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 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.