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“People actually thinking, with their brains, and right next door. Oh, the travesty of it all.”
Had been a spinster for as long as she could remember. In her more acerbic moments, she felt she had been born a spinster.
Relatable…
Drones were vampire companions, servants, and caretakers who were paid with the possibility of eventually becoming immortal themselves. But vampires rarely chose drones from among those who occupied the limelight. They preferred a more behind-the-scenes approach to soul hunting: recruiting painters, poets, sculptors, and the like. The flashier side of creativity was universally acknowledged werewolf territory, who chose thespians, opera singers, and ballet dancers to become clavigers. Of course, both supernatural sets preferred the artistic element in a companion, for there was always a better
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“My darling, darling Alexia.”
“Darling!”
Darling.”
my little sugarplum,
my dearest girl,
my dear.”
petal,
princess.”
“Sweetling,”
my pearl.
“My dearest young friend.
my dearest petunia blossom?”
my dear,
my dear daffodil,
sweetheart,
“My dearest girl,
sweetest of Alexias,
darling,”
“My dove,
sweetheart,
Lord Maccon scrubbed his face with his hand, reached desperately for a nearby teapot, and drained it through the spout.
Miss Tarabotti was torn between being crushed that he did not care one fig for her safety and pleased that he trusted in her competence.
But for all his sham annoyance at her presence, the earl was secretly pleased to have someone with whom to talk out his theories.
Lord Maccon’s pack numbered eleven in all, and the Westminster hive was slightly smaller—both were considered impressively large.
He could not stand Alexia Tarabotti, even if her lovely brown eyes twinkled when she laughed, and she smelled good, and she had a particularly splendid figure.
Lyall nodded. Clapping his borrowed top hat to his head, he turned to leave.
What happens if they run out of clothes in the coat rooms? Do they return what they borrow or does it just end up in the next coat room? Also how does Lord Maccon ever find anything that fits him?
He sneered at her, tall and distressingly gorgeous. Alexia found she much preferred Lord Maccon’s brand of largeness: gruff and a little scruffy round the edges.
Alexia suspected Lord Maccon’s handling was a tad more than was strictly called for under the circumstances, but she secretly enjoyed the sensation. After all, how often did a spinster of her shelf life get manhandled by an earl of Lord Maccon’s peerage? She had better take advantage of the situation.
Lord Maccon had the good grace to look sheepish—if a werewolf can be said to look sheepish.
“You should go home and stay inside and never go out again.” He sounded so serious Alexia laughed.
Lord Maccon let go of her arm, stopped, turned, and, to her complete surprise, kissed her full on the lips.
From his enthusiasm, Miss Tarabotti felt he might be trying to make up for her previous deficit in the arena of kissing. He was doing a bang-up job of it.
Her heart was doing crazy things, and she still could not locate her kneecaps. She took a deep breath and put some serious attention into tracking them down.
Alexia decided, then and there, that Lord Conall Maccon clearly had only two modes of operation: annoyed and aroused.
I assure you, no one is better used to rejection than I, my lord.
“Your age is not an issue. What does it matter to me how old or how much a spinster you may be? Do you have any idea how old I am, and how long a bachelor?”
Cats were not, in her experience, an animal with much soul. Prosaic, practical little creatures as a general rule. It would suit her very well to be thought catlike.
I do not want to die, thought Alexia. I have not yet yelled at Lord Maccon for his most recent crass behavior!
“Ah,” said the earl, raising one hand as though to ward off her smile. “None of that, Miss Tarabotti. Business first.”
Miss Tarabotti’s breath caught. Until that moment, she had not actually thought of the earl as pretty. But when he smiled. Oh dear, it was most inconvenient to deal with.
Whatever it was, it made him angry, for it would desperately complicate everything in his well-ordered life, and now was not the time to tackle it.
How many Alphas, Lord Maccon wondered, had Professor Lyall watched fall in love?
“Very well, Lord Maccon. If we are going to play this particular hand, would you be interested in becoming my…” Miss Tarabotti scrabbled for the right word. What does one properly call a male lover? She shrugged and grinned. “Mistress?” “What did you say?” roared Lord Maccon, outraged.
Lord Maccon glanced about at Alexia’s family. No wonder she devalued herself, growing up in this kind of environment.
He carefully did not mention her figure, or her smell, or the silkiness of her hair, or any of the other things he found so alluring.
This whole marriage thing was his idea, curse it. No matter that it had only just occurred to him.
I need someone strong, who will back me up, at least most of the time, and who possesses the necessary gumption to stand up to me when she thinks I am wrong.”
