The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

for a bachelor wishing to avoid matrimony. But regardless of the peril, he’d been intrigued by Alixe Burke again today, proving that his earlier fascination hadn’t been a one-day novelty.

      She was a beautiful, spirited woman attempting to hide in dismal clothing. He suspected she was hiding not only from the world, but from herself. It had been difficult for her to acknowledge the passionate side of her nature today. The responses he’d drawn from her had surprised her greatly. Watching her let go and simply be herself for even a few moments had pleased him immensely.

      Alixe made her much-anticipated entrance and Merrick smiled. She had not disappointed. The beige gown was even ‘better’ than the grey riding habit because there was less one could technically take issue with. The gown was cut in the latest fashion. She wore very proper pearls around her neck and her hair was done up neatly. But she looked invisible. Everything about her ensemble was completely unassuming, from the colour to the sparse trimmings. She was almost convincing. Almost.

      Her head was held too high for the kind of woman who would wear that gown and her eyes were too sharp. Her natural disposition betrayed her in ways the gown could not hide. Merrick would be damned if he’d tell her.

      Merrick made his way to where she stood surveying the room and probably wondering where best to put herself out of notice.

      ‘You look beautiful tonight.’

      ‘I do not.’ She responded proudly. ‘I’m the plainest woman in the room.’

      He took her arm and tucked it through his own. It was a lovely proprietary act, one that everyone in the drawing room noticed while they were trying hard not to. He was well aware every woman’s eyes in the room had discreetly watched him cross the floor to Alixe’s side.

      ‘Beauty is often found in the eyes of the beholder,’ Merrick replied smoothly, strolling them around the perimeter of the drawing room.

      ‘A very useful cliché.’

      ‘A very true cliché. You’ll see.’ Merrick winked slyly. She was not nearly as seasoned at the games of flirtation as he was. She only knew how to avoid them. He knew how to play them. She didn’t quite understand what he was doing. But he did.

      A man’s undivided attentions were a potent lure for other males. Once other men saw his attentions they would swarm: some out of curiosity, wanting to see what he saw, others out of fear that something of merit might slip beyond their grasp and still others because men were by nature competitive creatures and could not stand to be bested. And the women in the room would make sure the men noticed. Already, a few of them whispered to companions behind their fans.

      Ah, yes, Merrick thought. He would pretend the beige gown was beautiful and by the end of the evening the other men would think so, too.

      * * *

      Merrick was up to something. The knowledge that the ‘game was afoot’ had Alixe on edge throughout dinner. But she could detect nothing. Merrick sat beside her, solicitous and charming, his manners without fault. She heartily wished she knew more about the games men and women played with one another. She was starting to see the large flaw in her strategies. Her tactics had all been focused on avoiding the game. As a result, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to play the game or even what the rules might be.

      The ‘rules of engagement’ was taking on a vastly differently meaning. Before Merrick, Alixe had thought of the term solely in its military capacity, part of the historic vocabulary of war. But now she was starting to see it in a different light, unless one wanted to speculate that love and war were fought on similar fields of battle.

      Rules, like the ones Merrick had introduced, were not the rules she’d learned from her governesses. Governesses taught a person how to walk, how to sit and how to make polite conversation; all of which were apparently useless skills in spite of society’s argument to the contrary. What a girl really needed in her arsenal was the ability to coax a kiss. A man, too, for that matter.

      Merrick hadn’t said as much, but Alixe suspected the converse was indeed true. Merrick had demonstrated that quite aptly this afternoon at the villa. His allure most definitely did not stem from his ability to make polite conversation or from his talent for sitting ramrod straight. In fact, he was proving it right now across the drawing room while they waited for the games to begin. It was the first time all evening that he’d left her side.

      Merrick lounged where other men stiffly posed against the mantelpiece. Merrick said what he thought while others searched for careful phrasing.

      And it was working. The pretty Widow Whitely tilted her blonde head to one side, giving Merrick a considering look, a coy half-smile on her lips, her eyes dropping to his mouth and then to an unmentionable spot just below his waist.

      Oh. Alixe felt a blush start to rise on Mrs Whitely’s behalf. Had Mrs Whitely really done that? It had happened so quickly, Alixe couldn’t be entirely sure of what she’d seen. Merrick was leaning forwards and smiling, a behaviour that sent an unlooked-for surge of jealously through Alixe. He had smiled at her in a similar manner up at the villa today. Jamie had warned her Merrick liked women. But a warning wasn’t quite as effective as seeing the evidence first-hand.

      Watching him with Widow Whitely was a gentle reminder that these were the tools of his trade. It was also a reminder that he wasn’t hers to command. He was merely her unconventional and secret tutor at the moment. If he wanted to flirt with Mrs Whitely, she had no right to countermand him.

      As if drawn by her thoughts, Merrick looked up from his tête-à-tête with the engaging widow, his eyes discreetly finding hers.

      Five minutes later, he materialised at her side. ‘Did you learn anything, ma chère?’

      Other than that Mrs Whitely might have a fascination with certain parts of yours? That could absolutely not be said out loud. Alixe elected to say nothing. She shook her head.

      ‘I did,’ Merrick continued, his voice low at her ear. ‘We were noticed at the picnic today and again in the drawing room. I’ve been approached by no less than three ladies who have commented on it.’

      ‘In a good way, I hope.’ Alixe could imagine the ways they might have been noticed. She was not used to deliberately drawing attention to herself. ‘The last thing I need before going to London is too much attention.’ She would prefer no one had spied them up at the villa or actually heard what they were laughing over at the picnic.

      Merrick gave one of his easy smiles. ‘There is no such thing as too much attention. Don’t be confusing attention with scandal. They are two different animals entirely. One is good and the other is to be avoided at all costs.’

      Alixe raised an eyebrow in quizzing disbelief. ‘And you’re a prime example of avoiding scandal?’

      ‘Scandal is to be avoided at all costs, if you’re a woman,’ Merrick amended.

      ‘Quite the double standard since it’s pretty hard to fall into scandal without us,’ Alixe said drily.

      ‘Still, there are ways.’ Merrick laughed, then sobered. Alixe followed his narrowing gaze to the arrival of a newcomer to the drawing room. Archibald Redfield entered with Lady Folkestone on his arm, his golden head bent with a smile to catch a comment.

      ‘Your mother seems quite taken with our Mr Redfield.’

      ‘My father, too. They dote on him.’

      ‘Whatever for? He’s a sly sort. Surely they can see that.’

      ‘They only see his manners, his standard-bred good looks. He’s solid, not the sort to stir up trouble. He’s exactly what this sleepy part of England is looking for in a landowner. He took over the old Tailsby Manse last year. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Folkestone for ages. Everyone with a daughter under thirty was thrilled.’

      ‘Do you include your mother in that grouping?’ Merrick’s eyes followed Redfield about the room in a manner reminiscent of a wolf stalking prey.

      ‘Of course.’