toward her other hand and then trapped both together in one big paw.
Miss Tarabotti blinked at him from a scarce few inches away. She hardly dared breathe, not quite certain if he was actually going to eat her or not. She tried to look away, but it was nigh impossible. His eyes had turned back to tawny brown as soon as he touched her—his human eyes. But instead of being a relief, this color was more frightening because no threat masked the hunger there.
“Uh, my lord, I am not actually food. You do realize this, yes?”
Lord Maccon bent forward.
Alexia watched him until she went almost cross-eyed. This close, she could smell open fields and dark cold nights all about him.
Oh no, she thought, it is happening again.
Lord Maccon kissed the very tip of her nose. Nothing more.
Startled, she shied back, then opened her generous mouth, a bit like a fish. “Wha?”
He drew her back in toward him.
His voice was low and warm against her cheek. “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?” He kissed her temple. “And I love Italy. Beautiful countryside, fabulous food.” He kissed her other temple. “And I find perfect beauty excessively boring, don't you?” He kissed her nose again.
Alexia could not help herself; she drew back and gave him the once-over. “Clearly.”
He winced. “Touche.”
Alexia was not one to let the matter drop. “Then why?”
Lord Maccon groveled. “Because I am a foolish old wolf who has been too long in the company of the pack and too little in the company of the rest of the world.”
It was not an explanation, but Alexia decided she would have to settle for it. “That was an apology, was it?” she asked, just to make perfectly certain.
It seemed to have taken almost everything out of him. Instead of answering her in the affirmative, he stroked her face with his free hand, as though she were an animal that needed soothing. Alexia wondered what he thought of her as—a cat perhaps? 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.
“Full moon,” said Lord Maccon, as though this were some kind of clarification, “is just round the corner.” A pause. “You understand?”
Miss Tarabotti had no idea what he was on about. “Uh...”
His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed. “Not much control.”
Miss Tarabotti widened her dark brown eyes and batted her eyelashes to try and hide her perplexed expression. It was an Ivy maneuver.
Then he did kiss her properly and fully. Which was not exactly what she had intended by applying eyelash flapping, but she was not about to complain at the consequences. Ivy might be onto something.
As before, he started slowly, lulling her with soft drugging kisses. His mouth was unexpectedly cool. He ran a path of little fluttering nibbles over her lower lip and then applied the same treatment to her upper one. It was delightful but maddening. The tongue phenomenon occurred once again. This time, Alexia did not find it quite so startling. In fact, she thought she might even like it. But, like caviar, she suspected she'd have to try it more than once to be confident in her enjoyment. Lord Maccon seemed willing to oblige. He also appeared to be staying quite maddeningly calm and cool. Alexia was beginning to find the cluttered front parlor overly oppressive. This polarity annoyed her.
Lord Maccon stopped nibbling and went back to long soft kisses. Alexia, never one for patience, was now finding them entirely unsatisfying. A whole new source of annoyance. Clearly, she would have to take matters into her own hands—or tongue, as the case may be. Experimentally, she darted her tongue against his lips. That got a whole new agreeable reaction out of the man. He deepened the kiss, almost roughly, angling his mouth over hers.
Lord Maccon shifted, drawing her closer. He let go of her hands and curved one of his up into her hair, tangling his fingers in the heavy curls. Alexia was certain, with a tiny modicum of offended sensibility, that he was probably mussing it up most dreadfully. He was using the maneuver to direct the angle of her head in harmony with his wishes. As his wishes appeared to prescribe further kissing, Alexia decided to let him have his way.
He began running his other hand up and down her back in long strokes. Definitely a cat, thought Alexia groggily. Her mind was becoming hazy. Those bizarre, sunshiny tingles that proximity to Lord Maccon seemed inevitably to produce were coursing through her body with alarming intensity.
The earl turned them both about where they stood. Alexia was not certain why, but she was inclined to cooperate so long as he did not stop kissing her. He did not. He arranged it so that he could sink slowly down onto the wingback armchair, taking her with him.
It was a most indelicate thing, but there Miss Alexia Tarabotti inexplicably found herself, bustle hiked up and all her layers of skirts askew, sitting in Lord Maccon's well-tailored lap.
He moved away from her lips, which was disappointing, but then began nibbling her neck, which was gratifying. He lifted one dark curl away from where the carefully arranged locks fell over one shoulder. He ran the strand between his fingertips and then pushed the silken mass aside.
Alexia tensed in anticipation, holding her breath.
Suddenly he stopped and jerked back. The wingback chair, already taxed by two occupants—neither of whom could be described as flimsy in physique—swayed alarmingly. “What the hell is that?” yelled Lord Maccon.
He had turned to anger so swiftly; Alexia could only stare at him, speechless.
She let out her pent-up breath in a whoosh. Her heart was beating a marathon somewhere in the region of her throat, her skin felt hot and stretched taut over her bones, and she was damp in places she was tolerably certain unmarried gentlewomen were not supposed to be damp in.
Lord Maccon was glaring at her coffee-colored skin, discolored between the neck and shoulder region by an ugly purple mark, the size and shape of a man's teeth.
Alexia blinked, and her brown eyes cleared of their dazed expression. A small crease of perturbation appeared between her brows.
“That is a bite mark, my lord,” she said, pleased her voice was not shaking, though it was a little deeper than usual.
Lord Maccon was ever more enraged. “Who bit you?” he roared.
Alexia tilted her head to one side in utter amazement. “You did.” She was then treated to the glorious spectacle of an Alpha werewolf looking downright hangdog.
“I did?”
She raised both eyebrows at him.
“I did.”
She nodded, firmly, once.
Lord Maccon ran a distracted hand through his already messy hair. The dark brown strands stood up in small tufts. “Dog's bollocks,” he said. “I am worse than a pup in his first season. I am sorry, Alexia. It is the moon and the lack of sleep.”
Alexia nodded, wondering if she should point out that he had forgotten proper etiquette and used her first name. However, that seemed a little silly given their recent activities. “Yes, I see. Uh. What is?”
“This control.”
She figured at some stage in the proceedings she might understand what was going on, but now did not seem to be that time. “What control?”
“Exactly!”
Miss Tarabotti narrowed her eyes and then said something very daring. “You could kiss the bruise and make it better.” Well, perhaps not quite so daring for someone who was settled as intimately as she on Lord Maccon's lap. After all, she had read enough of her papa's books to know exactly what it was that pressed hard and flush against her nether regions.
Lord Maccon shook his head. “I do not think that is a very good idea.”
“You do not?” Embarrassed by her own forwardness, Alexia squirmed against him, trying to extricate herself.
