I also need to move him off the topic of how I smell, and somehow retrieve my hand from him without making a scene.
“What do you think you smell like?” I ask to take the heat off myself.
“I don’tthinkI smell like anything.” His voice drifts and fades, growing softer and sadder than usual. “Iknowwhat I smell like.”
“And what’s that?”
He drops his gaze and lets go of my hand at the same time. “I smell like sex, Jensen.”
Something goes down the wrong way and makes me cough. Lord Augustus offers me a glass of water, and when that doesn’t help, he gives me a hard pat on the back. That does the trick.
“More champagne,” I suggest when I catch my breath.
By the time we fall into the car to go home, inhibitions have been thoroughly lost. Not only mine, but the lord has lost his too. If anything, he might have lost his more than I’ve lost mine.
Between the two of us, we’ve had buckets of champagne. We started laughing at stupid things immediately after dessert and haven’t stopped. We started asking each other personal questions around the same time and haven’t stopped doing that either.
I click my safety belt into the buckle and turn to the lord. “Is it true you can tell what someone’s deepest, darkest desires are just by looking at them?”
Yes, yes, I have been using my proximity to Lord Augustus to perform some scholarly research on Casanovarism this evening. Why do you ask?
The lord nods sagely, if a little unsteadily. “That’s correct.”
What unnerves me more than the answer itself, which is, of course, something of grave concern to me given some of the things I’ve thought in this man’s presence, is that the way he says it is rather appealing. Matter of fact. Calm. An objectivestatement rather than one carrying emotion. It’s terribly, deliciously arrogant.
“Hee-hee,” I say. It occurs to me that’s far from a scholarly response, so I quickly expand, “And how do you do that? I— Is there some sort of special sense, or…”
He offers a slightly lopsided shrug. “I don’t know how it works exactly. All I know is that when I look into people’s eyes, I see their desires written there, clear as day. Like black ink on a page.”
The car crunches to a stop near the entrance of Beaumont Craven House, and Lord Augustus gets out and walks around to open my door for me. I use the alone time to attempt to sober up.
I’m not successful.
He takes my hand and helps me out of the car, closing the door behind me.
“So, um…” Goodness. I’ve momentarily forgotten what I decided to call him. I ruled Alfie out, didn’t I? And we agreed that Lord Augustus was too formal, so what the hell does that leave me with? What a fucking pickle. “Lord Alpha, are deep-seated desires something you can see in everyone’s eyes?” I raise my brows hopefully. “Or only certain people?”
“Only certain people.” My lungs sag with relief, but I keep my posture upright. “I can’t tell what alphas desire, for example, and often, I can’t get a read on mated omegas.”
“Mm…” I bob my head a few times as a fresh wave of warm dread washes over me when I realize I’m neither of those things. “How fascinating.”
The driver bids us goodnight, and the car pulls away. The lord and I stand in the driveway, near the front door, neither of us moving.
It’s well past midnight and dark. The moon is a slice of mottled blue light. Asterisms of stars punch tiny holes in a black velvet sky. The garden is mournfully lit by spotlights that paint nakedtrees into fantastical portraits. Portraits of hands and feet. Long legs and long fingers that seem to reach to the heavens.
“But when it comes to unmated omegas”—his voice sounds different now that we’re home and alone. It’s softer, but deeper too—“I can always tell what they want.”
“Can you…? Do you mean…? Do you know whatIwant?” My voice lilts up unpleasantly.
Starlight drops down to Earth and lands lightly on the lord’s hair. On his forehead. On his cheekbones. On his fleshy bottom lip.
“You have big eyes, Mr. Lawlor,” he says.
I screw my eyes closed as tightly as I can and a gentle rumble travels up my spine.
He’s laughing.
He’s teasing.
