again and Alixe was swamped anew with the sensation. She’d seen a real, live, naked man.
Up close.
Very close.
Extremely close. And it had been gorgeous. Which begged the question: what did that make her? Curious? Wanton? Something more? The answer would be worth exploring. She was no prude, genteel rearing and shielding aside. She’d partaken as eagerly in the sights as he’d displayed them. Alixe fought the urge to fan herself like an insipid miss. She had to find her focus and be done with this ridiculous mooning. She’d seen no more today than the gifts God had given mankind in general. Every man had one, which was roughly half the population.
There.
She’d taken the philosophical high ground—and failed miserably to dispel the image from her mind.
It was official: she was definitely unsettled. She would get no reading done at this rate. Alixe tucked her book back into the bag. What she needed was a change of scenery. She might as well head back to the house; if she smiled like an empty-headed fool the whole way back, so be it.
* * *
By the time she’d gained the safety of her rooms, Alixe had found perspective. She had indeed smiled the entire walk back to the house. She might even continue to smile her way through the tedious evening that lay ahead. If people wanted to believe she was smiling at them, they could. Only she would know what she was really smiling about. Other than that, she’d come to the realisation there was no harm in her secret. The man from the lake didn’t know her; she didn’t know him; they would never see each other again, except perhaps in her dreams.
But the knowledge did make her feel undeniably more worldly than she’d felt four hours ago and she dressed with a little more care than she might otherwise have done in celebration of it. She had her maid lay out the pale-blue dinner gown with the chocolate-brown trim and the low-cut bodice. The gown was one of a few exceptions in her otherwise ‘sufficient’ wardrobe.
She’d always been more interested in her books and manuscripts than clothes and society; a fact her family was not willing to accept, although she’d achieved the august age of twenty-six and had firmly put herself on the shelf. Despite her most persuasive efforts, not all of the family had despaired of marrying off the controversial, blue-stocking daughter of the Earl of Folkestone just yet. She’d refused to go to London this Season, so her dogged family had brought London to her in the form of a house party peopled with the very best of her brother’s acquaintances.
Alixe clipped on her dainty pearl earrings and gave herself a final look-over in the mirror. It was time to go downstairs and pretend she’d never seen a man without clothes. Surely she could do that?
‘Alixe, there you are.’ Her brother, Jamie, materialised at the foot of the stairs. ‘You look pretty tonight; you should wear blue more often.’ He tucked her arm through his and for once she was grateful for the assurance of his presence. ‘There are some people I want you to meet.’
Alixe stifled a groan. Jamie meant well, but he worried too much about her. As a result, he was always trying to matchmake.
‘Alixe, it will be all right. These are friends of mine from university. Now, be nice. Here they are,’ he whispered at her ear, whisking her into the drawing room.
A group of gentlemen stood near the doorway. At Jamie’s entrance, four pairs of eyes turned her direction. One set she recognised. They belonged to the squire’s son. The other six belonged to two dark-haired devils and one angel—one very naughty angel, an angel she’d seen naked.
Alixe froze, her mind racing with all nature of embarrassing scenarios. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise her. In her expensive evening gown she hardly looked like the girl tramping in the woods.
Jamie proudly pulled her forwards. There was nothing to do but brave it out. ‘Let me introduce all of you to my sister, Lady Alixe Burke. Alixe dear, these are the old friends from university I was telling you about. Riordan Barrett, Ashe Bedevere and Merrick St Magnus.’
Great, now the angel had a name.
* * *
‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’ Merrick bowed over her hand, his eyes trained on her face the whole while. He’d learned early how to read a woman. Elegant gowns and complicated coiffures often hid a multitude of sins or truths, depending on how you looked at it. To really see a woman’s identity, one had to look at her face. In this case, he was not distracted by the fine gown and the sophisticated twist of hair.
It was definitely her.
He’d know those long-lashed sherry eyes anywhere. They’d been the most expressive part of her today. They’d been wide with an intriguing mixture of shock and curiosity. If her eyes weren’t enough, there was her mouth. Merrick considered himself a great connoisseur of mouths and this one begged to be kissed. Not that he’d be doing any kissing of Jamie Burke’s sister. She was the kind of girl who was off limits and he’d already danced fairly near the fire today, even if by accident.
She gave a short incline of her head, greeted the others in a perfunctory manner and made polite excuses to go in search of a girlfriend. But Merrick watched her leave them only to stand with Lady Folkestone and a group of older matrons near the wide fireplace. He didn’t sport with those who didn’t welcome it. Ordinarily, he’d feel badly about causing a shy young lady discomfort. But in this case, he knew better. Alixe Burke was no retiring miss, no matter her airs to the contrary. She was due for a little provoking. After all, she’d ‘provoked’ him that afternoon. Turnabout was fair play.
Jamie noticed his distraction. ‘Perhaps I could arrange for you to take Alixe in to supper.’
* * *
Jamie was one of those rare individuals who could make wishes come true. At Oxford, they’d had only to voice a want and Jamie would see it granted. In the years since then, that ability had not changed and now, even though there were two gentlemen present who technically outranked the second son of a marquis, Merrick found himself conveniently seated beside the somewhat-aloof person of Alixe Burke. That was about to change. He wanted to see her face alive with surprise, or with any emotion. This expression of bland passivity she wore in polite company did not do her features justice.
‘Miss Burke, I cannot shake the feeling that we’ve met before,’ he murmured as the first course was set in front of them.
‘That would be unlikely. I am not much in London,’ came the short ten-word response followed by a curt smile.
He’d thought that would be her gambit. She was pretending she didn’t recognise him. Either that or hoping he didn’t recognise her. But it was all pretence. Her left hand lay fisted in her lap, a sure sign of tension.
‘Then perhaps we’ve met around here,’ Merrick offered amiably, pushing the subject. She’d been a delightful juxtaposition of emotions that afternoon—part of her trying to pretend naked men in ponds was de rigueur while the other part of her had been rampantly excited by the titillating disturbance. He wanted that woman back. That woman was intriguing. This woman sitting next to him was a mere shell for that other person.
She set down her spoon with deliberate firmness and fairly rounded on him with all the chagrin allowed at a dinner table. ‘Lord St Magnus, I seldom go out even around here. I spend my time with local historians. So unless you are involved in the work of restoring medieval documents from Kent, we most certainly have never met.’ That was the shell talking.
