noticed Alixe’s return. She wasn’t the ‘noticeable’ type, not dressed like that anyway, in a beige gown that matched the wallpaper. He was astute enough to know the Earl of Folkestone’s well-dowered daughter could afford better, but he simply didn’t care what she wore or why. He didn’t care if she’d rather live in the country with her books. He only cared that she came with a great deal of money. Plain women, ugly women, beautiful women—he’d had them all when it served his purposes. In the dark they were all the same. Except that Alixe Burke was the richest prize he’d ever gone after. She’d be the last, too, if he was successful.
Scratch that. There could be no ‘ifs’ about it. He had to win her. He’d sunk his funds into the Tailsby Manse, the first step in his bid to be a respectable gentleman. The manor was definitely a gentleman’s home, but that also meant it was in a certain state of disrepair. The roof leaked, the chimneys smoked and it took servants to run the place. All those things required money. Alixe Burke had money and prestige. Marriage to her would solidify his claim to a genteel life.
But she had turned him down. He had not expected it. A woman on the shelf didn’t turn down offers of marriage, earl’s daughter or not. It was a setback he could not easily afford. She would find she could not afford it either. He would push the choosy Miss Burke into a corner until she had no choice but to accept his twelfth-hour offer and this time she’d be all too glad to accept.
As long as St Magnus played by the rules and did not compromise her for himself, all would be well. Not even St Magnus could turn her into an interesting woman, the kind of woman who could be labelled a Toast. Yes, there’d be fortune hunters like himself who wouldn’t care what she looked like, but she was to be made a Toast precisely to avoid those men and draw the right kind of man to her side. Folkestone would know the difference. Redfield was confident the right man would not emerge.
He was even more confident Folkestone would not want to see his daughter married to St Magnus, a man with his own social ghosts and demons to contend with. That would be when he made his generous offer to marry Alixe, saving the family from the scandal of attaching themselves permanently to St Magnus. It would all be wrapped up neatly by Season’s end and there’d be time to have his roof patched before winter set in.
Alixe was dressed hideously again in a shapeless work dress when she met Merrick in the library the following morning, her hair left to hang loose in her hurry to make up for oversleeping. There was no one to notice this grooming oversight on her part. The house party had taken themselves off to the village for a day of shopping and touring the local church. But one would have thought the king was coming to call the way St Magnus was turned out in sartorial perfection for the simple and isolated task of working in the library with her.
He was waiting for her, attired in fawn breeches, crisp white linen shirt and a sky-blue waistcoat in a paisley pattern that managed to deepen the hue of his already impossibly blue eyes. He’d been freshly shaved and his hair was brushed to the pale sheen of cream. His morning elan was perhaps a not-so-subtle commentary about her own choice of clothing. But if she’d meant to get a more obvious rise out of Merrick over her clothes, she was to be disappointed.
His comment extended merely to a raised eyebrow. Instead, he turned his attentions to the project at hand and after a few minutes of study to familiarise himself with the text, he said ‘I think you’re taking the translation too literally again. The sentence makes more sense if profiter means taking advantage of. You’re using it to mean making money, the way one would use the word today.’
Merrick slid the document back across the long library table to let her look at the section in question, the understated scent of his morning toilette teasing her nostrils as he leaned forwards slightly to push the document towards her. He smelled clean, the very idea of freshness personified. Then he pulled his arm back and the delightful scent retreated. She wanted more. Alixe wondered what he would do if she acted on the impulse to lean across the table and sniff him, a great big healthy sniff. A giggle escaped her at the very thought of acting on the notion.
‘Is there something humorous?’ Merrick was all stern seriousness.
‘Um, no.’ Alixe blushed and feigned a throat-clearing cough. ‘A tickle in my throat, I think.’ I was just thinking about sniffing you. Alixe hastily shifted her gaze to the manuscript and pretended to read, using the pretence to gather her scattered thoughts. She’d worked on this manuscript for weeks without distraction until St Magnus’s arrival. Now, her focus fled at the smallest provocation from him. The isolation of the country must be getting to her. She took a deep breath.
‘Better?’ St Magnus enquired, needing only a pair of eye glasses to look the consummate college professor, albeit a very handsome one.
‘Yes, much better, thank you.’ What was wrong with her? She did not usually think in such terms. Then again, she wasn’t in the habit of taking kissing lessons from men she hardly knew either.
Alixe scanned the document. It didn’t take long to see his interpretation was correct. ‘It seems so obvious now that you’ve pointed it out. The rest of the document should translate easily from this point.’ His translation made perfect sense. Really, it was a marvel she’d missed it.
Too bad swallowing her pride wasn’t as simple. She was a historian, even if she had been self-trained. She’d had the benefit of tutors and a fine education up until Jamie had left for Oxford. How was it that a well-educated person like herself had not seen what Merrick had noted immediately? She scribbled some notes on a tablet and then looked up, considering. Morning sunlight streamed through the long windows of the library, turning his buttermilk hair to the pale flax of corn silk. ‘How is it that you know so much about French?’ It seemed patently unfair this gorgeous male should also be in possession of an intellect. He’d demonstrated on two separate occasions that intellect was quite well developed.
‘It’s the language of love, ma chère.’ Merrick flashed her one of his teasing grins. ‘I didn’t have to be a genius to see all the uses I could find for it.’
Alixe wasn’t satisfied. He knew far more than a passing phrase for impressing the ladies. ‘Don’t trivialise your skill.’ The vehemence of her defence startled them both. ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t have a brain. Not with me anyway.’
An awkward silence followed in the wake of her outburst. It was one of those moments when they stepped outside their prescribed roles of rake and blue stocking and the revelation that had followed was nothing short of surprising. It was difficult to think of her and Merrick having something so significant in common.
‘You studied French at Oxford. I hardly think the curriculum there was limited to a few bon mots.’ Alixe cast about for a way to restore equilibrium to the conversation, not entirely comfortable with what she’d learned.
‘Have you ever considered that Oxford might be overrated?’ Merrick leaned back in his chair, propping it up on its hind legs, his hands tucked behind his head, an entirely masculine habit. He tried for evasion. ‘Rich men send their sons to Oxford to get an education when they know full well we spend most of our days and nights carousing in the taverns and getting up to all nature of mischief. It’s a different sort of education than the ones the dons intend for us. Our fathers don’t care as long as we don’t get sent down in disgrace.’ There was a bitterness that underlay the levity of his tone.
‘Jamie mentioned there was time for a few larks.’ Alixe got up from the table and absently strode to one of the long windows to take in the morning sun. ‘But I don’t believe you picked languages entirely on whim.’ She wouldn’t
