The Art of Ruining a Rake (5 page)

He batted at the air. Bah! She could think what she wanted. So what if he expressed himself? Feelings were to be conveyed with grand demonstrations. If Miss Lancester didn’t appreciate his intense emotion, if she thought him insincere for wearing his heart on his sleeve, well, then, he had only himself to blame. He’d known her from birth. Miss Lancester wasn’t one of the colorful birds of paradise he surrounded himself with, but a proper lady. A true up-and-upper. Genteel women didn’t follow their hearts.

Had he really told her she didn’t have a heart?

He knew better. She’d seduced
him
with her intelligent brown eyes, infuriatingly drab dress and enviable sense of place. Why, he felt like the greatest buffoon in her company. And her office! It reeked of her. Every book on every shelf ordered by height and color. Her desk polished to a shine his valet would envy—and she’d been
using
it. Papers spread about and her inkwell standing open. Not like his desk, hidden under a layer of dust.

Miss Lancester made him feel like an idiot.

His feet carried him into the shopping district. He passed two haberdashers and entered the third because it was the best shop in Bath, and he wanted only the best.
 

Miss Lancester’s riposte stung his ears.
Your coat likely cost what your home farm turns over in a year, yet you purchased it anyway. You’re charming, gifted with a silver tongue, and spoiled.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. One of the many facets he loved about her was that she didn’t quibble on her point.

He tossed his hat onto a table and selected two buff leather gloves from another display. Absently, he ran his thumb over the supple calfskin.

Find a woman who appreciates your many fine qualities,
Miss Lancester had said. She didn’t know how easily that could be done. His company was much in demand these days. So much so, women were willing to compensate him for his time. What were a few shillings when his lady friends would happily advance him the blunt?

The shopkeeper, a distinguished-looking man with a dash of elegance himself, strode over. “My lord, it’s good to have you in our city again. Those
are
exquisite, are they not? But I have another pair I think you’ll find you cannot live without.”

Roman held the gloves casually at his waist. It wouldn’t do to let the man know how fine he thought these were, especially if he was to be encouraged toward a more expensive pair. “You may only show them to me, Mr. Banks, if you also tell me how your son is doing at Trinity. What is this, his third year?”

Mr. Banks beamed. “It is, my lord. How good of you to remember.”

Roman laid down the buff gloves and followed Mr. Banks to the counter. The shopkeep disappeared into a storeroom and Roman amused himself by looking at the fobs exhibited in a nearby cedar case. Even these pretty baubles weren’t enough to distract him from what had just transpired with the prickliest, most passionate woman of his acquaintance, however.

Dash it all. When Ashlin found out Roman had compromised his sister a
second
time…

Roman scowled into the box of fobs. At least she’d spared him the shackle—again. It should have relieved him to escape unscathed, but all he felt was rejected. Again.

The first tryst with her had been a horrific case of devil’s luck. A mistake for him—
she’d
done it a-purpose, for some unknown reason. She’d drawn him along for the better part of her Season, flashing those tip-tilted brown eyes at him, teasing him with her clever wit, making him think he ought to kiss her before he came to his senses.

He’d been enraptured. Done his level best not to let anyone see it. For he was in no position to marry a near-penniless debutante, not when he couldn’t afford his own obligations. And his reputation! A man sullied by his experiences didn’t subject a proper young lady to his past.

She wasn’t the first sweet miss to catch his eye, it was true. Innocent flirtations were all the more enthralling because his needs were met by the wealthy, amorous women who kept him sated. All he required from pretty lasses like Lucy was their admiration, and perhaps a waltz or two.

But he’d
bedded
Lucy. Without meaning to. Without even knowing it was she. Yes, he’d been aroused and disconsolate and a little drunk—embarrassments, not excuses. It didn’t justify his shock to discover the masked courtesan beside him wasn’t one of his compatriots after all. That the naked woman lying beside him was Lucy, in all her proud, determined not to marry him glory.

He hadn’t
meant
to ruin her. He certainly hadn’t meant to
tup
her. Night after night of watching her from afar had taken its toll. The fact that he had indeed wanted the dark-haired lightskirt to be her, that he’d chosen the raven-haired courtesan precisely because she looked like Lucy, well.

It didn’t seem to matter to Lucy one bit.

By the time Mr. Banks returned, Roman was up to his cravat in the black mood that had plagued him all summer. Feeling like an idiot. Furious at her deception. At a loss to explain why she’d twice turned his proposal of marriage down flat, without even allowing him to finish. She’d never intended to accept him, so why the devil had she lain with him?

The shopkeeper placed a bombazine square on the counter before laying a pair of ivory kid gloves out for his inspection. The contrast between the near-whiteness of the leather and the sinful bombazine showed the gloves to their best advantage.

“Mr. Banks,” Roman said, forcing himself to sound jovial, “you
are
aware no man worth envying wears kid gloves these days.”

Mr. Banks’ cheery eyes crinkled at the corners. He leaned in as if they were about to share a secret. “Ah, but that is only because
you
are not wearing them.”

Roman chuckled and stroked the impossibly soft-looking leather with one finger. Perfection. And likely only a few quid more than the ones he’d been considering. “Very well, I’ll give Brummell something to scoff at. Let’s see if your esteem of me is warranted.”

Mr. Banks nodded, still smiling. “Very good, my lord. I’ll bundle these and you can take them with you. How about a new fob? Did you see one that interested you?”

The dozen strips of leather and embroidered scraps were arrayed becomingly on a velvet bed. He didn’t need a new fob, but then… They were very pretty. He was like a crow drawn to shiny objects. The more expensive the item, the more he felt the need to have it.

Lucy’s admonition rang in his ears, spoiling his improved mood. He pushed away from the counter. “I wouldn’t want anything to compete with this masterpiece of men’s wear.” He held up the gloves. “Brummell has the right of it: simple is more elegant.”

He didn’t for a moment think he was fooling his sometimes-haberdasher. The man knew as well as anyone how tight Roman’s credit was.

Without needing to be told, Mr. Banks would quietly forward the charge to one of the women who were known to pay Roman’s bills. It was an arrangement Roman preferred not to discuss. Only the generosity of his female friends allowed him to stay neck and neck with Brummell, another man barely a step ahead of his creditors.

Roman accepted the package without asking what ungodly sum he’d just added to his debts. He did have one thing to say to Mr. Banks, however. “Remind your son to study in earnest. Had I learned more at Cambridge than how to perfect a knot, I might exert influence over more than the state of men’s haberdashery.”

“I’ll tell him you said so, my lord,” Mr. Banks replied with a twinkling eye. “He surely doesn’t listen to
my
advice.”

Roman clapped his hat on his head and stepped out onto the walk, suddenly glad of the winter chill. He drew his greatcoat more snugly about himself and made for the inn where he’d taken a room for the night.
Just
the night. He hadn’t intended to stay longer than required to prove Miss Lancester’s feelings for him. A miscalculation he should have seen for himself. She readily kissed him, oh, yes. She looked at him with heavy-lidded eyes and moaned softly when he licked between her legs.

He shouldn’t think about that.

With a smile for the plump female clerk at the inn’s counter, Roman took his package up to his room. His valet helped him change into his evening attire, including the new kid gloves. Then he went out again, this time with the intent of locating a comely miss who would look at him the way he’d wanted Miss Lancester to do. How it
galled
him to know he’d stood in the same room with her, felt the bliss of burying himself deep inside her, and yet left feeling as though she’d never really seen him at all.

He approached a house crowded by carriages waiting to let their occupants down. There was some sort of rout occurring here. He didn’t have an invitation, and he wasn’t sure who owned the splendid mansion, but he could be assured of his reception.

The
ton
didn’t turn its back on a man like him.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Lucy scowled at the immaculate peacock darkening her open door. Roman tapped the head of his walking stick against the frame, then saluted her with it. His handsome face was unblemished by worry, as if calling on her at the worst moment of her existence were a trifling matter in an otherwise empty afternoon.

She paused in her packing. How she
detested
his collectedness. Or perhaps it was natural for him to care equally little about everything, when nothing was more important to him than anything else.

He entered her office without waiting for her to invite him in. She returned the books she’d been sorting to her desk with a meaningful
thud.

He closed the door behind him.

Disbelief hissed through her teeth. He couldn’t possibly think they’d…

With two long strides, he approached her desk. The scene of their crime was buried under brown paper wrapping, books and half-filled boxes.

He ignored the disarray and grinned rakishly, displaying straight, white teeth. “I thought it best I speak to you first, before Ashlin flays us alive. May I sit?”

Lucy steeled herself. Naturally, Roman hadn’t come because he’d missed her. He cared what her brother might do to
him
. Trestin was a good shot.

But…

So was she.

She raised her chin and pulled the nearest wooden crate closer to her, inserting it between herself and the amused look in his eyes. “I don’t need a cock-and-bull story for Trestin. My brother will have the truth. What will you say to yours? Lord Antony will no doubt want a full accounting. It’s said he keeps a tight rein on things.”

She savored Roman’s flash of surprise. Yes, she knew. Anyone who paid the least bit of attention to the handsome marquis knew his younger brother managed his estate.

Roman’s shoulders drew taut. His smile returned, tighter this time. “Tony may point out my imperfections, but I don’t answer to him.”

She arched her spine, preparing to dash out his steaming nonsense with a cold heap of reality. “You don’t answer to anyone, do you? If only you were as perfect as you seem to believe.”

His indignation was palpable. She savored this chance to wound him one tenth as much as he’d hurt her. For everything,
everything
she’d created with her own two hands had been taken from her. Because of him.

Because of how she felt when she was
near
him.

She met Roman’s acerbity with seething vehemence. The board of trustees had left not three hours ago. She was no longer welcome at her own school. She was no longer headmistress, no longer respectable. It was even advised she leave the city, rather than remain and draw attention to her students.

Lucy was not welcome in her beloved Bath.

She folded her arms under her breasts, resisting her urge to beat her fists against his chest and rage. It was
gone
. All of it. Her school, her students. Her independence. She had little hope of finding another position anywhere. Despite the fact that she’d conceived of and founded the School for Accomplished Young Ladies herself, she was to receive no letter of recommendation from her trustees. Only a small disbursement salary awaited her, along with Trestin’s wrath. She wasn’t even permitted to say good-bye to her girls.

She drew a slow breath, forcing herself to calm. These were the facts of her ruination. Facts were not cause for histrionics. No sense adding
murder of a peer
to her list of wrongdoings.

“If you have something to say,” she said, pulling another large box between them, “have out with it. I’ve much to do today.”