Free Too Wicked to Wed by Cara Elliott Page B

of an order than a request.
    “I would be delighted.” She had recovered enough from her odd little lurch in composure to respond with an equal measure of sardonic formality.
    A flash of teeth. Which she doubted was meant to be taken as a smile.
    Still, the subtle heat of his body and the light pressure of his gloved hands drawing her close were oddly reassuring. A certain harmony seemed to flow between them, allowing her to follow his lead without thinking, though she usually felt awkward and unsure on the dance floor.
    But as the first figures of the waltz drew them far enough from the other couples to ensure some privacy, the earl wasted no time in dispelling such a fantasy. Dropping any pretense of pleasantries, he said curtly, “Enough foolishness, Lady Alexa. You have had your fun with Haddan, but don’t think you can make me jump through hoops like some trained lapdog. You have something that belongs to me. I expect it returned—at once.”
    So much for striking a chord of camaraderie.
    Stung by the condescension in his tone, she felt all her well-rehearsed reasonings skitter away. “You must be mistaken, sir. I have nothing in my possession that is not rightfully mine.”
    His eyes daggered to quicksilver points of anger. “Don’t play games with me, Lady Alexa.”
    “Why not? I seem to be better at them than most gentlemen—including Lord Haddan.” The retort slipped out before she could stop it. The conversation was taking an entirely different turn than she had intended.
    “I am warning you…” The approach of another couple forced him to bite off his words.
    Alexa’s gaze dropped to folds of his neckcloth. As usual, she had allowed her bluntness to get the better of her. Instead of appearing polished and poised, she had only managed to goad the earl into a real temper.
    She drew in a breath, which proved yet another mistake. Overpowering the subtle scent of bay rum and shaving soap was the essence of aroused pride and raw masculinity. The pulsing of anger was visible at his throat, and beneath her gloved fingers, the rippling of taut muscle hinted at an inner beast that might be unleashed at any moment.
    Dangerous. She didn’t need his growled warning to tell her of that. Yet his aura of untamed, unpredictable passions was not frightening. Quite the opposite. The Irish Wolfhound was the most intriguing, interesting man she had ever met.
    “You may have bested a bunch of brandylogged nodcocks, but if you think you are any match for me, you will find yourself in for a very rude awakening,” continued the earl, once he was sure they could no longer be overheard.
    Ruder than your manner at this moment? She rather doubted that was possible.
    Quickening his steps, he spun her through a series of intricate figures that seemed designed to show off the ease with which he assumed control. “Perhaps I did not make it clear that I am not expecting you to walk away empty-handed. I mean to pay you the fair value for the note, as well as an extra premium for Haddan’s carelessness.”
    “I am not interested in your money, Lord Killingworth.”
    He looked somewhat surprised. “What, precisely, are you interested in?
    You. The truth nearly tripped right then and there from her tongue. Another lush kiss. The grip of desire upon my naked flesh. All the things that seemed unlikely to come her way again. Would he think her mad if she dared voice such desires aloud?
    Or merely pathetic.
    “I cannot quite picture you playing an active role in The Wolf’s Lair,” he added tightly.
    “Why?” she blurted out.
    There was a fraction of a pause before the earl answered. “I don’t think you possess the attributes necessary for the job.”
    “How would you know, without giving me a chance to prove my worth?” she demanded hotly. “I have a number of skills that would prove very useful.”
    She was, of course, thinking purely in terms of the practical skills needed to run a business. But clearly the earl assumed