A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (12 page)

“There won’t be too many more sets left,” Roman said, indicating a dozen handsome couples spinning in time to the music.

“Are you asking me to dance?” Lucy asked. If she sounded bold, so be it, for it was the end of the night and she had nothing to lose by playing coy.

Perhaps not, but she could feel the scorching path of his gaze as it crept across her scalp. She’d given too much away.

She forced herself not to look up at him. Simpering was what other girls did; she was the wise old soul who had better things to fill her time than wondering what a marquis was thinking.

“We could have danced any number of sets before now,” he said quietly.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She willed her cheeks not to flush. Oh, but his voice was so
warm
.

She lost her battle and turned toward him. “Why didn’t we?”

He seemed surprised. “You had a legion of men to fill your card.”

But you weren’t one of them!
Had he no inkling at all how desperately she yearned to be held in his embrace?

He shrugged, as if his refusal to grant her this one boon on her special day meant nothing to him. “Upon my word, we shall dance…one day.”

When?
she nearly shouted. If not at her come-out,
when
would he deign to dance with her?

“When you’re older,” he said, as if reading her frustration on her face. “Didn’t you say you’re going to be headmistress of a school? That ought to elevate you above idle speculation. Perhaps then.”

“You’re worried about my
reputation
?” Her voice was high-pitched, almost a squeak. London’s favorite rake was having a pang of conscience on her special night. How absolutely marvelous.

He laughed a low, promising laugh. “They’re already talking. No matter how many suitable men I allow your time, the chin-wagging persists. It’s simply too delicious a rumor and I refuse to make it any sweeter.”

The sound of the orchestra playing was impossible to hear over the pounding in her ears. “Wh-what is?”

“The idea that we might be forming a
tendre
.”

“O-oh,” she managed. Hearing those words straight from his lips was almost enough to cause her to moan with pleasure.

“Serves me right,” he said with another soft laugh, causing another flip of her belly. “I know better than to shower attention on one particular young lady.”

Oh, yes. Yes, she could die right now, and she wouldn’t complain a whit.

“I shan’t give them any reason to think you’ve made me a promise,” Lucy replied as calmly as she could. Never, never had she dreamed a conversation like this might actually occur between them. “I do appreciate your kindness in escorting me tonight.”

Another rumbling laugh. “I enjoyed myself, Miss Lancester. It was a breath of fresh air.”

“What do you mean?” she said too quickly, hoping he might finally admit he harbored a secret
tendre
for her. But it almost seemed he might not be rebuffing her in the way that she’d thought. As if—possibly—he was refusing her because he wanted to keep his distance.

She swallowed hard.

He looked at her with an amused expression, further confusing her and making her want to shake the answers out of him. “The events I usually attend exhaust me. Carousing has a way of sapping one’s energy. Or perhaps it’s the wine.”

She took a fortifying sip of lemonade. “Where would you be if you weren’t here, my lord?”

“Not a place for young ladies,” he warned her with a wicked smile.

She boldly returned his gaze. “Let it be a cautionary tale, then. Where shouldn’t I go?”

“Smart lass. I was to be at Madame Claremont’s weekly literary salon tonight. I attend most Thursdays, when I’m in Town.”

Did he? How intriguing and…tame. She couldn’t allow him to make a statement like that without remarking on its extraordinariness. “I expected somewhere more shocking than a drawing room.”

He peered down at her from his great height. Candlelight from the many wax tapers turned his tanned skin golden, so that his eyes sparkled like sapphire shards. “Have I disillusioned you? I assure you, the company is quite scandalous. You might have heard of Lord Byron.”

Considering her love of scandal sheets, she was more than passingly familiar with the popular poet’s outrageous antics. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Roman raised one shoulder in a shrug, as if their association was difficult to convey. “It’s impossible to be close with a man whose passions consume him. But he’s been known to attend our Bohemian little parties, yes.”

She was delighted by his description of Madame Claremont’s, Lord Byron, and his unexpected interest in a literary circle. “And when you are not at Madame Claremont’s, where might you be found?”

He slanted an amused glance at her, and she raised one eyebrow in return.

“Your club, perhaps?” she prodded.

Laughter lit his eyes as he feigned a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, my club. Or in the park, or taking a stroll along Bond. What you aren’t saying is that you imagine I steep myself in brothels when I’m not pretending to enjoy Almack’s.”

She laughed nervously, embarrassed to have been so transparent. “Do you?”

“No,” he said solemnly, so that she almost believed him. “Brothels are sad places, in my mind. Those who wish to share their favors ought to be allowed to do so when they wish, and only with the partner of their choosing.”

“As a courtesan does,” Lucy said.

“Yes.”

She liked that he didn’t remind her of the impropriety of her questions. Never had she expected him to be so frank with his answers, and she was fascinated by this glimpse into his thoughts. “Where does a man meet a courtesan? Not here.”

He grinned at her. “What if I said otherwise?”

“No!” She was shocked. “Who?”

As she scanned the ladies in the room, he laughed and caught her arm. “You’re right, this isn’t their usual haunt. They have their own entertainments later in the night, after proper ones like these have run their course. Mrs. Galbraith’s masquerade ball, for example, will be packed wall to wall with Cyprians on Tuesday next. I expect half the men in this room will be there, too.”

“You’re serious this time?” She peered at him with a furrowed brow.

He chuckled as if he were genuinely entertained by telling her secrets no lady should know. “Here, I have my vouchers to prove it.”

She held his empty wineglass while he fished around in his coat pocket, then produced two vouchers printed with the date and direction of the Cyprian ball.

She looked over her shoulder, making sure no one was watching them closely, then seized them out of his hand to study them in detail. “Why do you have two?”

“Coupons are only distributed to those Mrs. Galbraith deems appropriate, but we are encouraged to bring a fresh face. Otherwise, we shall all tire of each other very quickly.”

Lucy held the vouchers close to her bodice. It felt very wicked to even know these existed, let alone hold them.

The she realized what he’d said. Jealousy surged through her. Roman couldn’t be explaining his plan for an assignation, right to her face! “Who will
you
take?” she gritted out.

His amused expression further impassioned her. He thought her reaction funny!

“No one,” he said smoothly, without addressing her obvious ire. “There will be more than enough new petticoats to investigate, without binding myself to a friend.”

She clutched the vouchers tighter as jealousy flared again. The man had no shame, none at all.

As it happened, neither did she.
 

He held out his hand. The manservant bearing the wineglasses returned, calling Roman’s attention. Deftly, with her heart beating a staccato, she used her middle finger to press one voucher against her palm, holding it in place as she pivoted her wrist dropped the other voucher across his open hand.

As he tucked away his coupon, he raised his wineglass to his lips. She held her stolen voucher behind her, then traded it into her left hand, where he would be less likely to notice it.

Not that she
planned
to attend. Dear Zeus, surely
that
was out of the question. But if he had no use for it, she might as well keep it as a trinket for herself, oughtn’t she? Something to remember her Season by.

As if she could forget
.

When he looked up again, she quickly changed the subject. “Do you have a mistress?”

He choked. “That is not a question for a lady to ask.”

“Truly, my lord? That was the line in the sand?” She forced herself to grin at him, though she feared her guilt was written on her face.

He returned her smile, his eyes dancing. “It belatedly occurs to me this conversation isn’t at all proper.”

She worked the voucher deeper into the folds of her skirts and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “You haven’t answered.”

He nodded, as if she’d said something clever. “I have friends among the Corps, if that’s what you mean.”

Friends.
He used the term so loosely, it might mean women he bedded, or women whose company he found amusing.

Neither choice fully satisfied her question. She knew he had lovers, and she knew he and Celeste were friends. What she wished to know was whether he claimed one woman as his own.
 

“You travel in their circles,” Lucy said, careful to keep her voice light. “It follows you have acquaintances among them—friends, if you like, and on occasion, perhaps more. But is there one woman you prefer above all others?”

He sipped his wine, seeming in the mood to humor her, and not the least annoyed by her persistence. “You could go mad trying to sort out every rumor you hear, Lucy.”

She turned away, deflated. She could think of only one reason he’d refuse to answer this question, when he’d been so forthcoming before.

For an entire turn of the dancers around the room, she did her best to manage her disappointment. But one full parade of those pastel-colored reminders of her failure to dance at her come-out with Roman was all she could withstand before she pivoted back toward him and said, “Tell me who it is who’s captured your heart.”

Misery flashed across his handsome face so quickly, she almost didn’t see it. Then he was sporting his rakish smile again. “Must I pick just one?”

Ohhhhh.
A terrible feeling sank in her stomach.

He did harbor a
tendre
for someone.
 

His eyes dimmed, a frown wrinkled his brow, and inside, Lucy died. He didn’t fancy
all
the women in the world. Just one of them.

Someone who didn’t return his affection.

Suddenly, despite all her progress, her goal of having him as her own—even for just one night—seemed an impossible dream.
Of course
she hadn’t thought he would fall so deeply in love with her, he’d mend his rakish ways. But what woman wanted to dally with a man whose affections were already engaged?

Even if that man was Roman.

“I think my brother is looking for me,” she mumbled, turning away.

He caught her left wrist as she tried to leave. “Don’t.”

Her heart ceased crying. She didn’t turn toward him, but crumpled his paper voucher into her palm, lest he find it as his hand closed around her arm.

Roman tugged her wrist gently. Her feet stumbled backward, toward him. “I should not have teased. There is someone, but seeing as she doesn’t love me in return, it’s of no consequence.”

Lucy stiffened, shocked by the feel of his hand on her skin and confused by his attempt to console her with the worst words she could imagine.
She doesn’t love me in return.

And yet, he’d asked her to stay. He must know she’d been eaten alive by envy. Did he care? Why else would he try to reassure her?

She stood awkwardly in front of him. He was touching her. Despite her roiling disillusionment, his grip on her wrist was all she could think about.

She wanted his touch. Everywhere.

He released her arm. When he didn’t say more, she turned to him, rubbing the place his soft glove had branded her. “Who is she?”

A bark of laughter erupted from him. “No one, Lucy. She’s gone.”

Lucy was oddly sympathetic toward his plight. Her beautiful Roman, in love with a woman who didn’t love him back. She completely understood. “But does she know how you feel?”

He turned away and stared out over the dancers. “That I admire her? That she is part of my soul? My best friend, my right arm, the pillow on which I sleep at night? Life without her is gray and misery. Yes, Lucy-love, she knows.”

Oh, the pain. Like a fist in her solar plexus.

And yet, it was her fault, all her own. She ought to have resisted the urge to press him. While she was aware of his involvement with immoral women, and she knew of the innocent young ladies he’d ruined, she hadn’t prepared herself for the blow of hearing his heart was taken. From his own lips, no less.

The way he spoke of someone who was half his soul… The way his heart hung on his sleeve when he thought of her… Oh, Lucy wanted to crawl into bed and hide.