The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (20 page)

The Alpha grunted. “If you must.”

“He knows things,” she tried to reassure him.

Lord Maccon could not argue with that. “He generally knows too many things, if you ask me.”

Miss Tarabotti tried to make her position clear. “He is not interested in me, as anything, well…
significant
.”

“Why would he be?” wondered Lord Maccon. “You are a preternatural, soulless.”

Alexia winced but strode doggedly onward. “However, you are?”

A pause.

Lord Maccon looked most put upon. His caressing thumb movement stopped, but he did not withdraw his hand from hers.

Alexia wondered if she should force the issue. He was acting as though he had not given the matter much thought. Perhaps he
had not: Professor Lyall said the Alpha was acting entirely on instinct. And this
was
full moon, a notoriously bad time for werewolves and their instincts.
Was it appropriate to inquire as to his feelings on the matter of her good self at this particular time of the month?
Then again, wasn't this the time when she was most likely to get an honest answer?

“I am what?” The earl was not making this easy for her.

Alexia swallowed her pride, sat up very straight, and said, “Interested in me?”

Lord Maccon was quiet for a few long minutes. He examined his emotions. While admitting that at that moment—her small hands
in his, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon in the air, the neckline of that damnable dress—his mind possessed all the clarity
of pea soup full of ham-hock–sized chunks of need, there was something else lurking in said soup. Whatever it was, it made
him angry, for it would desperately complicate everything in his well-ordered life, and now was not the time to tackle it.

“I have spent a good deal of time and energy during the course of our association trying not to like you,” he admitted finally.
It was not an answer to her question.

“And yet
I
find not liking
you
comparatively easy, especially when you say things such as that!” Miss Tarabotti replied, trying desperately to extract her
hand from his odious caress.

The action backfired. Lord Maccon tugged and lifted her forward as if she weighed no more than thistle-down.

Miss Tarabotti found herself sitting flush against him on the small couch. The day was suddenly as warm as she had previously
implied. She was scorched from shoulder to thigh by intimate contact with his lordship's prodigious muscles.
What is it,
she wondered,
about werewolves and muscles?

“Oh my,” said Alexia.

“I am finding,” said the earl, turning toward her and caressing her face with one hand, “it very difficult to imagine not
not disliking you on a regular and intimate basis for a very long time to come.”

Miss Tarabotti smiled. The smell of open fields was all about her, that breezy scent only the earl produced.

He did not kiss her, simply touched her face, as though he were waiting for something.

“You have not apologized for your behavior,” Miss Tarabotti said, leaning into his hand with her cheek. Best not to let him
get the upper hand, so to speak, in this conversation by getting her all flustered. She wondered if she dared turn her face
to kiss his fingertips.

“Mmm? Apologize? For which of my many transgressions?” Lord Maccon was fascinated by the smoothness of the skin of her neck,
just below her ear. He liked the old-fashioned way she had put up her hair, all caught up at the back like a governess—better
access.

“You ignored me at that dinner party,” Alexia persisted. It still rankled, and Miss Tarabotti was not about to let him slide
without some pretense at contrition.

Lord Maccon nodded, tracing her arched black brows with a fingertip. “Yet you spent the evening engaging in a far more interesting
conversation than I and went driving the next morning with a young scientist.”

He sounded so forlorn, Alexia almost laughed. Still no apology, but this was as close as an Alpha got, she supposed. She looked
him dead-on. “
He
finds me interesting.”

Lord Maccon looked livid at that revelation. “Of that I am perfectly well aware,” he snarled.

Miss Tarabotti sighed. She had not meant to make him angry, fun as that could be. “What am I supposed to say at this juncture?
What would you, or your pack protocol, like me to say?” she asked finally.

That you want me,
his baser urges thought.
That there is a future, not too far away in space or time, involving you and me and a particularly large bed.
He tried to grapple with such salacious visions and extract himself from their influence.
Blasted full moon,
he thought, almost trembling with the effort.

He managed to control himself enough so that he did not actually attack her. But with the dampening down of his needs, he
was forced to deal with his emotions. There it was, like a stone in the pit of his stomach. The one feeling he did not want
to acknowledge. Further than just need, or want, or any of those less-civilized instincts he could so easily blame on his
werewolf nature.

Lyall had known. Lyall had not mentioned it, but he had known.
How many Alphas,
Lord Maccon wondered,
had Professor Lyall watched fall in love?

Lord Maccon turned a very wolflike gaze on the one woman who could keep him from ever becoming a wolf again. He wondered how
much of his love was tied into that—the very uniqueness of it. Preternatural and supernatural—was such a pairing even possible?

Mine
, said his look.

Alexia did not understand that glance. And she did not understand the silence that came with it.

She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. “Bitch's Dance. Is it… my move?” she asked, naming pack protocol to give herself
some credence. She did not know what was required, but she wanted him to know she had come to understand some part of his
behavior.

Lord Maccon, still bowled over by the revelation he had just come to, looked at her as though he had never really seen her
before. He stopped caressing her face and tiredly scrubbed at his own with both hands, like a little child. “My Beta has been
talking, I see.” He looked at her through his hands. “Well, Professor Lyall has assured me that I have committed a grave transgression
in my handling of this situation. That Alpha you may be, but werewolf you are not. Though I will add that, appropriate or
not, I have enjoyed our interactions immensely.” He looked over at the wing chair.

“Even the hedgehog?” Miss Tarabotti was not certain what was happening.
Had he just admitted intentions? Were they purely physical? If so, should she pursue a liaison?
No word of marriage had yet crossed his lips. Werewolves, being supernatural and mostly dead, could not have children. Or
so her father's books purported. They rarely married as a result, professional experts in bedsport or clavigers being the
preferred approach. Alexia contemplated her own future. She was not likely to get another opportunity such as this, and there
were ways to be discreet. Or so she had read. Although, no doubt, given the earl's possessive nature, all would be revealed
eventually.
Reputation be damned,
she thought.
It is not as though I have any significant prospects to ruin. I would simply be following in my father's philandering footsteps.
Perhaps Lord Maccon would stash me away in a little cottage in the countryside somewhere with my library and a nice big bed.
She would miss Ivy and Lord Akeldama and, yes, she must admit, her silly family and sillier London society. Alexia puzzled.
Would it be worth it?

Lord Maccon chose that moment to tilt her head back and kiss her. No gentle approach this time, but straight to that long,
hot branding of lips, and teeth, and tongue.

Plastering herself against him, annoyed, as always seemed to be the case when he accosted her, with the amount of clothing
between her hands and his torso.
Only one possible answer to that: yes, it would be worth it.

Miss Tarabotti smiled against his lordship's insistent mouth.
Bitch's Dance.
She drew back and looked up into his tawny eyes. She liked the predator hunger she saw there. It spiced the delicious salty
taste of his skin, that sense of risk. “Very well, Lord Maccon. If we are going to play this particular hand, would you be
interested in becoming my…” Miss Tarabotti scrabbled for the right word.
What does one properly call a male lover?
She shrugged and grinned. “Mistress?”

“
What
did you say?” roared Lord Maccon, outraged.

“Uh. The wrong thing?” suggested Alexia, mystified by this sudden switch in moods. She had no more time to correct her gaffe,
for Lord Maccon's yell had reached out into the hallway, and Mrs. Loontwill, whose curiosity was chomping at the proverbial
bit, burst into the room.

Only to find her eldest daughter entwined on the couch with Lord Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, behind a table decorated with the
carcasses of three dead chickens.

M
rs. Loontwill did what any well-prepared mother would do upon finding her unmarried daughter in the arms of a gentleman werewolf:
she had very decorous, and extremely loud, hysterics.

As a result of this considerable noise, the entirety of the Loontwill household came rushing from whatever room they had formerly
been occupying and into the front parlor. Naturally, they assumed someone had died or that Miss Hisselpenny had arrived in
a bonnet of unmatched ugliness. Instead, they found something far less likely—Alexia and the Earl of Woolsey romantically
enmeshed.

Miss Tarabotti would have moved off the couch and seated herself an appropriate distance from Lord Maccon, but he coiled one
arm about her waist and would not let her shift.

She glared at him in extreme annoyance from under dark brows. “What are you doing, you horrible man? We are already in enough
trouble. Mama will see us married; you see if she does not,” she hissed under her breath.

Lord Maccon said only, “Hush up now. Let me handle this.” Then he nuzzled her neck.

Which naturally made Miss Tarabotti even more put out and uncomfortable.

Felicity and Evylin paused in the doorway, eyes wide, and then commenced hysterical giggling. Floote appeared at their heels
and hovered in a worried but mostly invisible manner next to the hat stand.

Mrs. Loontwill continued to scream, more in surprise than in outrage. The earl and
Alexia
? What would this do to their social standing?

Miss Tarabotti fidgeted under the warmth of Lord Maccon's arm. Surreptitiously, she tried to pry his fingers off where they
gripped her waist, just above her hipbone. His arm rested across the top of her bustle—shocking. He merely winked at her subtle
struggles in apparent amusement. Winked!

I mean
, thought Alexia,
really!

Squire Loontwill bumbled into the front parlor with a handful of household accounts he had been in the middle of reckoning.
Upon observing Alexia and the earl, he dropped the accounts and sucked his teeth sharply. He then bent to retrieve the paperwork,
taking his time so as to consider his options. He ought, of course, to call the earl out. But there were intricate layers
to this situation, for the earl and he could not engage in a duel, being as one was supernatural and the other not. As the
challenger, Squire Loontwill would have to find a werewolf to fight the earl as his champion. No werewolf of his limited acquaintance
would take on the Woolsey Castle Alpha. As far as he knew, no werewolf in London would take on such a Herculean task, not
even the dewan. On the other hand, he could always
ask
the gentleman to do the right thing by his stepdaughter. But who would willingly take on Alexia for life? That was more of
a curse than even werewolf change. No, Lord Maccon would probably have to be forced. The real question was whether the earl
could be persuaded in a nonviolent manner to marry Alexia or if the best the squire could hope for was for her to become simply
one of Woolsey's clavigers.

Mrs. Loontwill, naturally, complicated the issue.

“Oh, Herbert,” she said pleadingly to her silent husband, “you must
make
him marry her! Call for the parson immediately! Look at them… they are…,” she sputtered, “canoodling!”

“Now, now, Leticia, be reasonable. Being a claviger is not so bad in this day and age.” Squire Loontwill was thinking of the
expense of Alexia's continued upkeep. This situation might turn out to be profitable for all concerned, except Alexia's reputation.

Mrs. Loontwill did not agree. “My daughter is
not
claviger material.”

Alexia muttered under her breath, “You have no idea how true a statement that is.”

Lord Maccon rolled his eyes heavenward.

Her mother ignored her. “She is
wife
material!” Mrs. Loontwill clearly had visions of drastically improved social status.

Miss Tarabotti stood up from the couch to better confront her relations. This forced the earl to release her, which upset
him far more than her mother's hysterics or her stepfather's cowardice.

“I will
not
marry under duress, Mama. Nor will I force the earl into such bondage. Lord Maccon has not tendered me an offer, and I will
not have him commit unwillingly. Don't you dare press the issue!”

Mrs. Loontwill was no longer hysterical. There was instead a steel-edged gleam in her pale blue eyes. A gleam that made Lord
Maccon wonder which side Alexia had gotten her flinty personality from. Until that moment, he had blamed the deceased Italian
father. Now he was not so certain.

Mrs. Loontwill said, voice high-pitched and abrasive, “You brazen hussy! Such sentiments should have prevented you from allowing
him such liberties in the
first
place.”

Alexia was belligerent. “Nothing of significance has occurred. My honor is still intact.”

Mrs. Loontwill stepped forward and slapped her eldest daughter smartly across the face. The cracking sound echoed like a pistol
shot through the room. “You are in no position to argue this point, young lady!”

Felicity and Evylin gasped in unison and stopped giggling. Floote made an involuntary movement from his statuelike state near
the door.

Lord Maccon, faster than anyone's eye could catch, suddenly appeared next to Mrs. Loontwill, a steel grip about her wrist.
“I would not do that again, if I were you, madam,” he said. His voice was soft and low and his expression bland. But there
was a kind of anger in the air that was all predator: cold, impartial, and deadly. The anger that wanted to bite and had the
teeth to back it up. This was a side of Lord Maccon that no one had seen before—not even Miss Tarabotti.

Squire Loontwill had the distinct impression that, regardless of his decision, Alexia was now no longer his responsibility.
He also had the impression that his wife was actually in danger of her life. The earl looked both angry and hungry, and canines
were inching down over his bottom lip.

Miss Tarabotti touched her hot cheek thoughtfully, wondering if she would have a handprint. She glared at the earl. “Let my
mother go immediately, Lord Maccon.”

The earl looked at her, not really seeing her. His eyes were entirely yellow, not simply the colored part either but the whites
as well, just like a wolf. Miss Tarabotti thought werewolves could not change during daylight, but perhaps this close to full
moon anything was possible. Or perhaps it was another one of those Alpha abilities.

She stepped forward and forcibly placed herself between Lord Maccon and her mother. He wanted an Alpha female, did he? Well,
she would give him Alpha in spades.

“Mama, I will not marry the earl against his will. Should you or Squire Loontwill attempt to coerce me, I will simply not
submit to the ceremony. You will be left looking like fools among family and friends, and me silent at the altar.”

Lord Maccon looked down at her. “Why? What is wrong with me?”

This shocked Mrs. Loontwill into speaking again. “You mean you
are
willing to marry Alexia?”

Lord Maccon looked at her like she had gone insane. “Of course I am.”

“Let us be perfectly clear here,” said Squire Loontwill. “You are willing to marry our Alexia, even though she is… well…,”
he floundered.

Felicity came to his rescue. “Old.”

Evylin added, “And plain.”

“And tan,” said Felicity.

The squire continued. “And so extraordinarily assertive.”

Miss Tarabotti was nodding agreement. “My point exactly! He cannot possibly
want
to marry me. I will not have him forced into such an arrangement merely because he is a gentleman and feels he ought. It
is simply that it is near to full moon, and things have gotten out of hand. Or”—she frowned—“should I say too much
in
hand?”

Lord Maccon glanced about at Alexia's family. No wonder she devalued herself, growing up in this kind of environment.

He looked at Felicity. “What would I possibly want with a silly chit just out of the schoolroom?” At Evylin. “Perhaps our
ideas on beauty do not ally with one another. I find your sister's appearance quite pleasing.” He carefully did not mention
her figure, or her smell, or the silkiness of her hair, or any of the other things he found so alluring. “After all, it is
I
who would have to live with her.”

The more Lord Maccon considered it, the more he grew to like the idea. Certainly his imagination was full of pictures of what
he and Alexia might do together once he got her home in a properly wedded state, but now those lusty images were mixing with
others: waking up next to her, seeing her across the dining table, discussing science and politics, having her advice on points
of pack controversy and BUR difficulties. No doubt she would be useful in verbal frays and social machinations, as long as
she was on his side. But that, too, would be part of the pleasure of marrying such a woman. One never knew where one stood
with Alexia. A union full of surprise and excitement was more than most could hope for. Lord Maccon had never been one to
seek out the quiet life.

He said to the squire, “Miss Tarabotti's personality is a large measure of her appeal. Can you see me with some frippery young
thing whom I could push around at any opportunity and cow into accepting all my decisions?”

Lord Maccon was not explaining himself for Alexia's family's benefit but for hers. Although, he certainly did not want the
Loontwills to think they were forcing him into anything! He was Alpha enough for that. This whole marriage thing was
his
idea, curse it. No matter that it had only just occurred to him.

Squire Loontwill said nothing in response to that. Because he had, in fact, assumed the earl would want just such a wife.
What man would not?

Lord Maccon and the squire were clearly birds of entirely different feathers. “Not with my work and position. I need someone
strong, who will back me up, at least most of the time, and who possesses the necessary gumption to stand up to me when she
thinks I am wrong.”

“Which,” interrupted Alexia, “she does at this very moment. You are not convincing anyone, Lord Maccon. Least of all me.”

She held up her hand when he would have protested. “We have been caught in a compromising position, and you are trying to
do the best by me.” She stubbornly refused to believe his interest and intentions were genuine. Before her family had interrupted
them, and during all previous encounters, no mention of marriage had ever passed his lips. Nor, she thought sadly, had the
word
love.
“I
do
appreciate your integrity, but I will not have you coerced. Nor will I be manipulated into a loveless union based entirely
on salacious urges.” She looked into his yellow eyes. “Please understand my position.”

As though her family were not watching, he touched the side of her face, stroking the cheek her mother had hit. “I understand
that you have been taught for far too long that you are unworthy.”

Miss Tarabotti felt inexplicably like crying. She turned her face away from his caress.

He let his arm drop. Clearly, the damage done could not be mended with a few words from him in the space of one disastrous
morning.

“Mama,” she said, gesturing expansively, “I will not have you manipulating this situation. No one need know what has occurred
in this room. So long as you all hold your collective tongues for once.” She glared at her sisters. “My reputation will remain
intact, and Lord Maccon will remain a free man. And now I have a headache; please excuse me.”

With that, she gathered what was left of her dignity and swept from the room. She retreated upstairs to the sanctity of her
own boudoir to indulge in a most uncharacteristic but blessedly short-lived bout of tears. The only one who caught her at
it was Floote, who placed a sympathetic tea tray on her bedside table, including some of Cook's extra-special apricot puffs,
and issued orders with the household staff that she was not to be disturbed.

Lord Maccon was left in the bosom of her family.

“I believe, for the moment, we ought to do as she says,” he said to them.

Mrs. Loontwill looked stubborn and militant.

Lord Maccon glared at her. “Do not interfere, Mrs. Loontwill. Knowing Alexia, your approbation is likely to turn her more
surely against me than anything else possibly could.”

Mrs. Loontwill looked like she would like to take offense, but given this was the Earl of Woolsey, she resisted the inclination.

Then Lord Maccon turned to Squire Loontwill. “Understand, my good sir, that my intentions are honorable. It is the lady who
resists, but she must be allowed to make up her own mind. I, too, will not have her coerced. Both of you, stay out of this.”
He paused in the doorway, donning his hat and coat and baring his teeth at the Loontwill girls. “And, you two, keep quiet.
Your sister's reputation is at stake, and never doubt that it drastically impacts your own. I am not one to be trifled with
in this matter. I bid you good day.” With that, he left the room.