Free Wicked Becomes You by Meredith Duran Page A

the street! That map of the world against the left wall, full of so many empty spaces—she would travel to those spaces and document them!
    Why not? Her giddiness showed no signs of abating. Perhaps this attitude was not a temporary impulse but a true expression of her nature, long trammeled by tight lacing and endless worrying and abstention from all the many delicious foods that Elma had warned her would make her fat.
    Alex walked into the room, sparing her one of those cool head-to-toe looks that, only a day ago, would have made her feel summarized and dismissed as tediously conventional. She slammed the door shut. “I think we should ring for scones,” she said. “And a great boatload of cream! A decadent high tea in the library! What do you say?”
    He put his hands into his pockets and tilted his head. Mildly he said, “Perhaps you need something stronger. A dose of laudanum, say.”
    “Or brandy!” she exclaimed. “Yes, what a brilliant idea! Why not?”
    He hesitated briefly. “Order whatever you like,” he said. “I won’t be distracted from the letter, but I am willing to wait.”
    Ah, this was more the tone she was accustomed to hearing from him: amused and a touch condescending. In such tones did Lady Milton explain to orphans that it was more important for food to be nourishing than appetizing.
    “Oh, I would never wish to inconvenience you,” she said sweetly. “So many countries to visit, so much profit to be made! Very important business; I’ll gladly forgo my brandy for it. Now open the letter, quick as you please.”
    His blue eyes widened as he placed his hand to his heart. “Sarcasm, Miss Maudsley?”
    She held her smile by sheer dint of will. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
    He shook his head and turned away. She followed him across the carpet, taking a seat near the window as he shook out the letter and propped his shoulder against the sash.
    His lounging attitude made her cognizant of her own, sadly proper posture. She tried a slump of her shoulders, but her corset would not allow it.
    As he began to read, the light of the setting sun illuminated his face in detail. She kept her eyes on him; she did not want to miss a single nuance of his reaction. He was, after all, the expert at rude behavior—a fact that, all of a sudden, made him very interesting. Educational, even. Did he, too, experience this lovely sense of freedom from flouting convention?
    His expression remained disappointingly impassive as he read. She recalled her thoughts of him this morning, in the church. He was handsomer than Mr. Cust, she decided. Even if one preferred blonds, Mr. Cust was merely . . . pretty. But Alex’s face was all angles, as though some mad sculptor had hacked him in a few strokes from a block of wood. His jaw was sharp, his chin squared off, his nose high-bridged but perfectly straight, save the slight thickening in the middle. The last bit didn’t look quite so well on Belinda and Caroline, but since it counterbalanced the way his face winnowed beneath his cheekbones, it made Alex deadly.
    His mouth curved. “This is quite . . .”
    “Oh!” She sat forward. “Which line?”
    He shook his head.
    “No, really, you must tell me!”
    He made a shooing gesture, as if she were some bothersome six-year-old.
    She sat back again, irritated. How useful for him that he happened to be handsome. After all, a rake without looks would require charm, and Alex had none whatsoever.
    Rake . She turned the word over in her mind, curious. His reputation had always seemed to her a sort of dreadful affliction, as unnerving as terminal illness or disfigurement, albeit far more distasteful because he had chosen to acquire it. Bel agreed, of course, but Caroline defended him. She said the women with whom he consorted had no interest in marriage. Artists, actresses, and suffragettes , Caro had told her over tea one day. Radicals . And then, in a whisper: Do you know, I think I would prefer it if he seduced the