Wilde in Love(27)

Willa snapped open her fan, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as rosy as they felt.

The duke and his sister walked in, heading directly toward the two of them. “Alaric, what do I hear about your entourage?” Lady Knowe said with a twinkle. “The duke just informed me that Lady Biddle has departed.”

“She has another party to attend,” Alaric said, his tone bland.

“Should we expect your other admirers to flee?” his aunt asked. “Goodness, we would be left with a nearly empty house.”

“After the initial flurry of excitement, perhaps our guests are recognizing that Alaric’s fame is all out of proportion,” His Grace said.

“Not if my siblings have anything to do with it,” Alaric said. “Those wretched prints are posted all over the house, and being hourly supplemented by the artistic efforts from the nursery.”

“They’re making new images?” Willa asked, intrigued.

“Paintings and sketches.” The duke gestured toward the fireplace, which was adorned with a sheet of foolscap which bore no resemblance to the room’s otherwise elegant furnishings.

His Grace went over to the mantelpiece, plucked the picture from it, and returned. He was holding a depiction of a stick figure surrounded by blobs that vaguely resembled animals, seeing as they had four legs and a great many sharp teeth.

“I was surprised to find such artistic talent in the family,” the duke said, the mischievous look in his eyes making him look much younger than his fifty-some years. “Here my son Erik represents Alaric—or rather, Lord Wilde—in the jungle. I might add that Erik is six years old.”

“Enthusiastic, but unpracticed,” Alaric said, looking it over.

“I like the way he portrays your teeth extending below your chin,” Willa said appreciatively. “When he’s a bit older, Erik will be able to draw your profile and sell it for five shillings.”

“By then, the market for those particular images will be gone.” Alaric sounded very sure of that.

“Someone has to depict your next decade’s adventures,” Lady Knowe said. “Why not a family member? I could set up my own stall in front of the theater. Lockets would be redundant, but original portraits are sure to sell.”

Alaric dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You surprise me, dear aunt. Who would have thought you proficient with watercolors? I have never seen you sewing a fine seam. Perhaps I’ll ask Mr. Calico to bring you an embroidery hoop.”

Prism entered the drawing room. “Lord Alaric, forgive me for interrupting, but a young woman is insistently requesting to see you. I have shown her to the library.”

Willa discovered, to her dismay, that she did not care for the fact that a lady was calling at this hour of the evening. That didn’t happen in the normal course of events. Ladies paid morning calls, with chaperones and family in tow.

“Not another one,” Lady Knowe groaned.

Alaric frowned. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

“Pilgrimages,” his father explained with a sigh. “They want to see the place where you were born. They invariably request to be taken to the nursery so they can gaze at your hobbyhorse.”

Willa’s tension eased, but Alaric stiffened.

“That’s bloody nonsense.”

“Not in front of ladies,” his aunt scolded, ignoring the fact that she often cursed herself. “Your father and I have developed an excellent routine for dispatching such unwanted visitors. If you make an appearance it might overcome her sensibilities. I suppose I had better send Prism for spirit of hartshorn. Or sal volatile.”

“In case she swoons?” Willa asked, reluctantly fascinated.

“Lord Wilde’s admirers do occasionally feel faint on meeting members of his family,” the duke said dryly. “Lord knows what will happen if Lord Wilde himself makes an appearance.”

“I apologize,” Alaric said, his voice colorless.

“Do you mind if I inquire about your routine?” Willa asked, wishing she could put a hand on Alaric’s arm just … because.

“We terrify them,” Lady Knowe said, with all-too-obvious glee. “It comes naturally to my brother, but I have discovered a gift for it as well.” She drew herself up—which brought her almost to the duke’s height—and regarded them imperiously down the length of her nose.

“My goodness,” Willa exclaimed, impressed.

“Do they turn tail and run?” Alaric asked.

“Pilgrims have the courage of their convictions,” Lady Knowe said. “Some of them have even read your books. But after seeing Wilde in Love twelve times—”

“Twelve?” The word exploded out of Alaric’s mouth.

“Or twenty,” his father confirmed.

“Poor Lord Wilde. Plagued by too much love,” Willa said, wanting to lighten Alaric’s expression.

He shot her a look that reminded her of their kiss, with no need for words. Heat washed into her face and she hastily brought up her fan.

The duke chuckled. “If you wish to join us in greeting the young lady, Alaric, you are more than welcome.”

He and Lady Knowe strolled away.

“This is remarkably distasteful.” Alaric’s jaw tightened.

Willa gave in to her impulse and put a hand on his arm, her fingers curling around his strength. “I think your father and aunt are enjoying themselves.”

“Will you—” He paused.

“Will I what?”

“Will you wait a few minutes and then come to the library on some pretext?” His eyes searched hers and Willa thought there was more than one question buried in his words.

How could she say no? He had kissed her, but even more than that, he had somehow become a friend.

A strange word for a man. She and Lavinia had many suitors, whom they flattered and bandied words with. But Alaric had somehow crashed through all that.

“Evie?” The word was a rasp.

“Yes, I will.” She frowned at him. “I am only agreeing to rescue you from your uninvited admirer. Nothing more.”

That smile?

The one he gave her now?

That was the arrogant smile depicted in the engravings. It was the smile of a man who had conquered mountains.

“Thank you.” He bowed and kissed her hand. His lips pressed against her fingers and his tongue—

She snatched her hand away. “Alaric!”





Chapter Eighteen


Alaric made his way to the library, feeling generous toward the lady who had made a pilgrimage all the way to Cheshire. Whoever she was.

When the butler mentioned that he had a visitor, he’d seen a flash of something in Willa’s eyes that he chose to think was jealousy. It was cheering to see that trace of possessiveness.

He opened the library door, expecting to find his father on his high horse, every inch the duke. In fact, he thought His Grace and Lady Knowe would be towering over the visitor.

Instead they were all seated. He approached them, his shoes making no noise on the thick Aubusson carpet covering the library floor. Their visitor was talking in a soft voice, her back to the door.

Soft brown ringlets, unpowdered and unadorned, fell to her shoulders. She was wearing a gray dress, cut high around her neck and made of cloth that had no interest in the shape of a human body, but formed a box that hung from the shoulders.

That dress advertised itself and its wearer. It was a dress that might be worn by a missionary’s daughter.

The thought, and a second look, sent a sickening jolt through him.

Unless he missed his guess, the woman sitting in his father’s library was Miss Prudence Larkin, who had neither been given a locket, nor—obviously—been eaten by cannibals.

He’d last seen her years before, when she was fourteen, and although the skin that had been spotty then was now milky white, her snub nose and slightly protruding teeth were unchanged.

Prudence turned her head. “Alaric, my dearest,” she cried, springing to her feet, her eyes shining. She dropped into a low curtsy, head bent as if she were greeting royalty.

Why in the hell was she addressing him with such familiarity? “Good evening, Miss Larkin,” he said, bowing. “I see that you have met my father and aunt.”

They had risen as well; she turned to them with a smile. “I was just telling your family everything that passed between us in Africa.”

“You were?” Alaric’s mind reeled. In his opinion, a woman would be humiliated by the memory of their last, profoundly awkward encounter—when she had stolen into his bed and had to be unceremoniously ejected. Yet here she was, beaming at the duke.

“At times the heart can mend itself only in silence.”

The duke frowned. If there was a man in the world unimpressed by vague metaphysical statements, it was His Grace. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was dead, you see.” She took a step toward Alaric. “Verily, I know that you must be shocked to the very core. But I lived … I lived!”

After a moment’s silence while everyone digested the fact that, indeed, the lady seemed to be living, the duke said, “Alaric.” It wasn’t a question.

“Miss Larkin is the daughter of Charles Pearson Larkin, a missionary with whom I stayed in Africa some years ago. I believe she was fourteen years old at that time. I know nothing about her death nor, indeed, her return from it.”