The Art of Ruining a Rake (20 page)

WATCHING BARTON-WRIGHT flirt with Lucy was the most excruciating thing Roman had done in his entire life.

Oh, it would have been easy enough to turn away from the scene. He even managed to do so briefly once or twice. But a diversion would distract from the exquisite torture of not having her.

Confound it all, he
needed
to mean more to her than the sum of their glorious lovemaking. How the truth hurt! He wasn’t her equal. One word from Barton-Wright and she’d know it. Roman ought to look away, before she realized his indifference was naught but a ploy to gain her trust. But he didn’t want to turn his back.

He didn’t have to ask what Barton-Wright had in his favor that he didn’t. Scruples. Deep pockets. An overabundance of arrogance. Observing her with the pompous upstart redoubled Roman’s determination to earn her regard. He wanted her to look at
him
like that. Those laughs should be his, too. Not reserved for him, per se, but she ought to
like
him, confound it. Or else what was he good for?

Lucy’s gaze found his. Intelligent brown eyes flicked up and down his person. Fire shot through his loins. Barton-Wright leaned in and whispered something in her ear, something that made her blush, and she looked away.

Roman growled under his breath and pushed from the wall. He ignored Mariah’s sputtering protests behind him and prowled the room until he reached the sideboard. Young pups scattered upon his arrival. So be it. He was too raw for niceties. Liberal amounts of liquor, yes.
 

He watched Barton-Wright and Lucy flirt as he got rotting drunk. The pull of his heart was a bittersweet siren’s song. Another man might have been jealous, but Roman wasn’t. There was a reason he’d decided to make her his wife, and it wasn’t just because he’d ruined her.

She challenged him.

Finally, both his glass and the decanter were empty. Their hostess had long been absent, as were most of the guests. The evening was finally done.

He started to move in Lucy’s direction. She was his responsibility to see home. Before he could set his tumbler on the sideboard and go to her, however, a voice stopped him.

“Covet her all you like, darling, but don’t forget me.”

Blast his inattentive woolgathering. He didn’t need to see Letitia’s face to know she’d slinked into the assembly and crept up behind him; he was more than well acquainted with talking to her in the dark.
 

He didn’t take his eyes from Lucy. Only the barest nod of his head acknowledged the woman who held him on a leash. For all that was holy, he hoped Barton-Wright did not know the name—or face—of his former patroness.

“You’re never far from my mind, Letitia. You quite own my thoughts.” True, if not for the reason he made it sound.

She slipped her arm through his and perused the room with the indifference of a woman who knew which man would warm her bed that night. “You haven’t been to see me in a disappointingly long time. I hold so many of your IOU writs. How will you earn your vowels back if you don’t come to my bed?”

He didn’t deign to look at her. “I’ll buy them from you.”

“Oh, darling. They’re not for sale.”

His heart pounded. He focused entirely on the silken-haired innocent seated across the room, mere steps away yet increasingly beyond his reach. If Letitia didn’t allow him to buy back his debt but insisted on a court trial, he’d never keep his secret from Lucy.

“You jest.” His tone carried an edge.

Letitia sniffed. “If rumors are to be believed, you’re on the verge of coming into your own blunt. My letter of services obliges you to tolerate me. Why should I surrender my last card?”

He tore his eyes from Lucy and turned them on the hateful woman at his side. “Because you’re above torturing me merely for the pleasure of it.”

Her lips parted in a cruel smile. “When I so enjoy our little games? No, I think not.” She tilted her head in Lucy’s direction. “She seems enamored of your new friend. You must be delighted.”

Letitia
would
love rubbing salt in his wound.

“Yes, that’s precisely my emotion.”

She shrugged and drew her finger along his sleeve. “A passing fancy, if I ever saw one. She’s not even pretty. I’ll credit you two hundred pounds for tonight, and another two hundred if you visit again before Sunday. That’s no small dent in your due.”

He batted her hand off his arm. “Miss Lancester isn’t a whim, and she wouldn’t understand our arrangement. Get me out of your head, Letitia. I won’t be recovering my vowels the old way. She’d think it more than repugnant.”

Letitia gave him a blithe look. “It is.”

He raised his tumbler, only to remember he’d already drained it. He slammed the crystal cup on the sideboard and tried to distance his turbulent emotions from the woman pressed so close against him, the jewel-encrusted bodice of her emerald gown snagged on his sleeve.

“No,” he denied her through clenched teeth.

Her hand skimmed down his spine. “Tomorrow, then.”

“She might love me by then.”

Letitia’s hand skimmed his backside beneath his tailcoat. She gave his arse a painful squeeze. “You’re a man made for tupping. If she falls in love with you, then she is a fool.”

She extracted a silver flask from her bodice. As she untwisted its cap, she didn’t take her eyes from Lucy. “In fact, I already pity her.”

THEY HAD TO LEAVE. Before anyone explained the nature of his relationship with Letitia to Lucy.

Roman stalked away from his smirking benefactress and went to Lucy. He held out his hand to help her rise. “Let’s go.”

She tilted her head back, back, back to look up at him. Those eyes that had met his so raptly across the room took their time to focus. “You’re so
tall.
”

Excellent. She was foxed.

Barton-Wright placed his hand over hers and looked at Roman. Before the bounder could say a word, she jerked her hand away. “Sir!”

Relief cut the sting of Letitia’s venomous bite. Even drunken, Lucy didn’t want any other man touching her.

Roman scowled at Barton-Wright as Lucy soothed her offended extremity. If he wasn’t mistaken, she swayed as she rubbed Barton-Wright’s touch from her hand.

“You’ve got her potted, you numbskull. It’s her first night out.”

Barton-Wright smirked. “And it was going rather well, until you pushed in.”

Roman growled and took Lucy’s hand. She gripped too tightly and swung outward, toward his thigh.

He held her steady, allowing her to get her bearings before he tried to pull her to standing. “I was right there, you clodpoll. Did you think I’d let you steal her away?”

Barton-Wright’s eyes, too, were glassy and unfocused, his cheeks reddened with bluster. “Had to try.”

“You’re disgraceful,” Roman said, drawing Lucy to her feet. He gathered her against him and steadied her with an arm about her waist. “Leave her alone.”

Barton-Wright shrugged, not the least troubled by Roman’s warning. “You advised me to find an unspoilt one.”

Roman clutched Lucy tighter to his side. “Not
her.”

She leaned her cheek against his arm and gripped his coat, denting the fine wool. Her other hand squeezed his tightly. “Roman, I want to leave.”

“Yes, my dear. One moment.” He hugged her to him and brushed his lips against the crown of her coiffure, then turned back to Barton-Wright. “Miss Lancester is under my protection, you stupid oaf. Find a woman who desires your attention.”

Barton-Wright’s eyes narrowed. “Like Lady Letitia desires yours?”

“Roman…” Lucy said, clinging to his lapels. “Please. I want to leave.”

Thank God she was too sotted to understand Barton-Wright’s meaning. Nevertheless, the longer they stood here, the more likely she’d remember an artifact of their conversation. He glared at his antagonist. “Never speak of her again.”

Barton-Wright laughed. “Or you’ll do what, my lord? You can’t be rid of me. Not unless you have another well-heeled investor up your sleeve.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Roman said menacingly. But it was a bluff. He’d been through most of the
ton
. Many men were willing to purchase a few shares, but Barton-Wright had claimed forty per cent. They were unlikely to find enough financiers amongst the remaining gentry to compensate for the loss of him.

Roman pulled Lucy away before Barton-Wright could see the truth in his face.

She came willingly, and within moments he had her bundled up and out on the street. He cursed under his breath as he realized there were no hacks out at this time of night. He kicked himself for not hiring a carriage at the start of the evening. Was this any way to treat a lady? Dragging her from house to house in the middle of the night?

She held his hand tight as he hesitated. The cold air was refreshing, and the walk might sober her up. But it was late. She was foxed.

She was his to see home.

With new resolve, he turned and marched them back to the house. The footman who answered the door didn’t attempt to argue with Roman’s request for Madame Claremont’s carriage. Soon it was brought around, a gold-embellished reminder of Roman’s lack of worth. He and his brothers didn’t even own riding horses in Town.

He bounded into the carriage beside Lucy and wrapped his arm about her again. Once he had her nestled against him, he rapped on the roof with his walking stick. The carriage jerked forward and he forced himself to ease against the squab. She was safe, even if she was intoxicated. She was with him.

Her hand rested on his breastbone. His heart beat steadily against her palm. The smell of her and feel of her enfolded him in a blanket of warmth. Here there were no distractions to take his mind off her, the slight curve of her waist settled beneath his hand, or the rise and fall of her breasts.

Her fingers moved. His pulse jumped as her fingertips stroked against his waistcoat. Tentatively at first, then bolder. A glance at her closed eyes revealed nothing of her thoughts as her fingertips grazed lower, toward the brocade-covered top button of his waistcoat. She explored his chest after that, walking her fingers around to investigate the velvet turn of his coat, and higher to test the tightness of his cravat.

No, those were not her fingers. Just his neckcloth, choking him as he fought a hot surge of desire.

Confound it, man. She was drunk.

“Have you heard of my good fortune?” he asked her, knowing she was awake.

She turned her face against his arm and shook her head. “Mm-mm,” she said, slipping her hand inside his coat.

Her hand brushed across his nipple. Instantly, he was aroused. If she kept this up much longer, he’d…

She was
drunk.

“What’s that?” he asked, forcing a teasing note into his voice. “Pray, tell you more?”

She pushed further into his coat and grasped his abdomen. “Your stomach is so…hard.”

That wasn’t all that was hard.

He sucked his breath though his teeth. “Your lukewarm curiosity is precisely the reaction I was hoping for.” He set his hand over hers and gripped her knuckles through the superfine. “Are you familiar with the Grand Canal project?”

“No.”

He gasped, feigning horror. “You were in Bath, Miss Lancester, not under a rock. How could you not have heard? Trestin’s in up to his elbows.”

She tried to extract her hand. He held it tight.

The journey continued a few more blocks in silence, until she began to nuzzle her nose against his arm. Her lips brushed his coat. Beneath his firm grip, her fingers tickled against his muscles, attempting to explore again.

Never had such innocent gestures made him so achingly erect.

“At any rate,” he explained, his voice hoarse, “the Grand Canal is a canal—
don’t
give me that cynical look—pushing right through my home farm. A vein of granite was discovered on my estate during the excavation. We’re doing our best to make it profitable.

“I thought…” His voice trailed as the intimacy of the carriage became his confession booth. “I thought it would be simple. Open the quarry, reap the profits. I’m learning how little I know about managing affairs.”

She wriggled against his side, pressing her thigh so close, she was almost in his lap.