The Art of Ruining a Rake (7 page)

She tamped down her inquisitiveness, reminding herself not to probe deeper than required to lift his spirits and see him through her door. This chitter-chatter was a necessity of business, nothing more. “Work is a matter of perspective, I suppose. I found the day-to-day management of my school fulfilling. Tedious at times, but satisfying. One’s mark on the world can be its own reward.”

His lips formed a moue of discontent. Then he let out a resigned sigh and rolled his eyes in her direction. “It’s confoundingly difficult to leave an impression when one has very little in the way of responsibility. I suppose I should
be
grateful for Tony’s help, but I hate that I must
feel
grateful.”

She chuckled. He did have such an endearing air about him, when he wasn’t plying her with empty platitudes.

He shifted in his seat. “I’m to return to Brixcombe and entertain our tenants for Christmas. This, at least, seems within my abilities. A few dinners
gratis
should make me at least half as popular as Tony.”

She smiled at his forlorn optimism, glad to see his jocularity returning. “When do you leave?”

“Today.” He glanced at her curiously. “Why?”

“I…” She almost couldn’t say it. When his expression revealed nothing but polite interest in her answer, she folded her hands together and drew her shoulders back. “I thought we could go together.”

Roman drummed his long fingers against the chair, causing her stomach to knot. “Now, why didn’t I expect you to ask that? Could it be because you’ve rejected my suit? Twice?”

He had such a droll way of putting things. She would even laugh at the absurdity of her own question, if she weren’t so alarmed to have blurted out the request without careful consideration. It was an uncharacteristically imprudent idea, considering the specifics of sharing a single, swaying,
private
carriage.

He continued to watch her with his unfathomable expression until her stays felt too tight.
 

Oh, drat it all. The prospect of saving herself the expense of a hired coach had been too convenient to discount merely because she wanted to hate him. He was the most amusing person of her acquaintance. She’d known him her entire life. Was it ridiculous to think she might enjoy passing the ride to Devon with him?

Just because they’d be enclosed in a narrow, dark space didn’t mean they
must
kiss.

Heat crept up the back of her neck. Kissing was
most assuredly
out of the question.

“Is there a law that forbids two people who agree they will not suit from sharing a carriage?” she countered, knowing in her heart it was the worst of all possible ideas. She ought never to be alone with him.

A rakish gleam came into his eye. “Ah, Miss Lancester. How little you know. There is the court of public opinion and
they,
” he regarded her with some amusement, “will draw and quarter us.”

Before she could move away, he jumped to his feet. Brown superfine filled her vision as he towered over her. “There is also the matter of whether or not we
are
two people who agree we will not suit.” He leaned forward and murmured into her ear, “Are you very, very sure? Pray, spare me an assault on my lesser qualities.”

She sucked in a breath and steeled herself. Not this, not again. Not when she was just allowing herself to enjoy his company.

She skittered backward and bumped into a chair. She reached to steady herself and he deftly caught her hand. He held tight and stepped toward her, bringing the knot of his cravat level with her face.

“It’s several days to Devon,” he said, his voice a husky murmur. “Perhaps there is no law against it, but…” He raised his left hand, drawing out the moment until the imprint of his palm caressed her lower back. He stepped toward her, scandalously close even for a waltz, forcing her to become aware of the rustle of wool and linen and silk. “Do you really think it a good idea?”

The invigorating, masculine fragrance of his skin interlaced with the crispness of his freshly starched laundry. He angled his head so their brows pressed together, warm and smooth. The tips of their noses bumped and a thrill shot through her. He felt delicious. Like sin and sex.

“I told you I will not marry you,” she said firmly, pressing her palm ineffectively against his chest. “I told you that you are too charming for your own good. I’ve called you spoiled. Why would you kiss me?”

His answering chuckle rumbled in the pit of her belly. “I should think the answer obvious. I’m a man, Miss Lancester. The real question is…”

She turned her head slightly. His lips found hers, proving once again she had no ability to resist him.

Suddenly, he broke the kiss. “Why do
you
kiss
me
?”

She moaned and grabbed his lapels. With a firm tug, she pulled his lips back to hers. He cupped his hands around her waist, digging her stays into her ribs, and slid his palms along the stiffeners until his thumbs encountered her breasts.

She shouldn’t. Oh, but she loved the headiness of being in his arms. He made her feel powerful. She pressed herself against the hard breadth of his torso and sensed his heart beating a harsh staccato. She loved knowing he couldn’t resist her. She loved
him.

He wedged his knee between her legs and nudged her to sit on the chair. She succumbed to his request, knowing her deadly desire was reserved for him alone.

She tipped her head back, inviting him to take her. As he lowered himself over her, she moaned softly and reached again for him, intending to draw him on top of her…

A knock sounded at the door. Roman cursed and pushed away.

She sat up quickly and scrubbed at her lips as he rose and went to answer the door, the slivered opening blocked by his lean body. She couldn’t claim madness this time. Zeus, she’d been panting for it!

His voice carried across the room, too loud for the occasion. “Why, yes, we
would
like some refreshment. How kind of you to think of it.”

Her maid’s reply was too muffled for Lucy to hear. She could barely hear anything over the clanging in her ears. She could justify surrendering
anything
when it came to him. Her pride. Her future. Her sanity.

She was reckless in her determination to be with him, and it terrified her. A man who so easily initiated an affair in the middle of the afternoon wasn’t capable of lasting affection. What if he hurt her?

What if she hurt
him
?

A satisfied smile played on his lips as he returned. “It could be very good, being married to me.”

She tugged her bodice back into place. Then she mirrored his smirk, hoping he didn’t see her fear in her eyes. “We don’t need to be married to do
that,
my lord.”

His lips pressed together, the smile erased. “Am I wrong, then? Is this hunger between us truly as primal as you make it seem?”

She didn’t respond. The hope in his eyes extinguished. Always the dramatic actor, her Roman.

“Do you not love me even a little?” he asked.

She looked away. Her throat closed. What she felt for him didn’t matter. Rather, it
did
matter—it was everything.

She peered up at him through her lashes. As if by playing the coquette she could convince herself that she didn’t harbor any stray emotions for him. “I shall find my own way to Devon. I need to visit with my sister in Gloucester, at any rate. Do you intend to confess all to Trestin when you see him? Or shall I surprise him with the facts when I arrive?”

Roman drew up as though she’d offended him. “I never meant to concoct a cock-and-bull story, Miss Lancester. He’s my friend.”

At least she wouldn’t be the one to explain the ignoble details to her prudish brother. “Thank you.”

“When can I expect your return to London?” Roman asked, causing her to look up in surprise.

“My return?” she parroted dumbly, for surely he must know Trestin would never allow her out of Worston. “Have you no sense of the significance of my situation? Even if by some wondrous happenstance my brother did permit me to visit Town, he’d never allow me to see
you.
”

The thought left her bereft. Never seeing Roman again was almost enough to make her weep. And yet, what more could she expect? For Trestin to blithely accept her ruination and send her back into the arms of the scoundrel who’d caused it?

No. He’d never permit her to see her despoiler. Not unless she agreed to allow Roman to court her, which she would never do.

Her only hope of seeing her faithless rake again—for she
refused
to consider a lifetime of never seeing him—was during
ton
events. Events from which she would be barred, forever, as long as she refused to wed him.

She folded her hands in her lap, realizing how very bleak her life was to become if she couldn’t conceive how to evade Trestin’s guardianship. “If my brother did agree to allow me to go to London, which I cannot fathom, I cannot see how you and I would cross paths. I expect to be barred from the genteel events we attended last year.” Picnics. Balls. Jaunts through the countryside. That deliciously dark room they’d found at Mrs. Galbraith’s masque soiree.

Desire smoldered in Roman’s eyes. He remembered those occasions, too.

Suddenly, his face closed. His jaw tightened. He swept his walking stick aside and made her an elegant bow. “I heartily hope you are wrong about our not crossing paths. And if you truly intend to never set eyes on me again, I do wish you wouldn’t kiss me as if I’m the air you need to breathe. Good day, Miss Lancester. Until we meet again.”

With that stunning remark, he left the room.

Chapter 3

ONLY ONE REFUGE afforded Roman the comforting he required when his conscience crowded with doubt. The moment his hired hack drew before the doors of Plymbridge Hall, his ancestral pile in Devon, he grabbed his walking stick and leaped from the still-swinging carriage. Today he wanted to be inside Plymbridge Hall faster than usual, for aside from his eagerness to close its great doors on his demons, his brothers Tony and Bart were here. They’d asked him to come down from London a few days prior—Blast it all, had it been a fortnight already?

Tony wouldn’t be pleased.

A footman ran from the house and made short work of hauling Roman’s luggage down. In spite of Plymbridge’s shabby appearance—and Roman’s adeptness at ignoring his responsibilities—the heap ran like clockwork. It must, for Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.

Satisfied no harm would come to his garments, and disinclined to manage the servants any more than absolutely required, Roman went into the house. Shambling in the corridor stopped him from racing up the staircase to the library. Old Helms must be on his way.

Roman stamped his boots and sighed wistfully at the fireplace. In spite of a generous tower of crackling logs, barely a whisper of warmth escaped the grate. It must be costing a fortune to keep the place from freezing solid.

He pushed the traitorous thought away. If Tony permitted the expense, it wasn’t for Roman to criticize.

At long last, Helms shuffled in. “My lord, welcome home. Shall I take your coat?”

“I’d much rather you put your old bones to use pouring out a brandy. Did you really leave your blanket to greet me?”

As much as Roman wanted to be on his way to the library, he could never brush off old Helms. With his infrequent trips to Devon, this could very well be the last time the old codger was here to welcome him home.

Helms’s eyes gleamed. “Had I any notion it was
you
making a racket, my lord, I certainly wouldn’t have. Up you go, then. I’ll have a nice toddy sent in.”

Roman jabbed his walking stick in the butler’s direction. “Good man. I always did have a soft spot for you.” Then he tossed his beaver hat into old Helms’s gnarled hands and took the stairs two at a time, careful to avoid uneven spots in the runner where a toe could catch.

As he strode into his library, he did his best to look as though he’d only happened by, and wasn’t in fact being called to the carpet. He wasn’t a
complete
wastrel; he did hope his brothers had made progress with the litigation tying their hands. His impoverished estate could sorely use the moneys forecast to stack its coffers. For that matter, every one of the Alexander men looked forward to being flush once their new quarry was up and running.