Soulless(92)
“That you will not marry me.”
“Must we discuss it here and now?” she said, not realizing what she was saying. “And why is it silly?”
“Well, at least we have some privacy.” He shrugged. The movement shifted all the muscles of his chest and stomach.
“Uh... uh....” stuttered Miss Tarabotti, “couldn't it wait until I am home and you are, uh, clothed?”
Lord Maccon realized he had the advantage over Alexia; he was not about to sacrifice it. “Why, you think your family will allow us some privacy? My pack certainly will not. They have been eager to meet you ever since I came home covered in your scent. Not to mention Lyall and his gossiping.”
“Professor Lyall gossips?” Alexia tore her eyes away from his body to look up into his face.
“Like an old churchyard biddy.”
“And what exactly has he told them?”
“That the pack is getting an Alpha female. I am not giving up, you realize?” He said it with deadly calm.
“But I thought it was my move? Isn't that the way this works?” Miss Tarabotti was confused.
Lord Maccon's grin was all wolf. “Up to a certain point. Let us simply say you have made your preferences known.”
“I thought you found me utterly impossible.”
He grinned cheerfully. “Most assuredly.”
Alexia's stomach flipped over, and she was seized with the sudden impulse to tackle him and rub up against him. Lord Maccon naked was one thing; naked and smiling that gently crooked smile of his— devastating.
“I thought I was too bossy,” she said.
“And I shall provide you with an entire pack to boss around. They could use the discipline. I have been getting lax in my old age.”
Miss Tarabotti highly doubted that. “I thought you found my family impossible.”
“I shall not be marrying them,” he began, inching back in toward her, sensing a weakness in her resolve.
Miss Tarabotti was not certain his return was a good thing. True, that most disturbing view was blurring as he moved toward her, but he had that look on his face that said the kissing would start up again presently. She wondered exactly how she had managed to get herself into such an untenable position.
“But I am tall, and brown, and have a large nose, and large everything else.” She gestured ineffectually at her hips and chest.
“Mmm,” said the earl, agreeing with her entirely, “you most certainly do.” He found it interesting she did not mention those things that had worried him from the start: his age (advanced) and her state (preternatural). But he was not about to assist in her protestations by giving her more ammunition in objecting to his suit. They could talk about his own concerns later—preferably after they were married; that is, he grimaced mentally, if they managed to survive their current predicament and make it to the altar.
Finally, Alexia came round and about to the thing that really troubled her. She looked down at her free hand as though finding its palm fascinating. “You do not love me.”
“Ah,” said the Alpha, looking pleased at this, “says who? You never asked me. Should it not be my opinion you take into account?”
“Well,” sputtered Miss Tarabotti, at a loss for words. “Well, I never.”
“So?” He raised an eyebrow.
Alexia bit her lip, white teeth gnawing at the full swollen flesh. Finally, she lifted trembling lashes and cast a very worried glance up at him, now too close to her once more.
Naturally, because fortune is a fickle beast, it was precisely at that moment that the door to their cell opened.
Standing in the doorway was a backlit figure, clapping slowly but with evident approval.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Last Room
In a lightning-fast movement, which bespoke his dexterity as a human before he had become a werewolf, Lord Maccon shifted around Miss Tarabotti so that his back was to the intruder and he was shielding her with his body. In the same motion, Alexia saw he had managed to grab the shard of mirror off the floor next to them. He held it between them, protected from Mr. Siemons's view.
“Well, Miss Tarabotti,” said the scientist, “you certainly do excellent work. I never thought to see a were-wolf Alpha in human form on full-moon night.”
Alexia moved to sit, lifting the bodice of her dress over her shoulders as subtly as possible. The back had entirely come undone. She glared at Lord Maccon, who looked back at her in an utterly unapologetic way.
“Mr. Siemons,” she said flatly.
As the scientist moved into the room, she saw that behind him stood at least six other men of varying sizes, mostly on the larger end of the spectrum. He was clearly taking no chances should her preternatural abilities be simply a superstitious hoax. But, having found no were-wolf in residence, he stared at Lord Maccon's back with a decidedly clinical expression.