The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

Yet everyone’s conversations are the same if you listen.’

      ‘The ham is rather fine and the lemonade is especially cold,’ Alixe dared to tease.

      St Magnus laughed. ‘I’d wager William Barrington over there with Miss Julianne Wood isn’t thinking about the ham and tarts.’

      ‘What is he thinking about?’ The words were entirely spontaneous and entirely too curious, hardly the right sort of conversational banter for a proper miss. A proper young lady would never encourage what was likely to be an improper avenue of discussion. But St Magnus had a way of encouraging precisely that. She was under the impression that no conversation with him would ever be completely proper.

      St Magnus gave a wicked smile. ‘He’s probably thinking how he’d like to lick that smear of strawberry off her lips.’ He gave his eyebrows a meaningful arch. ‘Shocked? Don’t be. They’re all thinking roughly the same thing. Perhaps the place they want to lick varies.’

      She was indeed shocked. No one had ever said anything quite so outrageous to her. Ever. But she would not retreat from it. She was fast discovering that being shocked did not have to be the same as being appalled. Since she’d met St Magnus, shock had only increased her curiosity. What else was out there to discover? She’d always thought there was more to life than the veneer society put on its surface. Now, she was starting to discover it, one shocking conversation at a time. Shocking, yes, but intoxicating, too. And, yes, even a little bit empowering, a boost of courage to be the woman in her mind who said witty things, who made challenging statements of her own.

      She met his blue eyes squarely, a little smile hovering on her lips. ‘I don’t know what shocks me more: what you said or how you said it with such nonchalance as if you were indeed discussing something as mundane as the weather.’

      ‘Why not treat it with nonchalance?’ St Magnus gave an elegant lift of his shoulder and reached for a last berry. ‘It shouldn’t be a secret that all men really think about is sex.’

      Had he just said ‘sex’? In the presence of an unmarried female?

      ‘Oh, yes, Lady Alixe. Males are not complex creatures when you get right down to it. Why not be honest about it? Consider this your first lesson in becoming London’s Toast. The sooner you embrace the fact as common knowledge, the sooner you can successfully cater to it.’

      ‘How ironic that you’ve used a food-related term. We’re right back to where we started. Food, the subject people talk about when they’re really thinking about licking people’s lips for them.’ Oh my, oh my. Now was the time to be appalled. She ought to be horrifically shocked by what had come out of her mouth, but she wasn’t. It seemed the natural response to St Magnus’s comment.

      ‘You can be a rare treat when you decide to employ that tongue of yours for good and not evil, Lady Alixe.’ St Magnus was laughing outright now.

      ‘People are starting to look,’ Alixe said through the gritted teeth of a forced smile. She was not so given over to the levity of their conversation that she was oblivious to the conditions of their surroundings.

      ‘We want them to look, don’t we? We want them to wonder what Lady Alixe has said that has St Magnus so captivated. They’re conversational voyeurs. They’re only looking because we’re having more fun than they are.’ He winked a blue eye. ‘And do you know why?’

      ‘Because we’re not talking about food,’ Alixe replied smartly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

      ‘Precisely, Lady Alixe. We’re talking about what we want to talk about.’

      ‘Are you always like this?’ she asked before she lost her courage, before ‘sophisticated woman with witty things to say’ retreated. She’d never let that part of her out to play before. She had no idea how long it would last before she stumbled or ran out of things to say.

      Something like solemnity settled between them; a little of the hilarity of the previous conversation receded. His eyes were serious now. ‘I am always myself, Lady Alixe. It’s the one thing I can’t run away from.’

      She sensed a reprimand in there somewhere, whether for himself or for her she could not tell. Perhaps she’d crossed an invisible line in her heady excitement. She seemed to be an expert at doing that today. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been too forward. I don’t know what’s wrong with my mouth today.’

      ‘Nothing’s wrong with your mouth except maybe a smudge of strawberry tart, just here.’ He gestured to a corner on his own mouth. Alixe’s pulse ratcheted up

      a notch. He was going to do it. Merrick St Magnus was going to lick her lips. Perhaps the most irrational and wicked thought she’d ever had, but it was a day for all those types of firsts. She took a deep breath, her lips parting ever so slightly in anticipation, her stomach fluttering with curiosity.

      He leaned forwards, closing the gap between them...and most disappointingly reached for a napkin.

      He dabbed it against her lips, gently wiping away the stain. She knew it was bold. No man had ever touched her mouth before, not even with a napkin. Yet she couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t bold enough. After all their talk of mouths and food and what men were really thinking, a napkin seemed far too tame.

      There could only be one awful truth. He hadn’t wanted to. She’d let herself get carried away. In the end, he was Merrick St Magnus, man about town who could have any woman he wanted any time he wanted her, and she was plain Alixe Burke, with an emphasis on the plain. He didn’t want to lick her lips any more than he wanted to marry her, which, of course, was why he was trying so hard so he wouldn’t have to.

      Alixe let out a deep breath and stood up. ‘You should see the villa before we go. It’s a bit of a walk, so we’d best start now or there won’t be time before we leave.’

       Chapter Seven

      ‘The villa probably housed military officers, although the larger Roman defences were built at Dover. The lack of a deep-water harbour made Folkestone an unlikely place of attack from the sea. Folkestone was used only as a look-out point.’

      She was seeking refuge in her history again. Merrick didn’t think she’d stopped chattering since they’d left the blanket. She’d talked about the local fauna on the walk to the ruin and she’d been a veritable fountain of knowledge once they’d actually reached the ruin. It was undeniably interesting. She was well informed, but he was more interested in what had brought on the change, the reversion. She’d been a lively match for him on the blanket, one that he’d enjoyed far beyond his expectation.

      ‘This main room here was a banquet hall. We know this because shards of pottery have been found...’ Merrick moved away from her recitation, his eye caught by a short crumbling stair. He went up, thankful for the traction of his boots on the rubble of the remaining steps. But the short climb was worth it. The upper chamber afforded a spectacular view of the sea and of the current Folkestone harbour in the distance. Merrick let the breeze flow over him for a moment as he took in the panorama. He’d discovered that most things looked peaceful from a distance. Distance was useful that way.

      ‘St Magnus, you shouldn’t be up there,’ she called. But he ignored her. ‘Merrick, it’s dangerous. The steps aren’t stable and goodness knows how treacherous the ground up there is.’ She was looking up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare.

      ‘The view is spectacular and not to be missed,’ he called down. He moved towards the steps and offered her a hand. ‘Come up, Alixe. The ground is dry and firm. I don’t think we’re in any danger of sliding down the cliff side today.’

      Alixe gave him a look as if to say ‘oh, very well’ and took her skirt in both hands for the climb. She tripped on the third step, giving him another look. This one saying ‘It’s dangerous, I told you so’.

      ‘Don’t be stubborn, Alixe. Take my hand.’ He came down a few steps to