The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

and shuffling papers. She pretended to read and scribble some illegible notes in the margins and waited.

      ‘You do realise you’re in an enviable position to combine business with pleasure. You should make the most of it,’ Merrick said casually at last, not bothering to look away from his papers.

      ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that,’ Alixe replied with the aloofness that had staved off most of male London.

      It didn’t freeze Merrick in the least. If anything, it had the opposite effect, encouraging him to indecently honest conversation.

      ‘Most young women would like to be in your position, privy to the secrets I can teach you.’ He leaned back again in his chair, his feet hooked about the front legs. ‘Perhaps your father has accidentally started a new fad: coaching one’s daughter in the ways of Eve.’

      Alixe slammed down her notebook. She was angry at herself for having proved so gullible as to allow herself to be seduced. She was angry at her father for forcing her into this situation and most of all she was angry at Merrick, who refused to be anything but outrageous. ‘My father may have blackmailed you into this, but he did not expect you to take such liberties. You were only assigned to raise interest in me. I dare say that can be done without the “lessons” you’ve apparently designed for my edification.’

      Merrick was thoughtful for a moment. ‘All right. No more lessons unless you ask for them. However, I do need to raise interest in you and you must allow me to do my duty—’

      ‘Without kissing, without excessive touching beyond what is expected in polite society,’ Alixe interrupted.

      ‘Agreed,’ Merrick said without hesitation.

      ‘Agreed,’ Alixe answered with equal swiftness. But deep down, her confidence faltered. She’d got her terms. There’d be no more moments like the one at the villa, like the one in front of the window. But she was going to pay—she just couldn’t determine how.

      Or when.