“Aye, Alexia?” He looked up at her. Was that fear in his caramel eyes?
“I am going to take advantage of you,” she said, and without giving him a chance to reply, she began untying his cravat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Revelations Over Chopped Liver
Uh, probably not a good idea.” Lord Maccon was panting a little.
“Hush, none of that, now,” Miss Tarabotti admonished. “You started this.”
“And it would be a devilish bad lot for all concerned were I to finish it,” he said. “Or for you to finish it, for that matter.” But he made no attempt to remove her from his lap. Instead, he seemed fascinated by the low neckline of her dress, which had sunk considerably during their exertions. One big hand was now tracing the lace frill tucked there, back and forth. Alexia wondered if he had a particular interest in ladies' fashions.
She dispensed with Lord Maccon's cravat, undid the buttons of his waistcoat and then those of his shirtwaist. “You are wearing entirely too much clothing,” she complained.
Lord Maccon, who ordinarily could not agree more, was rather appreciative of it at the moment. Any additional time it took for her to undo buttons might give him back a modicum of restraint. He was sure his control was around somewhere, if he could simply find it. He tore his eyes away from the tops of those remarkable breasts of hers and tried to think unpleasant thoughts of particularly horrible things, like overcooked vegetables and cut-rate wine.
Alexia succeeded in her aim: peeling back Lord Maccon's clothing to expose his upper chest, shoulders, and neck. She had stopped kissing him for the moment. The earl considered that a godsend. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at her. Her expression seemed more one of avid curiosity than anything else.
Then Alexia bent forward and nibbled at his ear.
Lord Maccon writhed and let out an animal-in-pain sort of whimper. Alexia considered her experiment an unqualified success. Apparently what was good for the goose was, indeed, good for the gander.
She investigated further: moving along with little kisses down his throat and over his collarbone until she came to the same location on his neck that on hers was currently a decorative black and blue color. She bit him. Hard. Alexia never did anything by halves.
Lord Maccon almost reared right out of the armchair.
Alexia held on, teeth sinking into flesh. She did not want to draw blood, but she did intend to leave a mark and felt since he was a tough supernatural type, she had better do her worst. Any mark she left would not last long once they broke contact and he was out of her preternatural power. He tasted wonderful: of salt and meat—like gravy. She stopped biting and licked delicately at the red crescent-shaped brand she had left behind.
“Blast it all.” Lord Maccon's breathing was very rapid. “We have got to stop.”
Alexia nuzzled against him. “Why?”
“Because pretty bloody soon, I'm not going to be able to.”
Alexia nodded. “I suppose that is sensible.” She sighed. It felt like she had spent a lifetime being sensible.
The decision, it turned out, was taken away from them by some sort of commotion in the hallway. “Well I never,” said a lady's shocked voice.
Some quiet apologetic murmuring then ensued, the words of which were impossible to make out and probably emanated from Floote.
Then the woman issued forth once more, “In the front parlor? Oh, here on BUR business, is he? I understand. Surely not...” The voice trailed off.
Someone knocked loudly on the parlor door.
Miss Tarabotti slid hurriedly off Lord Maccon's lap. Much to her surprise, her legs seemed to be working properly. She yanked her bustle back into position and hopped up and down hurriedly to shake her skirts back into place.
Lord Maccon, in the interest of time, simply buttoned the top of his shirtwaist and bottom of his waistcoat and jacket. But he seemed defeated in any effort to rapidly tie his cravat.
“Here, let me do that.” Miss Tarabotti gestured him autocratically over and tied it for him.
While she busied herself with an intricate knot, Lord Maccon tried, equally inexpertly, to fix her hair. His fingers brushed the bite mark on her lower neck. “I am sorry about that,” he said contritely.
“Do I detect an honest-to-goodness apology?” asked Alexia, but she smiled, still fiddling with his cravat. “I do not mind the bruise. What I mind is that I cannot produce the same.” The bite mark she had given him only moments before had promptly vanished during the few seconds they separated while she straightened her dress. Then, she added, because Alexia never stayed silent when she ought, “These feelings you engender in me, my lord, are most indelicate. You should stop causing them immediately.”