Wilde in Love(3)
She wasn’t wearing gloves, but that didn’t explain the way her skin prickled to life. Willa felt her lips curling into a smile entirely unlike the calm expression with which she usually greeted a stranger.
“I understand that you have just returned to England,” she said, hastily withdrawing her hand. “What do you miss when you are traveling abroad?”
Lord Alaric’s eyes, fringed by thick eyelashes, were the blue color of the sky at twilight.
Beauty was an accident of birth. But eyes? That was different. Beautiful eyes had feeling in them.
“I miss my family,” he said. “After that, mattresses without lice, brandy, welcoming servants, an excellent plate of ham and eggs in the morning. Oh, and the company of ladies.”
“It must be intoxicating to be so adored,” Willa said, nettled by the way he ranked ladies below a plate of ham.
Lord Alaric’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Adoration is a bit strong. I think myself lucky that my readers find something to enjoy in my work.”
She let a trace of scorn shine from her eyes because … false modesty? Ugh. “I enjoyed reading Montaigne’s essay on cannibals, but that didn’t spur me to hang his image in my room.”
He looked faintly surprised. Did no one ever disagree with him? Or was he not aware that his image was enshrined in so many bedchambers?
“Where do you plan to travel next?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I haven’t decided. Do you have a suggestion?”
“I am not certain where you’ve already been,” Willa admitted. “I’m afraid that I’m one of the few people in the kingdom ignorant on the subject of Lord Wilde’s peregrinations.”
His heavy-lidded eyes opened slightly, the tilt of his mouth hitching up a bit more. “A large word for an inconsequential subject. I assure you that you aren’t alone in avoiding my books.”
Willa would really have liked to shrug, but shrugging was like sighing: an inelegant way to indicate an emotion better kept to oneself. “There’s little evidence for that,” she pointed out. “You have been away for some time, but you’ll find that your work is read widely.”
“Do you prefer novels?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not attracted to invented stories of any kind,” Willa said. His eyes were so intent on her face that she was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.
Annoying man.
“I do not invent the events I describe,” Lord Alaric said, a thread of laughter in his voice.
“Certainly not,” she said hastily. Then, unable to resist, “Although, from what my friend Lavinia has told me, wouldn’t you agree that your adventures tend to be, shall we say, larger than life?”
“No,” he replied, seemingly even more amused. “What are you reading at the moment?”
“Pliny’s letters to Tacitus, but I’ll put it to the side and read one of your accounts. Where would you recommend that I start? With the cannibals, perhaps?”
One of his brows shot upward. “Cannibals?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Willa exclaimed. “Lavinia told me that cannibals appear only in the play.”
Like a dot on the end of a sentence, that put an end to his amusement. His brows drew together. “Play?”
“Wilde in Love,” Willa answered, astonished that Lord Alaric knew nothing of the hugely successful play depicting his life.
“I presume the spelling of that title includes an ‘E’.” He did not look happy. “Exactly what happens in Wilde in Love?”
“As you might have guessed, you meet a lady,” Willa said, rather enjoying watching his pained expression deepen.
Lord Roland startled her by clearing his throat. It seemed Diana had fled, leaving Lord Alaric’s brother to rejoin them. “I forgot to tell you,” he said, giving his brother a mischievous grin. “A group of us made a special trip to London to see your play, Alaric. Aunt Knowe bought up every single locket they had for sale outside the theater.”
Lord Alaric frowned.
“Reproductions of the locket you gave your fiancée,” Willa explained.
“I not only fall in love, but become betrothed?”
“She was your one true love,” Lord Roland said, his smile growing ever wider. “You wrote and recited a great deal of love poetry—that took up most of the first act—and finally handed over a locket as a sign of your devotion. You’re sure to see ladies wearing them; yesterday Aunt Knowe was handing them out like gingerbread men.”
“What utter hogwash. I’ve never had a fiancée nor written a scrap of poetry. What else happens in this farce?”
“I’m sorry to say that it’s not a farce but a tragedy, since cannibals eventually make a meal of your beloved,” Willa said, unable to stop herself from smiling along with Lord Roland.
“I can’t say that I feel very sad on hearing of the death of the fiancée I never met,” Lord Alaric observed.
“If you don’t mind the advice,” his brother said irrepressibly, “you should have skipped breakfast and overcome your fear of water in time to save the missionary’s daughter from the cannibals.”
Lord Alaric’s body stilled. “Just what do you mean by ‘missionary’s daughter’?”
Willa reflexively moved back a step. All of a sudden he reminded her of a predator on the verge of pouncing. Not that anyone else seemed to notice.
The moment Willa broke their little circle, the gathering of impatient ladies at her back surged forward, elbowing her to the side.
She ought to leave without a backward look, and began to do just that, but halfway across the room, she turned, only to find, embarrassingly, that Lord Alaric was watching her.
Presumably he was accustomed to ladies throwing longing glances over their shoulders, because one side of his mouth curled up as their eyes met.
Was he mocking her for retreating?
Willa snapped her head about. He couldn’t have made it clearer that he paid no attention to the rules of civility that dictated well-bred behavior.
The man was a menace to polite society.
An appealing menace, but a menace all the same.
Chapter Three
The billiards room
Early evening
I don’t remember ever seeing you in silk, let alone pink silk,” Alaric said. He was leaning against the billiards table, watching his brother pocket the red ball over and over with careless mastery. “If you’re not careful, you’ll turn dukish. Remember Horatius?”
When he was alive, their older brother Horatius had relished the nonsense of being heir to a dukedom. He had already been pompous in short pants. Hell, probably even in nappies.
“ ‘Dukish’ isn’t a word, and this is what an English nobleman wears,” North said flatly. “Now you’re back in England, you’ll have to dress to your station.”
“I shaved,” Alaric observed.
North slammed his white cue ball into the red ball, which dropped into a pocket yet again. “It could be that the air around a future duke is poisoned. I’ll admit that I astonish myself sometimes.”
“Isn’t it my turn yet?” Alaric took a healthy slug of French brandy.
“No.”
“I’ve decided that your wig makes you look like an African parrot crossed with a fancy chicken.”
North flipped his cue, using the slender end to carom his cue ball off one rail, then another, and finally into the chosen red ball—which surprisingly failed to pocket. “Horatius died. I had to grow up.”
Alaric pushed away a familiar pang of sadness. “You have three curls over each ear,” he pointed out. “Add them to the pretty ruffles at your wrists and the coat tarted up with gold embroidery, and the result cannot be explained by maturity alone.”
“You can’t imagine how uninteresting I find your sartorial commentary,” North said. “Since you are preoccupied by my wardrobe, shall I take the next round?”
“Go ahead,” Alaric said, taking another swallow. “It isn’t just your wardrobe. When I left five years ago, you were wig-free, with a plump dancer in one pocket and a sulky Italian singer in the other. And now you’re getting married.”
North leaned to position his cue. “People change.”
“You’re wearing heels,” Alaric said, catching sight of his brother’s feet. “Damn it, they aren’t even black, are they?” He bent down and said, with some revulsion, “North, your stockings are striped, and your heels are yellow. Yellow.”
“This is the newest style. You left in 1773, and it’s 1778. Fashions change.” He sank the red ball.
“You’ve turned into a damn fop. I wouldn’t be surprised if you start wearing great silver buckles on your shoes.”
His brother straightened. “Alaric.” His voice was dangerously quiet, a tone that in their childhood days would be followed by an attempt to pound his brothers into the floor.
But Alaric had never been able to stop himself from poking the beast—in this case, the man who scarcely resembled the brother he remembered. “Should I steel myself to watch you mince down the aisle in scarlet heels? Wearing rouge, no doubt, and patches?”
North narrowed the dark blue eyes that were uncannily similar to Alaric’s own. “Should I assume that you will look like a blacksmith in the church? Because you do at the moment.”