He began running his other hand up and down her back in long strokes. Definitely a cat, thought Alexia groggily. Her mind was becoming hazy. Those bizarre, sunshiny tingles that proximity to Lord Maccon seemed inevitably to produce were coursing through her body with alarming intensity.
The earl turned them both about where they stood. Alexia was not certain why, but she was inclined to cooperate so long as he did not stop kissing her. He did not. He arranged it so that he could sink slowly down onto the wingback armchair, taking her with him.
It was a most indelicate thing, but there Miss Alexia Tarabotti inexplicably found herself, bustle hiked up and all her layers of skirts askew, sitting in Lord Maccon's well-tailored lap.
He moved away from her lips, which was disappointing, but then began nibbling her neck, which was gratifying. He lifted one dark curl away from where the carefully arranged locks fell over one shoulder. He ran the strand between his fingertips and then pushed the silken mass aside.
Alexia tensed in anticipation, holding her breath.
Suddenly he stopped and jerked back. The wingback chair, already taxed by two occupants—neither of whom could be described as flimsy in physique—swayed alarmingly. “What the hell is that?” yelled Lord Maccon.
He had turned to anger so swiftly; Alexia could only stare at him, speechless.
She let out her pent-up breath in a whoosh. Her heart was beating a marathon somewhere in the region of her throat, her skin felt hot and stretched taut over her bones, and she was damp in places she was tolerably certain unmarried gentlewomen were not supposed to be damp in.
Lord Maccon was glaring at her coffee-colored skin, discolored between the neck and shoulder region by an ugly purple mark, the size and shape of a man's teeth.
Alexia blinked, and her brown eyes cleared of their dazed expression. A small crease of perturbation appeared between her brows.
“That is a bite mark, my lord,” she said, pleased her voice was not shaking, though it was a little deeper than usual.
Lord Maccon was ever more enraged. “Who bit you?” he roared.
Alexia tilted her head to one side in utter amazement. “You did.” She was then treated to the glorious spectacle of an Alpha werewolf looking downright hangdog.
“I did?”
She raised both eyebrows at him.
“I did.”
She nodded, firmly, once.
Lord Maccon ran a distracted hand through his already messy hair. The dark brown strands stood up in small tufts. “Dog's bollocks,” he said. “I am worse than a pup in his first season. I am sorry, Alexia. It is the moon and the lack of sleep.”
Alexia nodded, wondering if she should point out that he had forgotten proper etiquette and used her first name. However, that seemed a little silly given their recent activities. “Yes, I see. Uh. What is?”
“This control.”
She figured at some stage in the proceedings she might understand what was going on, but now did not seem to be that time. “What control?”
“Exactly!”
Miss Tarabotti narrowed her eyes and then said something very daring. “You could kiss the bruise and make it better.” Well, perhaps not quite so daring for someone who was settled as intimately as she on Lord Maccon's lap. After all, she had read enough of her papa's books to know exactly what it was that pressed hard and flush against her nether regions.
Lord Maccon shook his head. “I do not think that is a very good idea.”
“You do not?” Embarrassed by her own forwardness, Alexia squirmed against him, trying to extricate herself.
The earl swore and closed his eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Tentatively, Alexia squirmed again.
Lord Maccon groaned and leaned his head against her collarbone, clamping both hands about her hips to still the movement.
Alexia was scientifically intrigued. Had he gotten even larger down there? What was the maximum possible expansion ratio? she wondered. She grinned a tad maliciously. It had not occurred to her that she might have some sort of influence over the encounter. She decided then and there that, being a confirmed spinster and averse to allowing Mr. MacDougall his druthers, this might be her only chance to test some long-held and rather interesting theories.
“Lord Maccon,” she whispered, squirming again despite his firm grip.
He snorted and said in a strangled voice, “I suspect you could get away with calling me by my given name at this juncture.”
“Um?” said Alexia.
“Um, Conall,” prompted Lord Maccon.
“Conall,” she said, relinquishing the last hold on her scruples—once the egg was broken, might as well make an omelet with it. Then she got distracted by the feel of his back muscles under her hands. Hands that had run afoul of his coat and unceremoniously managed to strip it off him without her knowledge.