A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (9 page)

“Yes,” she replied, crooking her smile at the corners mischievously, thankful her voice didn’t shake.

“Good,” Roman said, raising his arm to rap on the carriage roof. “I need to speak to Ashlin.”

Before she could howl with frustration—for surely she couldn’t be expected to withstand such exasperating behavior without
some
sort of vehement objection—he opened the door. “It appears my destination was on your way, after all. Good day, Miss Lancester. I hope we may continue our informative little tête-à-tête…tonight.”

Chapter 5

SHE RODE THE the rest of the way home in a state of bemusement. What had he meant by that? She couldn’t decide.

It wasn’t a good time to encounter her brother in the foyer, so naturally, they crossed paths almost the moment she set her foot in the house. Just hearing his boot steps as he rounded the corner was enough to make her spine rigid.

An excuse formed on her lips—something about seeing to the less fortunate. He always liked to think she was altruistic.

Yet oddly, he almost passed her by before he jerked to attention, as if suddenly seeing her. “I was just about to—”

She peered at him queerly. Was
he
making an excuse to
her
? What madness was this?

His eyes skirted across the floor. Then, as if he hadn’t been caught at whatever peculiarity he’d been about to engage in, he drew himself into the fusspot she knew him to be. “Mr. Harbottle will be in attendance tonight. I hope you’ll partner him for at least one dance.”

Lucy scowled, even though she’d just been offered an unprecedented opportunity to agree and sail blithely past Trestin’s watch. “I won’t have an aspiring clergyman for a husband.”

It was Trestin’s turn to scowl. Whatever he’d been about, he was focused on her matrimonial prospects now. “Harbottle has two thousand a year and a living within a stone’s throw of Brixcombe. As for his suitability, you can’t possibly find fault in the character of a vicar.”

She wanted so much for her brother to understand her, yet it always came to this. If a man met the bare minimum for eligibility—requirements determined by Trestin, naturally—he deserved at least a quadrille. Never mind her longing for an unfitting man, or her protestations against marrying at all. “I don’t have to find fault with him,” she replied, drawing her bonnet off so that she might quit her brother’s company before they came to shouting, “he simply doesn’t suit me. I wish you’d come to terms with my plans. My School for Accomplished Young Ladies requires a generous amount of seed money. I’d like my dowry, if you please.”

Trestin’s lips turned in a tight smile. “Then we are at an impasse, as I’ve told you more than once that you won’t have a penny from me until you’re wed.”

Lucy bit back yet another unbecoming retort. For the first time, she needn’t argue with him. Twenty-five hundred pounds was a fraction of the money she required. With Celeste’s contribution and a few donations from other like-minded benefactresses, she might not need her dowry at all.

Her mood improved as she realized she had positioned herself to circumvent her brother entirely. “Lord Montborne is looking forward to seeing you tonight,” she said sweetly, knowing it would get under his skin—as it had done hers.

“What makes you say that?”

Lucy smirked and tossed her bonnet onto the entryway table. “He told me so. It appears he, too, looks forward to being told he has the wrong ideas entirely.”

TO SAY SHE spent the first half of Lady Melbourne’s ball waiting for Roman’s arrival was to waste one’s breath. Especially when she usually spent the majority of any entertainment watching for him to make an appearance.

The wine had already been replaced with lemonade by the time Roman troubled himself enough to arrive at the door. To be fair, she had been surprised earlier when he’d implied he’d even come. This rout was hardly up to his usual standards, populated as it was by wallflowers like herself trying to make a good marriage with men who would rather be anywhere else.

Still, when he made a beeline for Trestin—just as he’d promised to do—Lucy felt her frustration soar to an irrational level. Was she just supposed to stand here and
hope
he condescended to talk to her?

Unlikely, that. Where was that Mr. Harbottle? Perhaps she
would
like to dance. She craned her neck to look over her shoulder, searching for the pasty-faced man her brother had pushed in her direction earlier.

“Miss Lancester.” Roman caught her hand before she could use it to cover her gasp of surprise.

Her gaze darted to her brother, but he wasn’t watching her. It seemed Roman might have had a change of mind, and not spoken to Trestin after all.

Her heart leapt. Had he come to speak to
her
?

She gripped Roman’s hand harder than she meant to do. Realizing it, she tried to release him, but he covered her knuckles with his left hand. “And so we meet again, just as I predicted. It would serve me right if your dance card is already full.”

A nervous laugh escaped her. “You’re in luck. It seems I have no partner for this waltz.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and pulled her around so she could see the dancers forming a line. “Then, like a couple of wallflowers, we shall both be able to watch.”
 

Hope died in her breast. It was not what she’d expected him to say at all. Not that she’d been
saving
the waltz for him, mind. In perfect truth, no one had asked. But he was here and unpartnered—and so was she. Shouldn’t he suggest they dance?

He calmly watched the men bow politely to the women. Every so often, he sipped from a wineglass that must have been procured just for him. Very well. She, too, could be unmoved.
 

Outwardly, at least. Inside, her foot itched to prod him onto the parquet floor with a solid kick to the back of his breeches.

It was more difficult to stand beside him than it would have been to waltz. The dance would have distracted from her sizzling awareness of his lean form beside her, as would have the firm pressure of his hand on the small of her back—no, upon further thought,
that
wasn’t likely to calm her. But certainly, standing here breathing in the tantalizing lemon fragrance of his soap wasn’t helping settle the matter of her frazzled nerves.

Idly, Roman swirled the wine in his glass. If only—if only he’d give any indication he was even the
slightest
bit unnerved by her nearness. But his attention traveled smoothly over the room.

From the corner of her eye, she saw his brow crease in consternation. She followed the direction of his gaze.

Trestin.

“Have you and my brother had a falling out?” she asked, thinking it best to address it directly. It was becoming tiresome to pretend she didn’t know he and Trestin were at odds.

A footman brought a freshly filled wineglass and Roman traded his empty goblet without remarking on the special favor he was receiving. “As it happens,” he answered her, “I didn’t like the cut of his coat. He insists it is his favorite, however, and refuses to stop wearing it. In turn, I refuse to be seen with him.”
 

Roman’s now-full wineglass was lifted in the direction of her brother’s sullen form. “What do you think, Lucy-love? Does the old coat flatter him?”

Heat flushed across her cheeks. What a flirt he was! He’d called her Lucy-
love.
In public.

She forced herself not to grin.

Then she realized what he’d asked. Indeed, Trestin’s coat wasn’t cut in the latest style, but her brother’s outdated attire certainly wasn’t the cause of Roman’s irritation. She knew better. The “coat” Trestin refused to stop “wearing” was Celeste Gray.

“Trestin has always been too buttoned-up for my taste,” Lucy replied, thinking herself clever. “I like his more modern dress of late, if you must know. But if I may be so bold, my lord, I think it’s not the cut of his coat you object to, but the number of times it has been worn. Funny, as the issue never seems to present itself in reverse. The question is never the number of
coats
a
man
has worn.”

Roman turned to regard her profile. It was all she could do to keep from grinning at her marvelous innuendo. Was he shocked? Let him be! He’d shocked her enough times.

A light sparked in his eyes, as if he’d seen her again. “And what would you know of coat-wearing?”

She let her smile form on her lips. Just the barest, mind, only a hint of the naughtiness she felt for being so forward. “Very little, sadly.”

Smoothly, he pivoted back to face the dancers gliding across the parquet floor. “As it should be. Coats are pesky things. Once a coat has been worn, the wearer is stuck with the memory of its fit. Years later, he pushes to the back of his wardrobe and sees the coat is still there. He remembers and is ashamed he ever wore it. I wouldn’t wish that on your brother, especially given how seldom a man like him updates his sense of fashion.”

She drew up, quick to defend her friend Miss Gray. “What if Trestin
would
be satisfied with his coat, so long as he never wore it in public? Perhaps it is the ridicule of his friends, rather than anything lacking with the garment itself, that dampens his enthusiasm.”

Roman swiveled slowly in her direction. Much to her surprise, his face was cold and dark. He wasn’t bantering on idle topics. This was a subject he cared deeply about.

“You seem rather opinionated on the subject of your brother’s coat-wearing. Even I, with my dearth of sisters, recognize the unusualness of that.”

He let the observation hang. Not specifically a question, though he clearly intended for her to respond.

She bristled. She wouldn’t tell him Celeste was a personal acquaintance. He might tell Trestin, who might investigate. But it did annoy her that after years of her wishing Trestin would fall in love or, at the very least, take a mistress, Roman would actively try to dissuade his friend from either.

“Look at him,” she said, pointing to her brother. “My first concern is to see him satisfied in life. Does he look happy to you?”

To her surprise, Roman scowled. “He’s obviously lost his head if he’s allowing me to spend so much time with you.”

That stopped her. “What do you mean?” It was all she could do to keep from sounding breathless.

Roman drew his gaze back to hers, the black look still darkening his face. “Ashlin is well aware of my reputation. As carefully as he’s managed yours until recently, I’d say he’s distraught. Or did you not notice that the waltz has slipped into a country dance? We’ve whispered together for much longer than is proper. And yet, he doesn’t notice.”

How she
wished
Roman presented as much danger to her as he made their situation sound! Instead, he looked daggers at Trestin again. His concern was for his friend, not her reputation. Not for what liberties he might take with her while Trestin was plagued by despondency.

“Ho, there, Montborne. Keeping our Miss Lancester for yourself, are you?”

Lucy turned to see the speaker. Two young bucks, each holding two cups of lemonade, did their best to look bored as they hovered at her elbow. The fair-haired one was Lord Kinsey. The other she didn’t recognize.

The one she didn’t know grinned and held out a glass of lemonade for her to take. “You must be parched after listening to this windbag all night. Lord Felton to rescue you, my lady.”

She ignored the proffered cup of lemonade in favor of looking at Roman. Surely he’d cut these pups to the ground for their presumptuous interruption.