A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (2 page)

She needed to speak with him. Challenge his opinion of her. There was more to seduction than simply staring at him across the room and hoping he’d take notice of her new gown—there must be more. Roman had his choice of pretty girls, and while Lucy didn’t consider herself ugly, she was undeniably unremarkable. With her rail-thin frame, black hair, slanting eyes and sharp nose, she was realistic enough to know she would never be mistaken for an English rose.

To set herself apart, she must get under his skin. But she couldn’t needle him if she couldn’t come within arm’s length of him. She braced her hands on the window frame and stared down into the quiet street. If only her brother had shown any interest in escorting her and Delilah about! Trestin and Roman had been the closest of friends since boyhood. Roman would surely grace his old chum with his presence, should they find themselves trapped at the same entertainments. And though Lucy and Trestin were rarely in accord, she could hold her tongue while Roman was present, if it meant seeing the marquis.

If it meant
him
seeing
her.

But Trestin almost never attended the balls and soirees her sponsor and second cousin, Lady Ditsworth, chose for her and Delilah. Lucy glared at the unknown couple walking arm in arm down the cobbled street below her. After all the years her brother had harped on the importance of marriage, she’d finally agreed to make her debut, solely because she’d come to realize if she didn’t at least
pretend
to search for a husband,
Trestin
would never search for a wife.

And he
must
marry, or she’d go mad. He needed someone to distract him from his perceived responsibility of caring for his two adult sisters. Yet since their arrival, he’d steadfastly declined to partake of the Season, and he wasn’t likely to find a fiancée at the bottom of a brandy snifter.

She eased her grip on the window ledge. She didn’t need to understand men to see her brother was miserable. But he was lonely, and he needed to marry. For seven years he’d dedicated his life to the two girls he’d inherited as wards after the sudden and horrific deaths of their mother and father. But as Lucy approached her twenty-fifth birthday and Delilah reached her majority, it was long past time for them to become their own women.

And for their overbearing brother to take a wife.

Trestin’s nuptials seemed unlikely to come about anytime soon. Not only did he secrete himself away, rather than escort Lucy and Delilah to the parties where eligible young ladies hung on the edges of the room in the hopes a man exactly like him would sweep them off their feet, he wasn’t in a mood to fall in love at all. For Trestin had recently had his hopes for matrimony dashed when the woman he had been courting in Brixcombe had turned out not to be the genteel spinster she’d presented herself as, but a prominent courtesan.

A
courtesan
.

Lucy was still shocked by the revelation. Never in her life had she expected to come face-to-face with a lightskirt, especially not in sleepy Brixcombe. Truth to tell, she was more intrigued by Miss Smythe’s former occupation than appalled. But Trestin…

Trestin was furious. It was little wonder he’d taken up the sport of pugilism upon arriving in London. She’d never seen her brother so angry—or hurt—as he was at Miss Smythe’s deception.

A glance at the sun above her told Lucy it would be hours yet before he returned from his afternoon bout at Gentleman Jackson’s. She dug her nails deeper into the wooden ledge. It was all well and good for him to be—
at last
—developing pursuits that didn’t include her or Delilah. His obsession with protecting their reputations following their parents’ scandalous demise had nearly driven Lucy to fisticuffs, herself.

But why must his sudden decision to expand his interests coincide with his plan to launch his sisters into Society? Especially when neither girl had wanted to be paraded on the London Marriage Mart in the first place, seeing as both women were already in love with men from Devon.

Unsuitable men, perhaps. But then, love
was
problematic that way.

That didn’t mean Lucy didn’t want to see the city. They were here, they ought to be about! Taking in the Museum, the parks, Pall Mall, Westminster, Carlton House. Vauxhall, to be sure, though of course she’d rather see that spectacular sight at night.

Trestin would never let her go to such a scandalous place after dark.

She clenched her teeth at the notion. What was the point in him forcing her to London if she wasn’t to see more of it than certain approved matrons’ ballrooms? And what was the chance she’d capture Roman’s interest at any of those insipid and heavily chaperoned events?

None. None at all. And yet, Trestin didn’t concern himself with this fact, as he would never consider his best friend respectable, let alone a suitable prospect for one of his precious sisters.

Certainly the smarter route, she admonished herself. She wasn’t
looking
for a husband. Especially not one like her father, who would drive even a sane woman to lunacy. No, if she couldn’t have Roman without fearing for her heart and her mind, she’d remain unmarried forever.

A prospect she didn’t shy away from, not exactly, for if she succeeded in establishing a girls’ boarding school as she meant to do, she could happily preside over her own household for the rest of her bluestocking days.

What she wanted…what she needed…was for Roman to need
her.

She ran her hands down the length of the white muslin dress marking her debutante status. Roman was drawn to the type of women who wore jewel-toned gowns: widows, wives, courtesans.

Those innocent misses who did manage to gain his attention often ended in ruin; Roman had caused enough scandal that he ought to have traveled the Continent no less than three times, leaving the gossip to cool behind him.

But Roman didn’t go to
France
when he caused a scandal. He ran to Devon. And so another girl’s misery had always meant Lucy’s joy—however unkind that sounded. For until now, Lucy had never come to London, and Roman rarely went home unless something untoward had occurred.

She stopped suddenly. Dear Zeus, she
must
cease dithering. This
was
her chance. If she didn’t succeed in capturing his attention this Season, she never would.

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and resumed pacing. It
must
be now. The only way she could move forward with her plan to establish her girls’ school and begin her life as a bookish, respectable headmistress was to sate her illogical and ill-advised longing for Roman’s attentions.

Illogical, but also instructional. Wasn’t it? For how could she think to guide young ladies through womanhood if she’d never experienced it, herself?

Her entire life, she’d lived by Trestin’s rules. Abided by them as closely as she could stomach. How did she purport to teach her girls to think for themselves if she’d never done so? How could she advise her charges to evade the lure of the forbidden, if she didn’t know what was being prohibited?

She pressed her hand to her heart. That day on the beach she’d seen a flash of something lucid in Roman’s eyes. Awareness, she’d thought. It had come and gone quickly, as fleeting as the moment.

But it hadn’t been random. Miss Smythe, the retired courtesan who’d purchased the small cottage abutting Trestin’s estate, had given Lucy a word of advice just before the men had descended upon them. She’d said Lucy must allow Roman to play the gallant. An admonition against Lucy’s bullish assertion of independence, as she usually behaved in his presence.

That simple bit of instruction had caused Roman to treat Lucy as a lady for the first time since she’d come of age. He’d helped her into the rowboat chivalrously, gripping her hands firmly between his, inquiring after her comfort solicitously. He’d made her laugh in spite of her nervousness. Not once had he made a teasing remark about her coltishness, or chided her for her country naïveté.

Lucy leaned over the windowsill in her bedchamber, as if she could see all the way to St James. Miss Smythe, too, had come to the city.

She was just a few streets away.

Lucy gripped the wooden window box, considering. Miss Smythe knew Roman. Everyone, it seemed, knew the marquis. But as a lady of the night, Miss Smythe knew him well. They’d been friends. More importantly, she knew what tricks drew a man’s attention.

Specifically, she knew what drew
Roman
’s
attention.

A thrill bubbled through Lucy. Trestin would never approve of her speaking to Miss Smythe, let alone calling at her house in Town. He certainly wouldn’t approve of Lucy’s harebrained idea to seduce Roman into yearning, or perhaps more.

But then, Trestin wasn’t here to disapprove of it, was he?

Oh, Hades take his rules! After the Season ended, she intended to become her own woman, anyhow. If Trestin caught her plotting with a lightskirt, so be it. If he learned of her need for Roman to take notice of her, splendid. She could think of no worse punishment than never feeling the weight of Roman’s regard.

Perhaps Roman would even
kiss
her.

She let herself imagine pressing her lips to his perfect, masculine mouth for just a fraction too long. Then she straightened her shoulders and pushed the daydream away. Whatever the outcome, whatever the risks, they would be worth everything if afterward, her sanity returned and she could begin her life without the distraction of her bittersweet, unrequited,
infuriating
infatuation.

Lucy marched to her wardrobe where her carefully considered trousseau hung in neat, orderly lines. Trestin hadn’t been able to afford dozens of dresses for her like some debutantes received, but he’d provided Lucy credit enough to purchase two ball gowns, a walking dress, a carriage dress, and a new morning gown. As chatelaine of his household accounts, she understood what they had cost him, and she appreciated his sacrifice—even if she would have preferred to take the money in the form of an investment in her school, rather than an unnecessary trousseau.

But… She did
adore
London fashions.

She trailed her fingertips along the silk, muslin and wool dress sleeves and reached for her bonnet. Ringing for her maid was entirely out of the question. For her visit to Miss Smythe, she’d wear the prim morning dress she’d already donned, rather than change into a frock more befitting an audience with a notorious courtesan. After all, the last thing she needed was for her brother to learn she’d stepped out after he’d expressly forbidden her from leaving the house unchaperoned.

Especially considering all the other rules she meant to break.

After tying her freshly re-ribboned bonnet beneath her chin, Lucy tiptoed to peer inside her sister’s bedchamber door.

Delilah, a strikingly pretty miss of almost two and twenty, sat hunched over her writing desk. Her pen flew across the page, leaving crowded, inky lines in its wake. Another letter to Mr. Conley, no doubt. Lucy slipped past the open door, no longer fearing being caught by her sister. Once Delilah began composing a missive to the forbidden beau she’d left behind in Devon, she was lost to the rest of the world.

Without further ado and allowing herself no qualms, Lucy exited the town house and went down the steps to the walk. She turned in the direction of St James.

This wasn’t the first time she’d considered calling on Miss Smythe. Merely the first time she’d found the conviction to do so. After overhearing her brother and Roman discussing the woman’s scandalous origins, Lucy had sneaked into Trestin’s library and hunted for the documents of sale that had transferred ownership of the old dower house to Miss Smythe—Miss Celeste
Gray
in actuality, for the name she’d given them all was assumed.

Lucy had scribbled the St James address onto a scrap of paper and tucked it into her bodice just in time for Trestin’s return.

She didn’t need the foolscap today. She’d rehearsed the direction of Miss Gray’s house a dozen times in her mind. Just as she’d rehearsed what she meant to say to the famed courtesan once she was inside. She savored the burst of hope that swelled in her breast, for if anyone knew how to draw Roman’s attention, it was Celeste.

And if anyone could understand why Lucy must do it…

It was her brother’s spurned sweetheart.

After a quarter hour’s walk, Lucy reached the smart-looking terraced homes that housed London’s demimondaines. Lucy drew a deep breath and stepped up to rap on the door. Barely a moment passed before it was opened by the most frightening man she’d ever seen. He looked down on her critically, as though assessing the threat she might pose to the mistress of the house.

Lucy braced herself and raised her chin, refusing to be cowed before she’d even begun. The man settled his beefy arms across his chest and continued to regard her mutely. He was colossal even for a prizefighter—not that Lucy was accustomed to measuring up prizefighters, but the manservant blocking the doorway with his massive shoulders could easily have crushed a man’s skull in his fist.

When she opened her school, she must remember to hire a manservant who could scare away a villain with one curled lip.

“’Tis early yet,” he announced without preamble.

Was it? But then she remembered Miss Gray likely kept late hours.

“Please, sir,” she replied in a brisk, efficient tone, “I would like to be received as soon as can be managed. I haven’t the freedom to return at a later hour. Tell your mistress I’ve come, and let her decide whether she will see me or not.”