“Tell me about your American sable,” Lady Knowe said to Willa. “I didn’t get more than a glimpse of her.”
Sweetpea was upstairs, having been bathed in Mr. Calico’s soap, then given a second bath in chamomile-scented water. She had showed herself a curious little animal who loved to rise up on her back legs and grab a treat from Willa’s fingers.
“Lord Alaric insists that ‘American sable’ is a misnomer,” Willa said. “ ‘Skunk’ is less grand-sounding, but more accurate.”
“How are you managing her necessaries?” Lady Knowe asked.
“We put a box filled with earth on the balcony,” Willa explained. “Once Sweetpea understood what it was for, she appeared happy to use it. She’s the most intelligent animal I’ve ever seen.”
Lady Knowe put a hand to Willa’s cheek. “You are a darling girl,” she said. “I’m so happy that my nephew gave you Sweetpea.” Her hand was large and rough, presumably from riding. But her smile was beautiful.
“Thank you,” Willa said. “What did Mr. Calico bring you, Lady Knowe?”
“A hat with a wig attached,” Lady Knowe said. “Or perhaps one could call it a wig with a hat attached? It’s for riding, because hats and wigs aren’t designed to stay together in the midst of a stiff breeze.”
“How clever!” Willa exclaimed.
“Are you talking about Lady Knowe’s cunning new hat?” Lavinia asked, joining them. “I mean to buy one for myself, as soon as we return to London. It’s absolutely darling, Willa. The hat is set at a rakish angle.”
“I mean to have a habit designed to match,” Lady Knowe said.
“Did Mr. Calico sell you the fabric?”
Lady Knowe grinned. “Certainly. I can’t think why the man hasn’t retired his wagon on the basis of the hundreds of pounds that I have given him over the years.”
Lavinia had a mischievous look. “I can tell you who spent the greatest sum of money this afternoon.”
“Who?” Lady Knowe asked. “I happily bought a stack of books, so I retired to my bedchamber and paid no attention to everyone else’s purchases.”
“Mr. Sterling bought every Lord Wilde print in the wagon!” Lavinia said. “He said they were for darts practice, which does not surprise me. A more disagreeable man I never met.”
“You wound me,” said a sardonic voice. Mr. Sterling stood just behind her.
“You truly mean to throw darts at Lord Wilde’s image?” Willa asked him.
“If he does, I’ll use his arse for archery practice,” Alaric growled, joining them.
His big, warm body crowded behind Willa’s, though the drawing room was large enough that no one need touch.
Her heart hammered in her chest, but she steadied her voice. “What would you prefer Mr. Sterling do with the prints he bought?” she asked, stepping to the side.
“Burn the confounded things,” Alaric said without hesitation. “If I’d known Mr. Calico had them on the wagon, I would have bought them myself.”
“He’s sold hundreds in the last few years,” Mr. Sterling said, laughter running through his words.
“So there is something that makes you smile,” Lavinia said to him. “I am astonished.”
What about these particular men was making both Willa and Lavinia forget the exquisite manners that had carried them through the Season? The sweet smiles and thoughtful replies?
“That, and foolish women,” Mr. Sterling retorted.
Alaric groaned.
“I deposited the prints in the nursery,” Mr. Sterling continued. “My favorite depicts you on a boat with an enormous tentacle curled around the stern. How did you escape that particular predicament, Alaric?”
“I haven’t got that one!” Lavinia exclaimed.
“You’re part of the puling parade?” Mr. Sterling said, deep disgust in his voice.
“ ‘Puling parade’?” Lavinia repeated, narrowing her eyes.
“Ladies, weeping every time the newspapers announce that Lord Wilde is lost at sea, which means every three weeks or so, or more often when Parliament isn’t in session and there’s nothing else to report.”
“Who wouldn’t admire him?” Lavinia demanded. “Lord Wilde is such a gentleman, if you’ll forgive me, Lord Alaric, for referring to you by your alias. Wherever he goes, he rescues people. He’s so chivalrous.”
The full force of her admiring smile was directed at Mr. Sterling.
Whose face darkened as a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Perhaps I should clarify—” he ground out.
“Lord Wilde is a credit to the English people,” Lavinia said, cutting him off. “He neither hoards money nor tramples those—including children—who get in his way.”
“God almighty,” Alaric breathed into Willa’s ear. “I don’t remember anyone taking on Parth since we were in the schoolroom together.”
“And I do?” Mr. Sterling inquired.
Lavinia smiled at him, the smile a tiger gives a rabbit. “Is that not an apt summary of your philosophy of life?”
At that, Mr. Sterling and she launched into a ferocious argument, Lavinia all the sweeter for being utterly furious.
“I’m a little afraid of Lavinia,” Alaric said, displaying a useful instinct for self-preservation.
“She doesn’t usually lose her temper,” Willa observed.
A large hand curled around her waist. “We should leave them alone.” He tugged her backward. “It’s like watching a husband and wife fight: intriguing but awkward. Would you like some sherry?”
She nodded, grateful for his ignorance of the societal rules that dictated she drink ratafia. He moved his hand to her back and guided her toward the butler and his tray of crystal glasses.
Willa decided that she absolutely must make Alaric stop touching her, because it was befuddling. All the same, she allowed herself to be drawn away.
“Did you notice that I called Miss Gray by her first name?”
“Yes, I did.”
“That means you should call me Alaric.”
After all, he had given her Sweetpea. She yielded. “Very well.” He looked at her steadily, so she added, “Only in private. Alaric.”
“I have a private question. Do you have a temper like Lavinia’s, which you are keeping leashed?”
“No,” Willa said. “I’m a very tidy, boring person.”
“You are not boring,” he said. “Whatever you are, you’re not boring.”
The compliment sank into Willa’s bones, but she refused, absolutely refused, to allow pleasure to show on her face. The man was entirely too confident as it was.
“Have you seen any of the prints they’re talking about?” he asked.
“Lavinia had a few on the wall of her bedchamber when we were in school,” Willa admitted. The shudder that went through him was small but visible. “She kept her favorite in her Bible,” she added, enjoying the look in Alaric’s eyes.
He handed her a glass of sherry, and took a healthy swallow from his own. “I could never have imagined all this nonsense when I left England.”
“The way prints are bought and traded is new,” she explained. “The mania began around three years ago, I believe, but of course the play brought you into even greater prominence.”
His mouth twisted with disgust. “Surely they’ll forget about me soon.”
Willa felt an unnerving wish to soothe him, although she had the distinct impression that even if he wrote no more books, a significant number of people would adore him for the rest of their lives.
“Have you ever seen salmon flop their way upstream in a spring frenzy? Or geese migrating as winter approaches?”
“That bad?”
“Think about migrating geese. The foremost goose flies at the top of the V, but they’re all intent on the same goal.”
He gave her a reluctant grin. “You are the promised land,” Willa said. “And, Alaric, don’t forget all the clamor they make as they pass overhead.”
“Oh, bloody hell.” But his eyes had cleared. “It’s almost worth it to hear you call me Alaric.”
She shook her head at him. “That means nothing.”
“So, Lavinia is one of my geese?”
Willa opened her mouth, and shut it again.
“Let me guess,” Alaric said, his voice full of mock resignation. “After meeting me, her adoration has waned.”
“I’d hate to put it that way,” Willa said, but she couldn’t keep back a smile. “She might be less inclined to think your nose is a perfect specimen.”
He rubbed that nose thoughtfully, keeping his eyes on her. As Willa was discovering, Alaric’s attention was like brandy: burning hot, enticing … habit-forming. He didn’t give a damn what women thought of his nose, or any other part of him.
“I should rescue Lavinia,” she said.
“Your friend doesn’t need rescuing; if anything, mine does.”
As they watched, Lavinia delivered a final retort and turned on her heel, the tip of her nose pointed straight at the ceiling.
Mr. Sterling strode toward them, unabashed and furious.
“That woman is a plague and a—” He bit off the word, his eyes cutting to Willa.