sleepy part of England is looking for in a landowner. He took over the old Tailsby Manse last year. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Folkestone for ages. Everyone with a daughter under thirty was thrilled.’
‘Do you include your mother in that grouping?’ Merrick’s eyes followed Redfield about the room in a manner reminiscent of a wolf stalking prey.
‘Of course.’ Alixe shrugged, hoping to fob off any further inquisition.
‘But to no avail?’ Merrick probed. This was uncomfortable ground.
‘To no avail on my end. I was not interested in Mr Redfield’s attentions.’
‘But he was?’
‘Yes. Yes, he was interested,’ Alixe replied tersely. She’d retreated from London to avoid men like Archibald Redfield. Merrick looked ready to ask another question. ‘This is not a seemly topic of conversation for a drawing room,’ Alixe said quickly. She had no desire to delve further into just how interested Mr Redfield had been or how naively she’d been taken in for a short time.
‘Then perhaps you’ll do me the honour of continuing the conversation later in the garden after the games. I believe I am to join old Mrs Pottinger and her cronies at whist shortly.’ Merrick was all obliging affability at the thought of an evening spent at cards with old ladies.
‘I hadn’t planned on staying for the games,’ Alixe admitted. ‘I am behind on my manuscript. I’d hoped to sneak off and get some work done tonight.’ She’d lost so much time since the house party had begun and the manuscript was still giving her fits.
‘Oh, no, that will not do,’ Merrick scolded. ‘You can’t be noticed if you’re not here. You need to stay and you need to enjoy yourself. Go over and join Miss Georgia Downing and the young ladies by the sofa. I promise they’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance. With luck, you can all make plans to call on one another in London.’
It would be fun to spend an evening in the company of people her age—well, roughly her age. She knew she was a bit older. Still, Jane Atwood was in that group and she was twenty-two. ‘But the manuscript...’ Alixe protested weakly.
‘I’ll help you with it in the morning,’ Merrick promised.
That coaxed a smile. Alixe could feel it creeping across her mouth. ‘So you really do understand Old French?’
‘Did you think I didn’t?’ Merrick feigned hurt. He touched a hand to her wrist. ‘You doubted me?’
‘Well, I did suppose rumours of your abilities might have been greatly exaggerated in that regard.’ Alixe found herself flirting in response to the light pressure of his hand at her gloved wrist. It was impossible to hate him; his charm proved irresistible even when she knew precisely what he was.
‘Bravo, that was nicely done, quite the perfect rejoinder—definitely witty and perhaps even a bit of naughty innuendo thrown in. Why, Lady Alixe, I do think you might have the makings of a master yet.’
Alixe let herself be drawn into the fun of conversing with Merrick. She dropped a little curtsy. ‘Thank you, that’s quite a compliment.’
‘Then I shall depart on a good note and take up my chair at the whist table.’
‘Do take care. Mrs Pottinger is sharper than she looks.’
Merrick gave her a short bow. ‘I appreciate your concern. But I assure you, I can hold my own against county champions of Mrs Pottinger’s skill.’
Alixe laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so certain of that. She counts cards like an inveterate gambler.’
* * *
Damn, but if Alixe wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have played his heart. He’d suspected Mrs Pottinger was out of them and would trump his jack, but he’d lost count. Apparently there were only two hearts left against his jack and not three. From under her lace cap, the elderly dame gave him a smug look of triumph and led her ace of spades.
Merrick gathered his wandering attentions and focused on the game. If he wasn’t careful, he and his partner would lose this rubber. There’d be no living it down in London if word got back he’d lost at cards to a group of old country biddies.
Mrs Pottinger let out a sigh and tossed her last card. ‘You’re a wily fox, after all, St Magnus. For all my finessing I can’t wheedle the eight of spades out of you and it will be my undoing. My poor seven will fall to it and the game is yours.’
‘But your skill is not in doubt, Mrs Pottinger,’ Merrick said gallantly, tossing his eight of spades on to the trick. ‘You are a most impressive player. I was rightfully warned about you.’ Merrick rose from the table and helped each of the ladies rise after their long sit. ‘Thank you for the game, ladies. It’s been a delightful evening.’
He’d
