The Art of Ruining a Rake (23 page)

She hadn’t quite managed that yet.

“Yes, that’s a good one. What of the obstacles? I hope your characters will experience all the complications of a true Gothic work.”

He was giving her so much to think about. No wonder she hadn’t been able to move forward! It was clear she didn’t know the first—or even the second—thing about writing a story.

Realizing there was more to drawing out her characters than simply writing them down inspired her to learn the proper technique. And there must be a technique. Roman spoke as though he’d debated the structure of books with equally passionate thinkers for years.

This
was what she’d meant when she’d asked him to take her to the evening salons. Not brandy. She shuddered as her stomach churned.

Then she realized she’d just labeled Roman a great thinker in her mind. Had she, really?

“James and Caro are quite, quite challenged throughout the story,” she assured him quickly. Well, they would be soon.

He beamed. “Then that sounds destined for success!”

She halted mid-step, causing him to stumble as she turned to study him, feeling as though she were truly seeing him for the first time. “You’re not what I thought,” she blurted. “I didn’t know you—”

She’d been about to say, “I didn’t know you read.” But “I didn’t know you,” seemed accurate all by itself.

He laughed. A rich caress as intimate as a secret. “Perhaps you’ll come to like me after all, Lucy-love.” He looked off into the distance, then gave a thoughtful shake of his head. “It might even be catching. You see, the more time I spend in your company, the more I like myself.”

Chapter 11

ANY NIGHT THAT included a jaunt to Vauxhall was a magical night.

Lucy huddled into her coat and dug her hands deeper into her ermine muff. She kept near to Roman as they stepped out of their skiff and entered the park. An especially nice day had become an agreeably crisp evening, and like-minded revelers crowded the entry.

Roman went ahead of her, weaving a path through a throng of tightly packed patrons of the park. “We’ll be in Lord Scotherby’s box tonight,” he told her in a voice loud enough to be heard over the din. “He was in attendance last night. Do you remember him?”

“The balding one?”

“Poor chap. Scoth and I attended Cambridge during the same years.” Roman slowed as the crowd thinned. He fell into step beside her. “Is there anything of particular interest you wish to see tonight? You had a notion to enter the gardens during your come-out, if I recall correctly.”

She smiled to herself. He’d remembered.

“Delilah and I had planned to sneak past Trestin’s watch, but we never found the courage.” She admired the multitude of lights twinkling over the path as they walked. Marble statues were scattered throughout, and in the distance, a gleaming rotunda loomed over the bushes. She sighed contentedly, forgetting for the moment how very alone they were despite the multitude of patrons. “This is lovely.”

Roman pointed to a stack of crates being pried open by two workmen. “Fireworks. A clear night like this makes for a very good show. Have you seen them?”

“Ohh.” She imagined standing huddled beside him under a sky spangled with color and suddenly she was glad she hadn’t ventured out during her Season. Viewing them with him for the first time…

“It sounds enchanting,” she said, a bit breathless just thinking about it.

His voice came just behind her ear. “It is.”

She made a strangled little gasping noise.
 

“We have hours yet,” he said lightly, starting off down the path again as if he hadn’t just made her toes curl up in her boots. His walking stick whisked before them in an arc. “Would you like to see the Grove before we join the group for dinner? The Great Walk isn’t too far.”

“I want to see what
you
see when you’re here.”

Goodness, wasn’t that a telling statement?

She must stop this. If she blurted out her every emotion when he was near, she’d be in danger of losing more than her heart.

She took in her surroundings again, driven to speak to just the facts. “Trestin has always been so adamant that I not come. Look at all of these pretty lights. Vauxhall seems…”

Two couples strolling ahead of them were cloaked in shadow. To her left, a footpath disappeared into a stand of trees. Suddenly she was very aware of the handsome rake walking beside her. “It doesn’t
seem
untoward,” she murmured unconvincingly.

Roman laughed low. “Only an innocent would think a dimly lit garden held no danger.”

But she knew. Their arms bumped. Lucy jerked away, shoving her hands deeper into her ermine muff. “I’m not innocent.”

“Lucy.”

She sucked in a breath. “Yes?” she asked, the word barely above a whisper.

He paused and turned to her. She forced herself to look into his face, though she feared what she might see there. What he might see in hers.

He held his hand out in silent invitation. “I’ll show you my favorite haunts, if you promise me one thing.”

She drew another shaky breath. “Yes?”

“Don’t tell Ashlin.” Roman grinned at her. “He told me to keep you in well-lit company. He’ll be hacked.”

She laughed aloud, then drew one hand from her ermine muff and slipped her gloved palm into his. It fit perfectly. “Of course I won’t,” she said, smiling back. “He’ll be cross with me, too.”

She barely noticed her surroundings after that. Roman took the lead, tugging her behind him.

Perhaps holding her hand meant nothing to him. For her, the rightness of her palm splayed against his turned everything she knew on its end. Kissing him was glorious, and making love to him was heady, but this handholding excited her in its own way. Perhaps because it was so public. He’d brought
her
here, not anyone else. He didn’t care who knew it.

They arrived at a busy crossroads. Empty claret bottles rolled at her feet, threatening her balance, but he didn’t let her fall. Her fingers gripped his as he navigated around unhurried couples and open stalls peddling fragrant pastries and wine. She hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides, foolishly elated to be chosen to share a place he thought special.

He might make her soul ache when he looked at her, and she might spend the whole of the next morning reminding herself why she was best off without him. But for tonight, he was the devil she knew.

The devil she liked.

His pace slowed, allowing her a chance to catch her breath. When they broke through to the Grove at last, he pulled her abreast of him and surveyed her person quickly, as if checking for bruises or tears. “Did you come out all right?”

Her heart still thudded from the thrill of breaking through the mob—a path Trestin never would have taken her. “No worse for wear,” she assured him.

“My resilient little Lucy-love,” he murmured approvingly, making her heart grow ten sizes too large.

He led her along the edge of a very wide path. Trees formed a dark cathedral overhead, with only the occasional lighted sconce breaking the shadows.

“During the summer,” he mused, pulling her hand through his arm, then cupping it so she was tight against him, “there can be thousands upon thousands in attendance, so that we wouldn’t even have this lovely stretch of privacy to ourselves.”

Her pulse raced faster. Kissing him last night had been a mistake she could blame on the brandy. Tonight she was clearheaded, highly aware that this darkened path provided ample opportunity for the sorts of assignations Trestin had feared during her come-out.

And yet, she’d been the one to ask Roman to bring her here. She knew what he wanted from her.

Lucy, do I feel like your friend?

I do wish you wouldn’t kiss me as if I’m the air you need to breathe.

And she…

If only she didn’t
know
what a rogue he was. A year ago, she’d been so in love with him—with the idea of him—she would have done anything to spend an evening like this.

I would not have wanted you to use me.

Shame filled her. He was being so wonderful to her, more wonderful than she deserved, yet she couldn’t risk admitting she wanted more from him. Desiring anything but the thrill of his kisses and the pleasure of his company left her open to heartbreak.

With that, madness.

No, it was better like this. Safer to think of him—if not as a friend—then as a fellow member of the fast set who enjoyed exhilarating evenings and kissing in carriages. She needn’t concern herself with his lack of fidelity. A mutual arrangement, one they could agree suited them both.

Almost like…a lover.

Even the word frightened her.
Lover.
Yet it fit. This wasn’t a quick toss beneath the sheets, nor an unplanned assignation atop an office desk. What she felt for him was more than a kiss, more than a flirtation.

More than a girlish fancy.

She looked sidelong at him from beneath her lashes. He had a strong, patrician nose. Squarish, blond eyebrows. No other man sported a finer wardrobe; few could claim his height. But his real attraction was
this
. He understood her need to explore. He made the perfect champion for her introduction to artists and great thinkers, and a terrible candidate for anything more.

But if he were her lover…

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, slowing them before a pretty little ruin tucked among the trees. “I hope I’ve not bored you to sleep.”

She looked over her shoulder, then ahead, realizing they’d twisted and turned so many times, the Great Walk wasn’t visible.

Neither were any people.

“Woolgathering,” she said, suddenly nervous. They were alone. She was considering asking him to be her lover. Her!

Him.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She flicked her gaze to him, then to the ruin strategically maintained to appear authentic, though it sat near the heart of London. She licked her lips. “It’s beautiful,” she said, finding her voice. “W-what do you usually do when you come here?”

His chuckle rumbled through her, straight to the intimate part of her that had come alive at the mere thought of Roman as her lover.

“I lean right there,” he indicated a pillar with the head of his walking stick, “and I think about you.”

The only reason she didn’t swoon dead away was because he held her arm tightly. “You’re teasing me,” she said, feeling warm enough to shrug off her woolen coat. She didn’t, though, because every bit of fabric between them made it less likely she’d surrender herself behind that crumbling column.

He laughed. “I wish I were. Come, let’s have a look.”

The nearer they came to the ruin, the more trees surrounded them. He ducked his head under the arch of a doorway, then turned and helped her follow him inside. The sky opened up above them, trees and stars and the faint strains of orchestra music, the moon hanging full and heavy over their heads.

Despite thousands of glass lights scattered throughout the pleasure gardens, not one of the lanterns reached into the clearing. It was dark but for the moonlight. And yet, Roman’s piercing blue scrutiny seemed to glow from within him.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, holding her hand tight.

She nodded, telling him with her eyes what she was too timid to say.
Kiss me. Cherish me. Make me yours again.

 
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. “Good.” He leaned in closer. “Lucy?”

She could barely think for her anticipation. “Yes?”

“Kiss me.”

His request reverberated through her like the gong at Vauxhall’s entrance.

For the love of Zeus, she wanted to. Her entire being yearned for it. There was just one problem.

She touched his lower lip with the pad of her finger. Soft skin dimpled beneath her fingertip, and a bolt of longing hit her so hard, she made a sad little noise of displeasure. She should be kissing him now.
Right now.

“I can’t,” she said, using her finger to trace the dent of his upper lip, then the strong, masculine line of his nose, then the flat plane of his cheek. “You’re too tall.”

He groaned and swept her into his arms. She squeaked as he crushed her too tightly and lifted her off her feet, then moaned as his supple lips found hers. He gasped against her mouth, pulling her even more tightly to him, until the proof of his need pressed into her.