Wicked lessons with the coutesan

Ever so grateful

*Seraphine*

“Sometimes battling it out with a storm is the better choice.” It looks as though he is going to make another point about my dunderheadedness, but I cut him off before he can form a word. “I appreciate the rescue, Beta Langdon, but I’m certain I’ve been enough of a bother. Perhaps you’d be good enough to direct me to the village where I might be able to secure a room in a tavern until the storm passes.”

“There is no village. No tavern.” He spreads his arms wide. “This is the only dwelling on this small stretch of rock, so until the storm passes, ma’am, I am afraid you are quite trapped here.”

He doesn’t say ’with me’, but then he doesn’t have to. I blink three times, studying him intently, striving to determine if he is having a laugh at my expense or outright lying in an attempt to keep me within easy reach. He wouldn’t be the first man to do so, although he had been the first to indicate he has no interest in me whatsoever. The cur. It came as a blow to my pride. Utter nonsense. The man obviously has questionable taste when it comes to she-wolves. Or perhaps he objects to fallen she-wolves being out in public instead of hidden away.

Obviously, someone has removed my clothing, which is presently draped over a short screen and drying near the fire. As no she-wolf is in the room, serving as chaperone and seeing to my needs, I do hope it hasn’t been him, hating that a tiny part of me is hoping that it has been him. Teach him to reject me, would I? Goddess, pride is an awful thing, responsible for my current predicament. However, if he has done the honors of stripping me bare and means me ill, he probably wouldn’t have taken such care with my camisole and drawers.

He must have noted where I am looking because he asks, “You always travel in the sky in only your underclothes.”

I am so tempted to reply in the affirmative, to fuel whatever fantasies he might harbor about she-wolves in balloons, but I don’t want to add to his less than favorable opinion of me. “When I realized I was in a spot of bother, I began shedding what I could because I knew if I did indeed land in the water, the weight of the drenched clothing would drag me under. I don’t suppose you noticed if anything made it to shore.”

“My attention was on you.” He doesn’t seem comfortable admitting that, as if he finds fault with himself for focusing on me.

“Don’t fret. I shan’t send word to the Illustrated News announcing your devotion to me.”

He grimaces, after which his eyes narrow, and I wonder if he is considering tossing me back out into the storm. I don’t know why I am striving to taunt him.

While we’ve had few interactions, I know his reputation. The High packs views him as trustworthy and, according to gossip rags, mamas are always shoving their daughters in front of him. Debutantes no doubt swoon if he gives them so much as a passing glance. Not that I blame them. He is truly too deduced gorgeous.

Especially as he stands there in a shirt he has yet to button or tuck. Such a lovely and wide V of smooth skin is visible. Around his neck he wears a pewter chain. Attached to it and dangling a few inches below his throat is a pewter disk I can’t quite make out. I’ve never seen a man wearing a necklace. Somehow it makes him look all the more masculine, makes me want to get up, cross over to him, and slide my fingers between the pewter and his skin. I am convinced both would be equally warm.

Needing a distraction from those disturbing thoughts, I glance about at my surroundings. Nearby is an incredibly large bed that must have been custom-made. A wardrobe across from it. A cupboard. A washbowl on a stand. A small square mirror hanging above it. The settee upon which I recline. Beside it, a narrow table that sports several remnants from glasses, the contents of which have, on multiple occasions, spilled over and dried into messy rings. Something a servant wouldn’t be allowed to let stand, which leaves me with suspicions regarding his staff. That perhaps it is minimal at best, nonexistent at worst. Scattered throughout the room, hither and yon, are stacks of books, many of them appearing ready to topple over at any minute. I clear my throat. “Am I to assume then that this is the guest bedchamber?”

“The only bedchamber.”

His, then. Where he sleeps. In that massive bed. Which I’d suspected, considering I’d watched him draw on his trousers and shirt.

“And staff?”

“You’re looking at him.”

I nearly laugh. No respectable Beta would refer to himself as staff. Perhaps he is more disreputable than I… or the gossips… have been led to believe. “No spare servants’ quarters languishing about in case they might be needed?” He levels a stare at me. I nod, with the understanding that my options for escaping him are becoming quite limited. “Am I to assume, then, that you had no assistance in getting me out of my clothing?”

In spite of the distance separating us, I could swear he is blushing. “You were like ice, trembling. I dared not leave you in it. Are you still cold?”

I can’t quite stop quaking, tiny little tremors, but irritating all the same. Perhaps the frigid sea has worked its way into my very core, and I’ll never know warmth again. I draw the blanket more closely around me. “The fire’s helping. Pity you don’t have servants. I think a bath would do me wonders.”

“Then a bath you shall have.” Abruptly, he heads for the door.

“Wait! No.”

He stops and turns back toward me.

I shake my head. “I’ve inconvenienced you enough already.”

“I’ll be more inconvenienced if you die.”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “The gossips whisper you’re a silver-tongued devil, able to charm even the most cantankerous of she-wolves. I’m teetering on the edge of swooning at your concern for my health.”

One corner of his mouth eases up and the motion does strange things to my stomach, causes it to tighten and tumble. The same way it had felt just before my balloon began hurtling toward the sea. It would be best not to tease him, not to give any aspect of my person a reason to be more aware of him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans against the doorjamb. “I once saw two young girls fanning you while you were spread over a chaise longue.”

It had been at a scandalous soiree attended by men and their paramours. The theme had been ancient Greece. For the two hours the young she-wolves had been with me, I’d paid them more than most servants earned in a month. I lift a shoulder. “I enjoy being spoiled. Rather deserve it, I think.”

“Yet, you don’t want me warming water?”

“I don’t want you deciding I’m too much of a bother and tossing me back out into the storm.”

“It would just toss you back, and I’d once more have to deal with a drenched she-wolf.”

I don’t want to consider that I might enjoy sparring with him. Most men fawn over me, hoping to receive favors, or to be considered for the position of my next paramour.

“Seraphine is an unusual name,” he says slowly, in a manner that reminds me of savoring a bit of chocolate.

What has prompted his statement? And what does it matter? “My father admired the writings of Christopher Seraphine.” That much is true. As a matter of fact, he’s gone about boasting he was a descendant of the playwriter. That tale, however, I’ve never believed. A pity my mother and I have believed in others.

“So you admit Seraphine is your actual first name. I shall collect my winnings at White’s.”

I can’t imagine him caring enough about me to place a bet on my name. No doubt he simply enjoys wagering. With the lifting of a shoulder, I give him a sly look. “I admit nothing, my Beta, except that my father admired the writings of Christopher Seraphine.”

I can’t decide if the sound he makes is a scoff or a bitter laugh, but regardless, I feel as though I’ve somehow won.

With a nod, he unfolds his arms and takes a step into the hallway. “You’re welcome to make use of anything here.”

With that, he disappears.

To my everlasting disappointment, I rather wish I’d been awake to enjoy his hands roaming over me as he swept away the cotton, silk, and lace. Wouldn’t I have a story to tell, then? I’d elaborate, of course. Embellish. After all, in my circles, many a she-wolf takes pride in boasting about having her attire removed by Beta Langdon. And much to my chagrin, on occasion, he dwells in my fantasies.

It’s more than his handsome features. It’s the manner in which he looks at a she-wolf as though, if given the chance, he’d devour her and leave her ever so grateful he had.