The scene: At the end of a difficult Christmas day, Alexander, Lord Xavier, has come to the library of his country house for the solace of conversation with Louisa Oliver. But the conversation—and the solace—don’t go as he expected… 

     He folded his arms to cover the thud of his heart. Yes, he wanted that, and desperately. He was a bottomless pit of need, unable to stay away from the fleeting regard of the world. Powerless to deny the harsh seduction of her honesty.
    An honesty that came wrapped in sleek curves, a wry mouth, and the high, serene brow of a Botticelli beauty.
    He could have groaned. But he did not permit that, either. Instead, he jammed his hands tighter into the vise of his folded arms, hoping the pressure of his own limbs would remind him not to reach out for her. Or anything else that was foolish.
   “I’m only talking to you, Alex,” she said. “It’s up to you to decide whether my words bear any relation to your life.”
   He was glad that he was seated, that this chair could give shape to his disintegrating form. “Tell me more, if you wish.”
    “A question for you, then.” She paused. “What have you received in return for all you’ve given up?”
    “I’ve given up nothing.”
    “Are you certain of that?”
    He frowned. “What could I possibly have given up? I’ve an earldom to oversee. A house in London. I have servants to care for and, right now, a houseful of guests to keep happy, though certain among them seem determined to hate each other.”
   As he spoke the words, he felt their hollowness. His servants cared for his estate and home in London. His guests cared for themselves. And he—he had no one to care for but himself, and no one to care much for him.
   It had always been that way. Orphaned as an infant, he’d been used to fending for himself in his gilded cradle. As a boy, he formulated the cleverest pranks; as a man, the betting book at White’s served the same purpose: to win and hoard notoriety like others collected coin. He had learned early in life that truth didn’t matter; only reputation. If one never confirmed nor denied rumor, the beau monde’s fascination would increase.
   But what was the purpose of such fascination? It had left him isolated, always mustering one Numbered Expression or another. His life was a performance, with little truth in it.
   Except from the woman sitting next to him.
   Louisa had leaned forward, her face light-limned again, breaking into gilded curves at the edge of his vision. To him, she looked like hope: warm and shifting and impossible to pin down. And completely desirable.
   The thought was a jolt of heat, of desperate longing that loosened the binding of his own arms around his rebellious body. Because she was right: he’d given up much, including the right to pursue a respectable woman such as herself.
   He propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. As if that could erase her from his mind.
   “Indeed you do have great gifts,” she said. “A man could do much with such gifts of birth and fortune.”
   What she did not say, but what flashed through his thoughts, was, but you have not. Another truth that could not be suppressed any longer.
   In a burst of movement, he rose from his chair, strode to the fireplace, and gripped the mantel in both hands. “Why do you say this? What do you want from me?”
   Her voice was quiet behind him. “I ask only for what you’re willing to give. You’re the one who decides what that is.”
   “And why do you ask anything of me at all?” Something was making his heart beat wildly, his voice ragged. Was this anger, frustration, unbearable desire? He didn’t know; he only knew that it filled him brimful, and he wanted to be emptied of it.
   “Because no one ever has.”
   He clenched his fingertips on the marble edge of the mantel so tightly that he could feel stone pressing against bone. She was wrong, yet she was terribly correct.
   Oh, he’d made himself essential, but only in the most inconsequential ways. He was a paste necklace of a person: suitable for parties and masquerades, but not appropriate for occasions of genuine significance.


Read the next part of the excerpt tomorrow, 9/26, at Book Girl of Mur-y-Castell: http://books-forlife.blogspot.com/