you are entirely unfamiliar with.”
Lord Maccon looked suddenly very suspicious. His eyes narrowed, and their color lightened to the same caramel hue as his cravat. “What have you been telling him, Miss Tarabotti? Anything I should know?”
He was asking in his BUR tone of voice.
Miss Tarabotti looked around, expecting at any moment to see Professor Lyall emerge with a notepad or a metal plate and stylus. She sighed with resignation. Clearly, the earl had come to visit her only in his official capacity. Foolish of her to hope, she chided herself mentally. Then she wondered what exactly she was hoping for. An apology? From Lord Maccon! Ha. She sat down on a small wicker chair to one side of the sofa, careful to keep a proper distance between them. “What is interesting is more what he has been telling me,” she said. “He thinks being supernatural is some kind of disease.”
Lord Maccon, who was a werewolf and “cursed,” had heard that description before. He crossed his arms and loomed at her.
“Oh, for goodness' sake,” tsked Miss Tarabotti, “do sit down.”
Lord Maccon sat.
Miss Tarabotti continued. “Mr. MacDougall... that is his name, you know? Mr. MacDougall. Anyhow, Mr. MacDougall believes that the supernatural state is brought about by a blood-borne pathogen that affects some humans but not others, because some possess a certain physical trait and others do not. Presumably under this theory, men are more likely to possess said trait, and that is why they survive metamorphoses more frequently than women.”
Lord Maccon relaxed back, the tiny couch creaking under his weight. He snorted his contempt of the idea.
“There is, of course, one chief problem with his conjectures,” Alexia went on, ignoring the snort.
“You.”
“Mmmm.” She nodded. There was no room in Mr. MacDougall's theory for those who had no soul at all and canceled out those who had too much. What would Mr. MacDougall make of a preternatural? Assume she was a kind of proximity antidote to the supernatural disease? “Still it is an elegant theory with what little knowledge he has to go on.” She did not have to say that she respected the young man who had thought of it. Lord Maccon could see that in her face.
“So wish him joy of his delusions, and leave it be,” the earl said grimly. His canines were beginning to show, and the color of his eyes had gone further toward the yellow end of brown.
Miss Tarabotti shrugged. “He shows interest. He is smart. He is wealthy and well connected, or so I understand.” He thinks I am lovely. She did not say that out loud. “Who am I to complain at his attentions, or discourage them for that matter?”
Lord Maccon had cause to regret the words he had uttered to Professor Lyall the night Alexia killed the vampire. Apparently she was thinking of getting married. And she seemed to have found someone to marry her, despite being half Italian. “He will take you back to America, and you a preternatural. If he is as smart as you imply, he would figure that little fact out eventually.”
Miss Tarabotti laughed. “Oh, I am not thinking of marrying him, my lord. Nothing so rash. But I enjoy his company; it relieves the monotony of the day, and it keeps the family off the offensive.”
Lord Maccon felt a rush of palpable relief at this blithe assurance and was annoyed with himself for it. Why should he care so much? His canines retracted slightly. Then he realized she had specified marry and that in his experience, she was rather modern in her sensibilities for a spinster. “You are considering something else non- marriage with him, perhaps?” His voice was practically a growl.
“Oh, for pity's sake. Would it bother you if I were?”
Lord Maccon actually sputtered slightly at that.
Alexia suddenly realized what she was doing. She was sitting, having a polite conversation with Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey—whom she did not like and with whom she was supposed to be extremely annoyed— about her romantic involvement (or lack thereof). It was just that his presence caused her to become overall addlepated.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Wait a moment. Why am I speaking with you at all? My lord, your behavior last night!” She stood and began to swish about the cluttered little room, her eyes sparking fiercely. She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You are not simply a werewolf; you, my lord, are a rake. That is what you are! You took advantage the other night, Lord Maccon. Admit it! I have no idea why you felt it necessary to do”— she paused, embarrassed—“what you did, the evening of my near abduction. But you have clearly since thought better of it. Why, if you were not interested in me as anything more than a”—she stumbled, trying to find the right terminology—“momentary plaything, you might at least have just told me outright afterward.” She crossed her arms and sneered at him. “Why didn't you? You think I was not strong enough to take it without causing a scene? I assure you, no one is better used to rejection than I, my lord. I think it very churlish of you not to inform me to my face that your breach in manners was an unfortunate impulse of the moment. I deserve some respect. We have known each other long enough for that at the very least.” At that, her steam began to run out, and she felt a heat behind her eyes she refused to believe might be tears.
Now Lord Maccon was getting angry but for different reasons. “So you've figured it all out, have you? And why, pray tell, would I suddenly be thinking better of my... what did you call it? Unfortunate impulse of the moment?” He sounded particularly Scottish. Alexia would have been amused by the fact that the more angry the earl got, the more burr crept into his speech. But she was too angry to notice. All tears had retracted at that.
She stopped pacing and cast her hands heavenward. “I have no earthly idea. You started it. You ended it. You treated me like a distant and not-very-well-liked acquaintance all last evening. Then you turn up in my front parlor today. You tell me what you were thinking yesterday at dinner. As sure as I am standing here, I have no clue as to what you are about, Lord Maccon. That is the honest truth of it.”
The earl opened his mouth and then closed it again. Truth be told, he did not know what he was doing there either, so he could not very well explain. Grovel, Lyall had said. He had no idea how to do such a thing. Alphas simply did not grovel; arrogance was part of the job description. Lord Maccon might only recently have won leadership of the Woolsey Castle pack, but he had always been an Alpha.
Miss Tarabotti could not help herself. It was rare that anyone left the Earl of Woolsey at a loss for words. She felt both triumphant and confused. She had tossed and turned most of the night over his disdainful treatment. She had even thought to call on Ivy to ask her opinion of his conduct. Ivy of all people! She must be desperate. Yet here before her sat the object of her perturbation, apparently at her verbal mercy.
So, of course, being Alexia Tarabotti, she cut straight to the heart of the matter. She looked down at the primrose rug, because, brave as she was, she could not quite face his yellow eyes. “I am not very”—she paused, thinking of the scandalous pictures in her father's books—“experienced. If I did something wrong, you know”—she waggled a hand in the air, even more embarrassed now but bound and determined to get it over with—“with the kissing, you must excuse my ignorance. I...”
Alexia trailed off, for Lord Maccon had stood up from the tiny couch, which creaked at the loss, and advanced purposefully toward her. He certainly was good at looming. Alexia was not used to feeling so small.
“That,” the earl muttered gruffly, “was not the reason.”
“Perhaps,” Miss Tarabotti offered, hands up before her in a defensive position, “you thought better of it because you realized how ignoble it would be: the Earl of Woolsey and a twenty-six-year-old spinster?”
“Is that your real age?” he murmured, seemingly uninterested and still coming toward her. He moved in a hungry, stalking way, and under the brown of his expertly cut jacket, solid muscle shifted, all coiled energy directed at her.
Miss Tarabotti backed away and came up short against a large wingback armchair. “My father was an Italian; did you remember that all of a sudden?”
Lord Maccon moved closer, slowly, ready to pounce if she decided to bolt. His eyes were almost completely yellow now, with a ring of orange about the edge. Alexia had never noticed before how black and thick his eyelashes were.
He said, “And I hail from Scotland. Which origin is worse in the eyes of London society, do you think?”
Alexia touched her nose and considered the dark tenor of her skin. “I have... other... flaws. Perhaps time spent thinking over the matter made these more apparent?”
Lord Maccon reached forward and gently pulled her hand away from her face. Carefully he brought it down
