The Art of Ruining a Rake (16 page)

She felt Trestin’s eyes on her back.

“Well, my lord,” she started to answer, then was surprised to find herself tongue-tied. With Trestin watching, she was free to enjoy Roman’s company without worry she might lose her head, and that presented something of an unforeseen problem. What did one say to a rake? “I’ve come to London—”

A flaxen brow rose. He slid a glance at her. “You’ve come to
London
? Why, I must be
deep
in your confidence to have merited so intimate a revelation as that. Pray, what other secrets can you share? Are you by chance out of doors? Is it Tuesday?”

The top of her head barely came to his shoulder. He was provoking her on purpose and, despite herself, she couldn’t help but enjoy it. That was the danger with him. Even at a safe distance, he made her feel rash.

“I suppose if pressed,” she said, reluctantly accepting that she would never be immune to his cajolery, “I could also admit I’ve been to the bank.”

He pretended to be intrigued, forming his mouth in a perfect oval of surprise. “Intimate knowledge indeed, when I found you on its very steps! But enlighten me—or am I not allowed to know
why
you are in London?”

She might be able to provide a nonanswer to a stranger, some inanity about the weather or her delight with the social whirl. Nothing about her books, or her self-doubts. But Roman wouldn’t allow her to put him off. They’d come to know each other so well during her Season, he’d know if she were lying.

Just as she knew… He always lied.

Most of the time.

“I mean to be famous, of course,” she said, because it was close to the truth without revealing too much. “Isn’t that why all country girls come to London?”

He immediately stopped walking and turned to her. “Surely you won’t become an actress.”

She bristled at his tone. “If I did?” A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “You can’t think
you
are in a position to lecture me about it.”

His bitterness surprised her. “I’d leave that to Trestin.” Then his eyes bored into hers. “But surely I didn’t ruin you this badly. You may yet recover your reputation.”

“How do you propose I do so?”

His lips moved, but he didn’t speak, as if he wished to say something, but was thinking better of it.

Lucy looked over her shoulder. Trestin had stopped twenty paces distant. He wasn’t scrutinizing them, or he was doing his best to pretend not to be scrutinizing.

An odd way for her irksome brother to behave.

She looked back at Roman. “
Don’t
say I should marry you.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, his brow furrowing. “I’m coming to realize how far gone your situation is, that’s all. I feel responsible.”

She couldn’t put her finger on why it riled her when these two expounded on her reputation. Perhaps because it was her reputation. Not theirs. “You are responsible,” she said tersely. “Unfortunately, so am I. And I have come to terms with my lot. I have no hope of being accepted in Polite Society. Therefore, I shall turn my back first.” She arched her spine and dared him to argue. “I mean to be an authoress. I shall write an entire shelf of sentimental drivel and Trestin can’t stop me. Neither can you.”

She’d meant to provoke him, but rather than become cross again, Roman’s eyes took on a fascinated light. He regarded her with bold admiration. “Lucy-love,” he said, his lips curving in slow delight, “I never doubted you’d find your way.”

Warmth spread through her. She hadn’t meant to tell him, or anyone. Not until she’d written at least one book. Yet having his approval made it all seem possible. Probable, even. “Do you really think it suits me?”

His brows arched as if she’d said a daft thing. “Writing books? I can think of no one better suited to the task.”

Roman’s certainty surprised her. “Why me?”

He shrugged insouciantly, then took her hand and slipped it through his arm. They started off again as Lucy realized with an infinitesimal amount of chagrin they were nearing her new home.

“It’s damned difficult business, being an artist,” he said. “One must have emotion to feed their pen—or their brush, or their pianoforte; whatever instrument one uses to record their thoughts. But the artist must also control that passion. Harness it, if you will, so that it will work for them even when it seems to overwhelm them. That is where you will excel. You’re passionate, but you conceal it. You master your feelings, not the other way around. You’ll do well, I think. Finishing the book is always the hardest part.”

She stared at him, stunned by both his astounding assessment of her character and his convincing authority on the subject. “How can you know—well, any of that?”

He glanced at her with an amused expression. “I know many artistes, Lucy. Who do you think make up the fast set?”

Oh, Zeus. He did keep company with Lord Byron and his ilk; he’d told her so before. And she’d just waxed on about her plans to be famous! “I wish I had
your
confidence in me,” she said, glancing away. How silly she must sound, speaking as if she knew the first thing about penning a novel, when he knew some of the greatest writers in the world.

She looked up just in time to see his surprise. “Surely
you
don’t doubt yourself,” he said.

“I’ve no notion where to start,” she admitted with a small frown.
 

“At the beginning, of course. You can do it. I know very few people as stubbornly capable as you.”

She wanted to dismiss his praise. What flattery! And yet, during her Season, she’d come to tell the difference between the Roman who wheedled for no reason and the Roman who spoke from his heart. This was the latter man. She knew because he’d used meaningful words. Not empty phrases, but arguments that betrayed him. He’d given this some thought.

He’d been thinking about
her.

She began walking again. But she couldn’t outpace the prickly sensation of his watchfulness.

“My stubbornness has cost me today, I’m afraid,” she told him, feeling a peculiar desire to open to him in return. “I’ve turned up my nose at Trestin’s assistance. If I’m unable to write a smashing story in the next few weeks, I’ll be eating humble pie.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Roman poked the tip of his walking stick against an empty bucket, sending it rolling out of her path. “Trestin’s cook has the very best humble pie recipe. I’ve eaten it dozens of times, myself.”

She chuckled. Somehow when he wasn’t flirting with her, her heart melted toward him the most. “Does it pair well with wine?”

“Something stronger. Brandy, perhaps. Do you know, half the time I think you’re one of the bravest women I know?”

She was stunned again into silence. “
Half
the time, then, you’re wrong.”

When she chanced another look at him, he was grinning. “Touché, Miss Lancester.”

“I did mean to ask your advice on one thing,” she said, changing the subject. “Now that I remember more about you.”

He steered her around boxes being unloaded from a cart. “You may ask anything.”

She braced herself. Again that honest, open version of himself. “I’d like to know where the artistes and great thinkers spend their evenings. You once told me you attend Madame Claremont’s salon. How does one secure an invitation?”

When he looked sideways at her, his eyes were twinkling. “Shocking, Miss Lancester.”

She gave him her most straitlaced, headmistress look. “I can’t help but think I will be shocking many more times before I die.”

He looked at her as if she’d said the cleverest thing. “It is my greatest hope. But if I tell you how to attend the salon, Ashlin won’t like it.”

“All the more reason to have out with it,” she said reasonably.

“If I decline?”

She sniffed and pointed her nose in the air. “Then I shall have nothing more to say to you.”

“Oh, you will,” he replied with such certainty, she couldn’t help but laugh.

She found herself more at ease than she’d felt in weeks. “You’re rather diverting when you’re not trying to get under my skirts.”

His smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Friends, is it? How delightful.”

Something about the way he said
friends
gave her chills. The memory of his damp skin sliding against hers… The whisper of his breath against her skin… She shuddered, remembering how hungrily she’d clawed at his shoulders.

Mine.

How fully he’d pleasured her. How much…

She’d wanted it.

AFTER SEEING LUCY HOME, Roman concluded that in the weeks since he’d decided to pursue her honestly, he’d played his hand very well indeed.

As it happened, she wasn’t so different from the other ladies of his acquaintance. No woman enjoyed being told
no,
nor did she enjoy being left to wonder over a man’s intentions. He was convinced rebuffing Lucy’s request to accompany him to Devon had befuddled her, and he was certain he’d managed to flummox her today on their walk.

Fortunate encounter, that. He’d been so busy with the men Tony had asked him to pursue as investors, he scarcely had any time left for courting.

He met his valet in his dressing room and began the arduous process of donning his eveningwear. As he went through the motions by rote, a routine he and Cumberpatch had choreographed years ago, his thoughts drifted back to the woman who’d enraptured him. Lucy might not be so different from the other ladies of his acquaintance, but there
was
something unique about her. She sparred with him. She didn’t fall over herself trying to draw his eye. She didn’t
like
him, but she wasn’t unaware of him. Not as much as she wanted him to believe.

If he allowed himself to remember the facts in detail, she was a great deal more than “not unaware of him.” He could still feel her willing body pressed against his. It had been two interminable months since he’d last kissed her. Walking idly by her side had been pure torture.

Friends, she’d said? Bah! Those lithe shoulders held her smartly as she’d lobbed verbal volleys at him, but he wanted to use them to steer her lissome body toward the nearest wall. He imagined kissing every inch of her pearlescent skin, until she couldn’t even remember the word
friend
.

Tonight, however, he must tuck away any longing for his black-haired minx and see to his duty. He’d come to London armed with Tony’s list itemizing names of prominent capitalists who he’d never met, and speculators and fellow peers. Average lords who could be found doing average lord things.

Average lord things were what Roman did best.

When the last scrap of linen was tucked into place, he collected his walking stick, shook out his famous locks, and headed out for the night’s engagement: a Cyprian’s ball.

He entered Mrs. Dubois’ foyer at the precise moment Lady Letitia Linden rounded the bottom of the staircase. His good feeling evaporated.
Blast.
Ducking out the door he’d just entered wasn’t an option. If Letitia wanted him, she’d find him. He was at her mercy until she agreed to release him. One couldn’t hide from the woman who paid his bills.

She paused on the third step while he worked out of his greatcoat and handed his walking stick to the footman. Her ruby lips curved as she held her hands out for Roman to grasp. “I knew the country couldn’t keep you long.”

Her crimson gloves reeked of rosewater perfume. He held his breath and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “It never does,” he murmured as he straightened.
 

Her position on the stair steps put her at his eye level, yet she managed to seem even taller. She settled her hand on his shoulder, like a queen bestowing a favor on a humble serf. “Good. Then you’ll come to me tonight?”

His stomach tightened. He’d dispatched letters of separation to all of his patronesses. As straightforward as it had been to be rid of the other two, Lady Letitia Linden had been predictably difficult. She’d returned a copy of his message along with a notice of breach of contract. The alarmingly legal-sounding document had gone straight into the fire.

He didn’t need the terse note to remember her threat: In the course of the last year she’d determined the quality of his services no longer corresponded to the cost of his upkeep, and she retained the bulk of his debt in the form of IOUs. A signet stamp and a postscript finalized her warning. If he wished to contest their verbal agreement, she’d make certain the trial was excruciating, and public.