Soulless

CHAPTER SIX Driving with Scientists, Dabbling with Earls

Mr. MacDougall arrived promptly at eleven-thirty the next morning to whisk Miss Tarabotti away for a drive. His appearance caused quite a tizzy in the Loontwill household. Alexia was, naturally, expecting the gentleman. She sat awaiting his arrival calmly in the front parlor, wearing a forest green carriage dress with gold filigree buttons down the front, an elegant new broad-brimmed straw hat, and a cagey expression. The family surmised her imminent departure from the hat and gloves, but they had no idea who might be calling to take her out. Aside from Ivy Hisselpenny, Alexia did not entertain callers often, and everyone knew the Hisselpennys owned only one carriage, and it was not of sufficient quality to merit gold filigree buttons. The Loontwills were left to assume that Alexia was awaiting a man. There was little in the world at that moment that any of them could find more surprising. The possible reintroduction of the crinoline would have caused less shock. They had pestered her throughout the morning's activities to reveal the gentleman's name, but to no avail. So the Loontwills had finally settled into waiting with her, agog with curiosity. By the time the long-awaited knock came, they were quite frenzied with anticipation.

Mr. MacDougall smiled shyly at the four ladies who all seemed to have tried to open the front door at the same time. He issued a round of polite salutations to Mrs. Loontwill, Miss Evylin Loontwill, and Miss Felicity Loontwill. Miss Tarabotti introduced them with only minimal grace and an air of embarrassment before grabbing onto his proffered arm in a pointed manner and with an undisguised air of desperation. Without further ado, he helped her down the stairs and into his carriage, and settled on the box next to her. Alexia deployed her trusty brass parasol and tilted it in such a way she would not have to look any more at her family.

He drove a pair of elegant chestnuts: calm and quiet beasts, but well matched for pace and color, and goers even though they lacked a certain spirited fire in the eye. The carriage was equally unassuming, not a high flyer but a tidy little buggy well appointed with all modern conveniences. The chubby scientist handled all three like he owned them, and Alexia reassessed her opinion of him. Everything about the equipage was in tip-top condition, and he had clearly spared no expense, even though he was only visiting England for a short while. The carriage included a crank-operated water-boiling canteen for tea on-the-go, a long-distance monocular optical viewing device for the better appreciation of scenery, and even a small steam engine linked to a complex hydraulic system the purpose of which Alexia could not begin to fathom. Mr. MacDougall was a scientist, certainly, and an American, no doubt, but he also seemed to possess taste and the means by which to inventively display it properly. Miss Tarabotti was suitably impressed. As far as she was concerned, it was one thing to have wealth and quite another to know how to show it off appropriately.

Behind them, Alexia's family huddled in a delighted clucking mass. Thrilled upon seeing that it was, indeed, a man who had come to take the eldest daughter out, they were doubly delighted to find out that he was the respectable young scientist of the evening before. New heights of euphoria had been reached (especially by Squire Loontwill) once it was deduced that he seemed to possess more capital than was to be hoped for in any standard member of the intellectual set (even an American).

“He may actually be a very good catch,” said Evylin to her sister as they stood on the stoop waving Alexia off. “A little portly for my tastes, but she cannot afford to be choosey. Not with her age and appearance.” Evylin tossed one of her golden ringlets carelessly behind her shoulder.

“And we all thought her marriage prospects exhausted.” Felicity shook her head at the wonders of the universe.

“They are suited,” said their mother. “He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.”

“You know what the best of this situation is?” added Felicity, catty to the last. Her father's murmur of “All that money” going either unheard or unacknowledged, she answered her own question. “If they do marry, he will take her all the way back to the Colonies with him.”

“Yes, but we will have to put up with the fact that everyone important will know we have an American in the family,” pointed out Evylin, her eyes narrowing.

“Needs must, my darlings, needs must,” said their mother, ushering them back inside and closing the door firmly behind them. She wondered how little they could get away with spending on Alexia's future wedding and retreated to the study with her husband to consult on the matter.

Of course, Miss Tarabotti's relations were getting well ahead of themselves. Alexia's intentions toward Mr. MacDougall were of an entirely platonic nature. She simply wanted to get out of the house and talk with a person, any person, in possession of an actual working brain, for a change. Mr. MacDougall's intentions might have been less pure, but he was timid enough for Miss Tarabotti to easily ignore any verbal forays in the romantic direction. She did so initially by inquiring after his scientific pursuits.

“How did you get interested in soul measuring?” she asked pleasantly, delighted to be out of doors and disposed to be kind to the facilitator of her freedom.

It was an unexpectedly beautiful day, pleasantly warm with a light and friendly little breeze. Miss Tarabotti's parasol was actually being put to its intended use, for the top was down on Mr. MacDougall's buggy, and she certainly needed no more sun than was strictly necessary. The mere whiff of daylight and her tan deepened to mocha and her mama went into hysterics. With both hat and parasol firmly in place, her mama's nerves were assured complete safety—from that quarter at least.

Mr. MacDougall tsked to his horses, and they assumed a lazy walk. A vulpine-faced sandy-haired gentleman in a long trench coat left his station beneath the lamppost outside the Loontwills' front door and followed at a discreet distance.

Mr. MacDougall looked at his driving companion. She was not one to be considered fashionably pretty, but he liked the strong tilt to her jaw and determined glint in her dark eyes. He had a particular partiality for firm-willed ladies, especially when they came coupled with a jaw that was shapely, eyes that were large and dark, and a handsome figure to boot. He decided she seemed resilient enough for the real reason he wanted to measure souls, and it made for a nicely dramatic story anyway. “It's not bad to admit here, I suppose,” he said to start, “but you should understand, in my country I'd not speak of it.” Mr. MacDougall had a bit of flare for the dramatic well hidden behind the receding hairline and spectacles.

Miss Tarabotti placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “My dear sir, I did not intend to be nosy! You are of a mind to think of my question as officious?”

The gentleman blushed and pushed at his spectacles nervously. “Oh no, of course not! No such thing. It's just that my brother was turned. Vampire you see. My older brother.”

Alexia's response was characteristically British. “Felicitations on a successful metamorphosis. May he make his mark on history.”

The American shook his head sadly. “Here, as your comment implies, it is generally thought a good thing. In this country, I mean to say.”

“Immortality is immortality.” Alexia did not mean to be unsympathetic, but there it was.

“Not when it comes at the price of the soul.”

“Your family keeps the old faith?” Alexia was surprised. Mr. MacDougall, after all, was a scientist. Scientists were generally not given to overly religious backgrounds.

The scientist nodded. “Puritans to the very core. Not a progressive bone among them: so supernatural means 'undead' to them. John survived the bite, but they repudiated and disinherited him anyway. The family gave him three days' grace and then hunted him down like a rabid dog.”

Miss Tarabotti shook her head in sorrow. The narrow-mindedness of it all! She knew her history. The puritans left Queen Elizabeth's England for the New World because the queen sanctioned the supernatural presence in the British Isle. The Colonies had been entirely backward ever since: religious fingers in all their dealings with vampires, werewolves, and ghosts. It made America into a deeply superstitious place. Fates only knew what they'd think of someone like her!

Curious that any man from a conservative family might opt to try for metamorphosis, she asked, “Why on earth did your brother turn in the first place?”

“It was against his will. I think the hive queen did it to prove a point. We MacDougalls have always voted against change—antiprogressive to the last breath and influential in government where it counts most.”

Miss Tarabotti nodded. She had surmised his family's influence from the money he obviously possessed. She touched the fine leather of the buggy seat with one hand. Here was a scientist who needed no patronage. Strange place, that overseas land, where religion and wealth did the talking and history and age held so little sway.

Mr. MacDougall continued. “I think the hive thought that turning the eldest might make us MacDougalls all think differently.”

“Did it?”

“None except me. I loved my older brother, you see? I saw him once after he'd changed. He was still the same person: stronger, paler, night-born, yes, but essentially the same. He probably still would have voted conservative, if they'd let him vote.” He smiled slightly, and then his face fell back to round pudding blandness. “So I switched from banking to biology and have been studying the supernatural ever since.”

Miss Tarabotti shook her head unhappily. Such a sad beginning. She contemplated the sunny day: the lovely green of Hyde Park, the bright hats and dresses of ladies walking arm in arm across the grass, the two plump dirigibles gliding sedately overhead. “BUR would never allow such behavior from any vampire—to bite without permission! Let alone for a hive queen to bite the unwilling with the intent to metamorphose! Such shocking behavior.”

Mr. MacDougall sighed. “Yours is a very different world, my dear Miss Tarabotti. Very different. Mine is a land still at war with itself. The fact that the vampires sided with the Confederates still has not been forgiven.”

Alexia did not wish to insult her new friend, so she refrained from criticizing his government. But what did the Americans expect if they refused to integrate the supernatural set into their society in any way? When they forced vampires and werewolves to hide and skulk about in a shoddy imitation of the European Dark Ages?

“Have you rejected your family's puritanical tenets?” Miss Tarabotti looked inquiringly at her companion. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of tan trench coat. It must be tough on Professor Lyall to be outside in all this sun, especially when full moon was soon due. She felt a moment's pity but was pleased to know that it was he who had relieved the night watch guard. It meant Lord Maccon was still thinking of her. Of course, he was thinking of her as a problem... but that was better than not thinking of her at all, was it not? Alexia touched her lips softly with one hand and then forcibly stopped all ruminations on the mental state of the Earl of Woolsey.

Mr. MacDougall answered her question. “You mean, have I abandoned the belief that supernatural folk have sold their souls to Satan?”

Miss Tarabotti nodded.

“Yes. But not necessarily because of my brother's misfortune. The idea was never scientific enough for me. My parents knew not what they risked, sending me to Oxford. You know, I studied for some time in this country? Several of the dons are vampires. I have come 'round to the Royal Society's way of thinking, that the soul must formulate a quantifiable entity. Some individuals have less of this soul-matter, and some have more. And those who have more can be changed into immortals, and those who have less cannot. Thus it is not lack of soul but overabundance that the puritans feared. And that very concept is heresy in my family.”

Alexia agreed. She kept abreast of the Society's publications. They had yet to find out about preternaturals and the truly soulless. BUR was content to let daylight scientists blunder about without access to that particular knowledge. But Miss Tarabotti felt it was only a matter of time in this enlightened age before her kind were analyzed and dissected.

“You have been devising a way to measure the soul ever since?” She checked about casually for her supernatural shadow. Professor Lyall paced them several yards away, doffing his hat to ladies walking by: an everyday middle-class gentleman apparently unaware of their buggy nearby. But Alexia knew he was watching her the entire time. Professor Lyall knew his duty.

Mr. MacDougall nodded. “Wouldn't you like to know? Especially as a woman? I mean, ladies have a high risk of failing to survive metamorphosis.”

Miss Tarabotti smiled. “I know exactly how much soul I have, thank you, sir. I need no scientist to tell me that. “

Mr. MacDougall laughed, taking her confidence for jest.

A gaggle of dandified young men passed by. All were decked to the height of fashion: three-buttoned swallowtails instead of frock coats, knotted silk cravats, and high collars. Alexia was certain she knew several of them from somewhere, but she did not recognize them well enough to name. These tipped their hats to her. One tallish specimen in blueberry satin breeches slowed to look with inexplicable interest at Mr. MacDougall before being whisked onward by his cohorts. Off to one side, Professor Lyall took note of their antics with interest.

Alexia glanced at her companion. “If you are successful in the measuring of souls, Mr. MacDougall, shouldn't you be worried such knowledge might be misused?”

“By scientists?”

“By scientists, by hives, by packs, by governments. Right now, what keeps the power of the supernatural set in check is their small numbers. If they knew ahead of time who to recruit, they could turn more females and increase their population drastically, and the very fabric of our social world would be rearranged.”

“Yet the fact that they need us to procreate gives us normal folk some small advantage,” he demurred.

It occurred to Miss Tarabotti that hives and packs had probably been working to uncover a way to measure the human soul for hundreds of years. This young man stood little chance of success where generations of advanced supernatural researchers had failed. But she held her tongue. Who was she to destroy a man's dreams?

She pretended interest in a group of swans floating across a pond to one side of the track. In truth, it was Professor Lyall who had caught her attention. Had he stumbled? It looked as though he had, falling against another gentleman and causing that man to drop some sort of metal device.

“So what topic will you address at the Hypocras inauguration?” Miss Tarabotti asked.

Mr. MacDougall coughed. “Well”—he looked embarrassed—”primarily what I have found the soul not to be. My initial research would seem to indicate that it is not an aura of any kind nor a pigmentation of the skin. There are several working theories: some think it may reside in part of the brain; others believe it to be a fluid element in the eyes or perhaps electrical in nature.”

“What do you think?” Alexia was still feigning interest in the swans. Professor Lyall seemed to recover himself. It was hard to tell at this distance, but, under his John Bull hat, his angular face seemed oddly pale.

“From what I know of metamorphosis—and I have never been privileged enough to observe it in action, mind you—I believe the conversion to be the result of a blood-borne pathogen. The same kind of pathogen Dr. Snow has suggested resulted in the recent cholera outbreaks.”

“You oppose the miasmatic hypothesis of disease transfer?”

The scientist inclined his head, delighted to converse with a woman so well educated in modern medical theory.

Miss Tarabotti said, “Dr. Snow suggests cholera transmission occurred through the ingestion of contaminated water. How exactly would you suggest supernatural transmission occurs?”

“That remains a mystery. As does the reason why some respond positively and others do not.”

“A condition that we currently refer to as the presence or absence of excess soul?” suggested Alexia.

“Exactly.” The scientist's eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “Identifying a pathogen will only show us what occurs to drive metamorphosis. It will not tell us why or how. My research until now has focused on hematology, but I am beginning to think I have been pursuing the wrong hypothetical angle.”

“You need to deduce what is different between those who die and those who survive?” Alexia tapped the brass handle of her parasol with her fingertips.

“And what the survivor is like before and after metamorphosis.” Mr. MacDougall drew the horses up so he could turn fully to face Alexia, animated in his enthusiasm. “If the soul has substance, if it is an organ or part of an organ that some possess and others do not—the heart, perhaps, or the lungs—”

Miss Tarabotti was equally enthusiastic; she finished the hypothesis for him. “Then it should be quantifiable!” Her dark eyes sparkled with the very idea of such a thing. Brilliant in concept, but it would require much further study. She understood now why he had not thought his research appropriate dinner conversation the evening before. “You are undertaking a number of cadaverous dissections?” she asked.

Mr. MacDougall nodded, having forgotten her ladylike sensibilities in his excitement. “But I am finding it most difficult to acquire dead werewolves and vampires for comparison. Particularly in the United States.”

Miss Tarabotti shuddered. No need to ask why. Everyone knew the Americans burned to death any accused of being supernatural, leaving little behind for any scientist to study. “You think to procure specimens here and transport them back?”

The scientist nodded. “I hope that it will be considered in the best interest of science to pursue this kind of inquiry.”

“Well,” Alexia said, “your speech at Hypocras should pave the way if it at all approaches the conversation we are having. You have some of the newest and best ideas I have yet heard on the subject. You would have my vote of confidence, were I allowed to be a member of the club.”

The young man grinned at her praise and began to think ever more fondly of Miss Tarabotti, who possessed enough intelligence to not only follow his thoughts, but perceive their worth as well. He tsked his horses into motion once more, guiding them off to one side of the path. “Did I mention how lovely you are looking today, Miss Tarabotti?” He pulled the carriage to a full stop.

Of course, Alexia could hardly point out the many flaws in his theories after such a compliment. So instead she steered their conversation on to more general topics. Mr. MacDougall cranked up the mechanical water boiler and brewed a pot of tea. Alexia used the carriage's monocular distance viewing device while he did so. She tilted the lenses about, commenting on the pleasures of a sunny day and the statuesque grace of distant dirigibles floating above the park. She also trained them briefly on Professor Lyall, who was leaning in the shade of a tree a little way away, only to find he had donned his glassicals and was watching her through them. She hurriedly put the optical magnification device down and turned amiably back to her host and tea.

While she sipped cautiously at the tin mug, surprised to find the offering a delicious Assam, he lit up the small hydraulic engine she had noticed at the back of the carriage. With much creaking and groaning, a massive parasol pulled itself upright and then unfolded to shade the open carriage. Alexia snapped her own small parasol shut, glaring at it with an entirely unwarranted sense of inadequacy. It was a good little parasol and hardly deserving of such a jaundiced look.

They passed a distinctly pleasant additional hour in each other's company, sipping tea and nibbling a box of rosewater and lemon Turkish delight that Mr. MacDougall had invested in for this occasion especially. In no time, it seemed, Mr. MacDougall was lowering the gigantic parasol and driving Miss Tarabotti back home.

The young gentleman helped her down from his carriage at the Loontwills' front steps feeling justifiably pleased with the success of their outing, but Alexia forestalled him when he tried to see her all the way to the door.

“Please do not mistake my refusal for rudeness,” she explained delicately. “But you do not wish to encounter my relations just now. They are not up to your caliber of intellect, I am ashamed to say.” She suspected her mother and sisters were out shopping, but she needed some excuse. The way his eyes looked right now, he might make a declaration, and then where would she be?

The scientist nodded gravely. “I completely understand, my dear Miss Tarabotti. My own relatives are similarly afflicted. May I call again?”

Alexia did not smile. It would not do to be coy when she had no intention of returning his advances. “You may, but not tomorrow, Mr. MacDougall. You will be preparing for your speech.”

“The next day?” He was persistent. “That way I can tell you how the opening celebrations went.”

Very forward, American men. Alexia sighed inwardly but nodded her acquiescence.

Mr. MacDougall assumed the driver's seat, tipped his hat, and urged his chestnut beauties into a sedate withdrawal.

Miss Tarabotti pretended she was remaining on the stoop to wave him off. Once he was out of sight, however, she nipped furtively back down the front steps and round the side of the house.

“You certainly kept a close watch,” she accused the man lurking there.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tarabotti,” he said in a polite if mild voice—milder than usual, even for Professor Lyall, almost weak sounding.

Alexia frowned in concern. She tried to get a good look at his face under the ostentatious hat. “How came you to be on duty today, sir? I would have thought Lord Maccon required your expertise elsewhere.”

The professor looked pale and drawn, normal in a vampire but not in a werewolf. The lines on his face had deepened with strain, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Miss Tarabotti, it is getting on to full moon; his lordship has to be careful who he puts out to guard you come daylight. The young ones are not very stable at this time of the month.”

Alexia sniffed. “I appreciate his concern for my well-being. But I had thought there were others in BUR who might not be so taxed by daylight service. When is the moon?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Miss Tarabotti frowned. “Same time as Mr. MacDougall's speech at the Hypocras Club,” she said softly to herself.

“What?” The professor looked too tired to be interested.

Alexia waved a hand in the air. “Oh, nothing of import. You should go home, Professor, get some rest. You look absolutely awful. He should not work you so hard.”

The Beta smiled. “It is part of my purpose.”

“To exhaust yourself protecting me?”

“To safeguard his interests.”

Miss Tarabotti gave him a horrified look. “I hardly think that an apt description.” Lyall, who'd seen the crested carriage parked just the other side of the Loontwill house, did not reply to that.

There was a pause.

“What did he do?” Alexia asked.

“Who?” replied Professor Lyall, although he knew perfectly well what she was asking about.

“The man you pretended to stumble into.”

“Mmm.” The werewolf was cagey. “It was more what he had.”

Miss Tarabotti tilted her head and looked inquiring.

“I wish you a pleasant evening, Miss Tarabotti,” said Professor Lyall.

Alexia gave him an exasperated look, then marched back up the front stairs and inside her house.

The family was clearly out, but Floote was waiting for her in the foyer with a most un-Floote-like expression of perturbation on his face. The door to the front parlor was open, a certain sign of visitors. Alexia was shocked. The Loontwills could not possibly have been expecting company, otherwise they would never have left the premises.

“Who is here, Floote?” she asked, fumbling with her hatpin.

The butler raised both eyebrows at her.

Alexia swallowed, suddenly nervous. She removed her hat and gloves and put them carefully on the hall table.

She took a moment to compose herself, checking her hair in the framed gilt hallway mirror. The dark mass was arranged a tad long for daytime, but she had a bite mark to cover up, and it was too hot for high necklines. She twitched several curls into place to better cover her bruise. Her own face looked back at her: firm chin, dark eyes, militant expression. Alexia touched her nose. Mr. Mac-Dougall thinks you are lovely, she told her reflection.

Then she set her spine as straight as possible and marched into the front parlor.

Lord Conall Maccon whirled about from where he stood. He had been facing the closed velvet curtains of the front window, staring at them as though he might be able to see right through the heavy material. In the dim light of the room, his eyes looked accusatory.

Miss Tarabotti paused on the threshold. Without a word, she turned back around, reached out, and slammed the parlor door shut firmly behind her.

Floote gave the closed door a long, hard look.

Outside in the street, Professor Lyall set his bone-weary self toward the BUR offices—just a few more records to check before bed. With one free hand, he patted a new bulge in his many-pocketed waistcoat. Why, he wondered, was a man with a syringe wandering Hyde Park? He turned back once to look at the Loontwills' house. A sudden smile creased his angular face as he noted the Woolsey Castle carriage waiting nearby. Its crest shone in the late afternoon sun: a quartered shield, two parts a moon-backed castle, two parts a moonless starry night. He wondered if his lord and master would, in fact, grovel.

The Earl of Woolsey wore a suit of dark chocolate, a cravat of caramel silk, and an air of ill-disguised impatience. He had been holding his kid gloves in one hand and slapping them rhythmically into the other when Miss Tarabotti entered the front parlor. He stopped instantly, but she had noted the fidget.

“What bee has gotten into your britches?” Miss Tarabotti asked without any attempt at a formal greeting. Formality was wasted on Lord Maccon. She took up position, arms akimbo, standing on the round primrose rug before him.

The earl countered with a gruff “And where have you been all day?”

Miss Tarabotti was disposed to be elusive. “Out.”

The earl would have none of it. “Out with whom?”

Alexia raised both eyebrows. He would find out from Professor Lyall eventually, so she said archly, “A nice young scientist.”

“Not that butterball chap you were nattering away with at dinner last night?” Lord Maccon looked at her in horror.

Miss Tarabotti glared viciously down her nose at him. Inside she was secretly delighted. He had noticed! “It just so happens that Mr. MacDougall has some absolutely fascinating theories on a wide range of topics, and he is interested in my opinion. Which is more than I can say for certain other gentlemen of my acquaintance. It was a beautiful day and a lovely drive, and he makes for quite an enjoyable conversation partner. A position, I am certain, 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 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.

The earl swore and closed his eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

Tentatively, Alexia squirmed again.

Lord Maccon groaned and leaned his head against her collarbone, clamping both hands about her hips to still the movement.

Alexia was scientifically intrigued. Had he gotten even larger down there? What was the maximum possible expansion ratio? she wondered. She grinned a tad maliciously. It had not occurred to her that she might have some sort of influence over the encounter. She decided then and there that, being a confirmed spinster and averse to allowing Mr. MacDougall his druthers, this might be her only chance to test some long-held and rather interesting theories.

“Lord Maccon,” she whispered, squirming again despite his firm grip.

He snorted and said in a strangled voice, “I suspect you could get away with calling me by my given name at this juncture.”

“Um?” said Alexia.

“Um, Conall,” prompted Lord Maccon.

“Conall,” she said, relinquishing the last hold on her scruples—once the egg was broken, might as well make an omelet with it. Then she got distracted by the feel of his back muscles under her hands. Hands that had run afoul of his coat and unceremoniously managed to strip it off him without her knowledge.

“Aye, Alexia?” He looked up at her. Was that fear in his caramel eyes?

“I am going to take advantage of you,” she said, and without giving him a chance to reply, she began untying his cravat.