The Art of Ruining a Rake (31 page)

“My life is a hollow shell without her. But she’s not here and I assume you know the reason why.”

Roman shifted, wary of Ashlin’s point. “I supposed she stayed away because of… Well, you know. Me.”

Ashlin’s black eyebrows arched. “Yes,
you
. She thought she might present a distraction.
I
think she was right. I also think you miss her.”

Roman raised his hands, denying it. “I don’t! Truly, I haven’t given her a single thought in—in a very long time!”

Ashlin studied him. “You’re telling the truth. It’s written all over your confounded face. But have you stopped to wonder why that might be? Why the woman who broke your heart is hardly in your mind at all?” He found his snifter and drained the last of its contents, then returned the delicate crystal to the sideboard with a little too much force. “You’ve replaced her with Lucy.”
 

“I have
not.
I love your sis—”

“It disturbs me to say this, but you don’t. Not the way you need to. You told me to trust your methods. I expected that meant you would seduce her, much as it nauseates me to say so. But you’re not. I don’t think you’re even trying. I did everything but lock you naked in a room together and what did you do? You spoke of
feelings
.”

Roman gaped at him. “Tell me you weren’t listening!”

Ashlin pulled a face. “I had no need to spy. It was plain when you left this house that nothing untoward had occurred. Your head was in the clouds, as it always is when you’re pondering the meaning of things. I’d have preferred to observe a cocksure step and a bit of whistling.”

Roman spluttered and reached for the decanter, feeling the need to get very, very drunk. He sloshed more brandy into his cup and looked sidelong at Ashlin as he drained it. Fortified, he asked, “Am I to understand you’re angry with me because I
haven’t
seduced your sister?”

Ashlin managed to look green about the gills and irate at the same time. “Can you imagine a more untenable position? I can’t allow you to go on like this, yet intervening means asking you to despoil her.”

Roman set down his glass and pivoted sharply to face Ashlin. “Then leave off. Allow me to manage my own affairs.”

“If only there
were
an affair!” Ashlin pounded his fist against the sideboard. “Your ‘methods’ are taking you farther away from your goal, instead of closer!”

Ashlin’s outburst found its mark. Lucy
wasn’t
coming around, much as Roman wanted her to. He’d told her he was content to be near her, and she’d left it at that.

“Go on,” Roman said, beginning to feel alarmed.

Ashlin’s cheeks colored as if the entire subject embarrassed him, which it likely did.
 
Visibly fighting for calm, he continued in a leveled voice, “For almost fifteen years, you and Celeste were good friends. Mayhap closer than you and I. Why? Because you both lived in London, while I prefer the country. You enjoyed a bit of diversion, while I have always been a recluse. I’m not jealous, mind. It’s simply a matter of record. But therein lies my worry. What did you and Celeste do, but endlessly escort each other to the same sorts of entertainments and diversions you’re now introducing to my sister?”

Genuine concern—and pity—washed over Ashlin’s face as he searched Roman’s. “You’ve replaced Celeste, your devoted confidante, with Lucy. To what end? Celeste didn’t fall in love with you. No matter how much time you spent in a coze as friends, she never developed a
tendre
for you.”

Roman’s heart slammed against his chest. It was true. No amount of time in his company, no amount of cherishing Celeste on his part, had ever resulted in a single extra ounce of intimacy between them.

Pursuing Lucy the same way was a perilous proposition.

“Lucy doesn’t remember when you’re expected to call anymore,” Ashlin pointed out. “She takes your arrival for granted. I can’t say I want you to seduce her—I never
want
to think of it—but there must be a way to avoid repeating a past mistake.”

Roman drew up at that. “Celeste and I were better suited as friends. That doesn’t make her a
mistake
.” He was feeling slighted at the ease with which Ashlin could find him lacking. “Who are you to criticize me? Celeste is the only woman you’ve ever paid court to.”

“And I botched it the entire way!”

Roman’s mood soured. Actually,
he’d
had a hand in that. What if Ashlin were right? What if he had no idea what he was doing?

Ashlin must have seen his doubt creep in, for he leaned forward as if to deliver the final, fatal blow. “You’re hardly as expert as you believe. A dozen married women and a few stolen kisses barely make you more experienced than me when it comes to love.”

As if their situations could be compared. “I’m
trying
.”

Ashlin went to his desk and sat behind it. “Try harder. She’s ruined. She needs to marry you.”

“She has to
trust
me. I’ll not ravage her like some Lothario—”

“I’m glad to hear you’re positively full of noble intentions.” Ashlin folded his hands over his flat stomach. “Truly. No brother wants his sister to marry a man whose heart is as black as his reputation. Just… Speed things along, will you? Before she relies on you so much as an ally, she fears ruining your friendship. As always seems to happen in these cases, when men want women beyond their reach.”

ASHLIN’S WARNING PUT words to a fear Roman had first felt at Vauxhall. Namely, that Lucy would come to view him as a friend, boxing him into a neat little corner of her mind with the other gentlemen she considered safe.

The threat loomed over him as he watched Ashlin pick up a pen and begin to work his way through a tower of correspondence. Yet it wasn’t the worst, most bilious-making fear Roman suffered. He’d been serious when he’d said he wanted Lucy to trust him. Because Ashlin was right, he
didn’t
deserve her. To put it mildly, he deserved to be loathed.

In acknowledgment of his foot-dragging disinclination to reveal his past, he downed one more brandy before setting the glass aside. A few moments later, Lucy found her way to the library and they bid good night to her brother. Then Roman helped her out onto the street, taking care to avoid uneven stones and other pitfalls the waning light made difficult to see, and turned them in the direction of Merritt House.

“Do you mind the walk?” he asked belatedly. “I suppose I ought to have called for a hack.”

She drew her attention to his face slowly, as if pulling herself from a deep fog. “I like the evening air. I haven’t been out of doors since the time we last saw each other.”

“Yesterday?”

She blinked as though befuddled. “It feels much longer than that.”

He forced himself to grin at her. “Because you’ve waited what seems an age to see me?”

She shook her head, dispelling any notion she’d spent the last hours pining impatiently for his return. “Because it seems a lifetime has passed. I’ve written at least twenty pages.” She glanced at him with a hint of worry. “Does that seem like a good pace to you? It
felt
like a good pace, but saying it aloud, twenty pages seems meager progress.”

Roman guided her between two hired hacks. When he and Lucy were safely on the walkway again, he tucked his walking stick beneath his arm and turned to look at her. “As long as the words are coming, you’re doing well. Tell me, what are James and Caro about these days?”

Ashlin’s warning rang in his mind.
This isn’t flirtation. You’re not even trying to make her desire you.
And yet, her interests were what he wanted to talk about. He liked being in her confidence.

Even in the graying light, he could detect a blush on her cheeks. Perhaps all was not lost, after all. “James was supposed to propose,” she said.

“Haven’t figured through that yet?” He kept his tone light, though her situation didn’t strike him as funny. All might not be lost, but all was not
good
. Even in a make-believe world with a hero entirely of her choosing, Lucy couldn’t bring herself to commit to marriage.

“It’s not
my
fault he hasn’t proposed. I’ve tried every stratagem I can conceive. James loves Caro. She loves him. She only pretends not to return his regard. And yet…” Her voice trailed. For another half block, she didn’t elaborate. Then she sighed. “I’m entirely perplexed. I can think of no reason he would hesitate.”

They turned again and arrived at the cascading steps to Merritt House. Lucy looked up, and up. The edifice was impressively tall, though not wide enough to require its own block. Light emanated from the various windows, relaying who was at home: Tony, who’d promised to keep to himself tonight; Bart, who would be busy with an engagement later this evening; Darius’s corner chamber with its curtains drawn tight; their mother’s darkened rooms.

 
Roman paused on the topmost step. The first floor was flooded with lamplight—everything was in place, then, for the evening’s entertainments. But was it wise? By any definition, these were bachelors’ apartments. Only when Mother was in Town—and she wasn’t presently—could Merritt House be considered a family home. For Lucy to call on anyone but Lady Montborne was scandalous.

“What is it?” Lucy asked.

He skimmed the brim of her woolen bonnet and met her eyes with all seriousness. “Merritt House isn’t a place an unmarried lady should be,” he said, wanting her to know she didn’t have to enter. And perhaps, in a calculating way, reminding her of the risk between them. Here, at Merritt House, there was no one to intervene on propriety’s behalf.

Understanding crossed her face. She tried to marshal her expression into a businesslike mien, but it was too late. She knew precisely what he meant.

They were friends, but here they could be more.

Hadn’t he been advised to remind her he was a red-blooded man?

“What will you do, my lord?” she asked bravely, the deepening of her flush giving away her awareness of him. “Seduce me over tenderloin and mashed carrots?”

He inhaled sharply as his imagination filled in the rest. Oh, he could do that. He could show her the house that ought to be hers. Skip the tour of the lower floors and take her straight to his room—and his bed.

“It’s a thought,” he said with low promise, and turned to rap neatly upon the door.

Alvey, the first footman, bowed as he greeted them. “Good evening, milord. Good evening, Miss Lancester.”

They entered the foyer and began the arduous process of removing their coats and hats. Mr. Benjamin, Roman’s dark-skinned butler, appeared and clasped his hands behind his back. “My lord, dinner will be served at half seven. Will you be taking brandy in the drawing room?”

“The library. You may send up a glass of sherry for Miss Lancester.” Roman helped her out of her coat and handed it to Alvey. “There are a great many books in the library,” Roman said, entwining her arm with his again, “but not nearly enough of them are sentimental, as you like.”

“I like all books, my lord,” she replied with a trace of indignation, “but perhaps I shall write an entire shelf of sentimental novels, if only to give your other lady visitors something to read.”

Confound it all, did she really think there would
be
other women? Did she not realize she was the only woman he wanted, would ever want? Or had she, as Ashlin had suggested, begun to think of him as anything but the husband he wanted to be to her?

They turned out of sight of the servants. Roman leaned to murmur into her ear, “How many other ladies do you expect me to show into the library, Lucy?”

She went rigid. Her eyes narrowed as her lips formed a straight line. “None, my lord. None at all.”

Hope. Hope was not gone. She was jealous. Roman smiled with relief and took up her hand. He liked her on his arm. He liked her in his house. Now to tell her his deepest, darkest secrets, and come out in one piece.

As he led her to the grand staircase and escorted her through a maze of threadbare hallways, he pointed out the little details that made Merritt House interesting. “This is the morning room where my mother reads her correspondence,” he said, stopping in a doorway. “The chest you see has been in my family since the Crusades.”

“Oh?” Lucy went into the room and bent toward a bone and ivory casket. He knew the engravings by heart, could almost feel her touch as she explored its studded walls. As a child he’d liked to think each star represented an ancestor of his, as if his family went all the way back to Constantine. He was a warrior by day and Bacchanalian by night, not just a man with a fanciful mother.