Wicked Becomes You(31)
His laughter snapped her attention back to him. “You don’t have it in you to do this, Gwen.”
The sound of her name went through her like an electric current. He had a lovely voice, low and smooth. Gwen. She’d never realized how pretty her name could sound. “What—what do you mean?” Good Lord! What would his sisters have said if they’d been able to hear this conversation? Alex, interested in her in a purely sexual way! “I don’t have it in me to do what?”
“To rebel,” he said.
“You’re mistaken. I intend to live for myself now.”
He inclined his head. “I don’t debate your motives,” he said. “But living for yourself requires you to stop caring about what others expect from you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know. Perhaps I want to be judged.” Last night, Elma had been abuzz with news of some duke, newly widowed—a fact less startling when one learned he was seventy. But his age had not stopped Elma from formulating a grand plan to rehabilitate Gwen into a duchess. Nor would it stop the man from courting her, probably. Elma assured her that his ancient-and-doddering grace was simply desperate for funds. “Perhaps ruin would please me,” she said. She was done with purchasing grooms.
What would it take to drive off these men, anyway? A scandal of Hippodrome proportions? Only something truly heinous would counteract the appeal of her three million pounds. Poison, murder, devil worship. The sight of an altar.
“If it’s done right, ruin would surely please you,” Alex said with open amusement. “But the consequences wouldn’t. You’re a kitten, Gwen, and I say that with no censure whatsoever. You live to be smiled at, to charm people. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, so long as you choose the right people to charm. It’s the choice that has been your failing to date.”
The words stung, but only because, until so recently, they had been true. Why charm anyone? What a futile exercise it seemed now! People blew away like dandelion thistles, carried off by death or indifference or sheer, inexplicable whim. Why bother to grasp at them? One would only be disappointed eventually.
And of all people, Alex certainly understood this. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding his home and family. What hypocrisy for him to encourage her to do what he never bothered with! “I am telling you right now,” she said fiercely. “I no longer care.”
He sat back in his chair, setting his fist to his mouth as he studied her. “All right,” he said at length. “Let’s test it, shall we?”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Why not? Give me your fiercest frown. Chastise me as harshly as you please.”
“Oh, but I’m the last person to disapprove of you. I’m a blackguard, aren’t I? No, what we need”—here he glanced around the café—“is a group of fine, upstanding citizens for you to offend. There,” he said, and lifted his brow and chin to indicate someone over her shoulder.
She twisted in her seat. A family of American tourists had taken the table behind them. The balding man was puffing comfortably on his cigar as he flipped through The World, utterly ignoring the glare from his portly wife, whose jowls and thick pearl choker gave her the look of a collared dog. Their daughter, a snub-nosed beauty in a walking gown made of ribbed bengaline silk, heaved a long-suffering sigh and looked off toward the pavement. Her dress was very fashionable in cut and cloth, but its quality was disguised by its color—an unfortunate, vulgar purple.
Gwen turned back. “What do you propose? Shall I . . . approach them and apologize? My father invented that dye, you know. It never did favors to anyone’s complexion.”
“Dear God, Gwen. The point is to be shocking. Not to invent new ways to ingratiate yourself.”
“But it would be shocking! A conversation without first being properly introduced . . .” She trailed off as his smile took on an unkind edge. “All right,” she said on a deep breath. He wanted shocking?
She plucked up her soiled serviette and tossed it over her shoulder.
Heart thundering, she waited for an outcry. She’d tossed a dirty napkin onto them—fifty years ago, such offenses had started duels.
A long moment passed. No exclamation rose from the offended party. Alex yawned into his palm. Frowning, she peeked over her shoulder.
Her napkin sat directly behind the young girl’s chair. The girl, oblivious, inspected the hem of her glove.
“Works better when you aim,” said Alex. “Shall I demonstrate?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it into her wine, then began to ball it up.