The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

imagined for himself, he looked refreshed and well dressed, a rather striking contrast to the picture she knew she presented with her dark circles and plain brown gown.

      She hadn’t slept at all and she hadn’t taken any pains this morning to disguise the fact. But St Magnus was impeccably attired for riding in buff breeches, polished boots and deep forest-green jacket. The morning sun glinted off his hair, turning it platinum in the bright light. It was the first time that she had noticed his hair was almost longer than convention dictated, hanging in loose waves to his shoulders, but not nearly long enough to club back. Or was it? Hmmm.

      ‘Is something wrong with my face?’ St Magnus enquired, lifting a hand tentatively to his cheek.

      ‘No.’ Alixe hastily dragged her thoughts to the present. Wondering about his hair would serve no purpose, no useful purpose anyway.

      ‘Good. I’ve come to discuss our predicament.’ St Magnus set her empty basket on the ground and sat down uninvited beside her on the little bench. She was acutely aware of his nearness in the small space and of the other time they’d been so close.

      ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ She tried to slide apart, but there was no place left to slide.

      ‘Discussing our situation?’

      ‘No, sitting so close. The last time was a disaster.’

      He eyed her with a wry look. ‘I think that’s the least of your worries, Alixe. It’s certainly the least of mine.’

      Alixe. The sound of her name on his lips, so very casual as if they were friends, as if working together last night had meant something instead of being contrived to steal a kiss, sent a small thrill through her until she remembered why he was there. She folded her hands in her lap. ‘I imagine you’re quite concerned about the little matter of your wager.’

      ‘I am and you should be, too.’ He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his booted ankles. ‘If I fail, your father will see us married. Neither of us wants that, so tell me who you want to marry and I’ll see to it that you have him.’

      Alixe snorted. This was like a bad fairy tale. ‘How do you propose to do that? You can’t wave a magic wand and conjure a husband out of thin air.’

      ‘No, but you can. I can teach you what you need to entice your man of preference. So, name your man. Who do you want?’

      Alixe stood and paced the path. ‘Let me think... He should be moderately good-looking, moderately young. I don’t want anyone too terribly old. He should be intelligent. I would want to have decent conversation over a lifetime of dinners. He should be respectful and he should appreciate me for who I am—’

      ‘No,’ St Magnus interrupted.

      ‘No? He shouldn’t be respectful or able to make decent conversation at meal time?’

      His blue eyes flashed with irritation at her recital of characteristics. ‘No, as in I don’t want a list of qualities. I want a name. For example, Viscount Hargrove or Baron Hesselton.’

      ‘Then we are at cross purposes,’ Alixe snapped. ‘I don’t want a name. I want a man, a real person.’

      St Magnus rose to meet her, arms crossed. ‘Listen, Lady Alixe, you can play stubborn all summer, but that won’t change the outcome, it will only change the husband.’

      ‘And that would be intolerable since it would be you. Don’t stand there and make it seem as if all your plans are for my benefit. You’re only interested in saving your own precious hide,’ Alixe said angrily. ‘You’re not concerned about me. This is all about you getting what you want, just like it was last night. You didn’t care about the translation. You cared about the wager and I was fool enough to believe otherwise.’

      Merrick’s eyes narrowed to dangerous blue slits. Good. He was angry. She’d managed to shake his attitude of casual insouciance. It was about time he was appalled by what faced them. Goodness knew she was.

      His voice was cold when he spoke. ‘We are most unfortunately in this mess together. You can either take my help and take charge of how this ends, or you can be saddled with me for a husband. I assure you, such a result will only bring you grief.’

      She saw the truth in it. Marriage to a man like St Magnus was perhaps worse than the reality of a traditional society alliance. At least then there would be no illusions like there had been momentarily last night.

      ‘Are you threatening me?’ Alixe tipped her chin high. Women who married the fantasy were inevitably betrayed when their husbands created the fantasy with other lovers.

      ‘That’s your father’s threat, my dear, not mine.’ Mischief twinkled in his eyes. ‘I think you might enjoy certain aspects of being married to me. It’s not as though it’s a case of caveat emptor. You know exactly what you’re getting. There won’t be any surprises when the clothes come off on our wedding night, after all.’

      Alixe felt the hot blush creep up her neck. This man was impossible. ‘Really, you must stop mentioning it.’

      St Magnus laughed. ‘I probably will when it ceases to make you blush. Now, we must get you back to the house and get you changed for the excursion out to the Roman ruins.’

      This was too much. ‘You do not have the ordering of me.’

      ‘I thought we’d established that I do until you choose another husbandly candidate.’ There was almost a chill to his tone, cautioning that she’d better be careful about pushing this man too far. His easy manners hid a deeper, angrier soul. It was a surprise to discover it. Nothing in his behaviour to date had suggested such a facet to his personality existed. The glimpse was gone as quickly as it had come.

      ‘I hadn’t planned to go on the excursion.’ She picked up the flower basket.

      ‘I hadn’t planned to get caught in the library with you.’

      She turned to face him with hands on hips. ‘Look, I’m sorry you lost your wager, but that doesn’t give you leave to make my life any more miserable than it has to be under the circumstances.’

      ‘I think you’d better get used to calling me Merrick, and you’re wrong about the wager. I won, after all.’ He gave her a cocky grin. ‘I kissed your mother.’

      She knew the look on her face was one of pure astonishment. She couldn’t help it. The most incredible statements kept coming out of this man’s mouth. ‘You kissed my mother?’

      St Magnus—no, Merrick, chuckled and sauntered down the path back towards the house. ‘On the hand, my dear girl,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour at the carriages. Don’t even think about being late.’

      Alixe humphed and stomped her foot. He was infuriating. She had no doubts he’d come looking for her if she wasn’t there. She’d tried to avoid him this morning and he’d found her anyway. Well, he could demand she be at the carriages, but he couldn’t tell her what to wear. Alixe smiled to herself. He’d soon see what a Herculean labour her father had set before him. When her father realised there was no way Merrick could free himself from marrying her, her father would relent. Her father didn’t want Merrick for a son-in-law.

      Alixe hummed her way back to the house. For the first time since midnight, she had a plan and it would work. Then she’d be right back where she’d begun the summer. Never mind that the two words ‘restless’ and ‘lonely’ hovered on the periphery of her thoughts. She’d worry about that later. At present, she had a husband to lose.

      * * *

      She was prompt, Merrick would give her that. At precisely eleven o’clock, Alixe Burke presented herself on the front steps with the other milling guests, ready for the outing to the ruins. It was something of a surprise that she was on time given she looked a fright. Mastering such an unattractive, nay, invisible look took time.

      If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it to her in temporary recognition