The Art of Ruining a Rake (41 page)

She didn’t answer.

An agonizingly long time passed. He dared not look up lest he witness her disillusionment all over again.

Finally, she withdrew a hand and ran it over the back of his head, smoothing his curls. “I must think,” she said at last. “I knew you weren’t… I knew you
were
a rake. But this—this will take time. I don’t know if I can bear the thought of…”

Her hand on his head stilled. “What we did was special. To think you…sold—
that
—to the highest bidder. I don’t know if I can stomach it.”

It took everything in him not to crush her to him. He wanted to plead his case again. Beg her forgiveness a thousand more times. But he’d said all he could reasonably say in one sitting. If he pressed her further, or tried to explain in greater detail, she might stop listening. It could be too much.

She’d said she’d think on it. It must be enough for now. He looked into her precious face again. “Thank you.”

She sighed and glanced away. Her breath hitched, but his strong Lucy bit her lip and didn’t cry.

His conscience berated him for making her hurt. Worse yet was the loss of her confidence. She’d been so
close
to trusting him. And yet, he’d had to break her trust in order to make it stronger.

If only he hadn’t needed to do so.

She turned to him again. Her free hand touched his face. A sweet gesture that caused him untold levels of misery. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said. “I finished my novel and I…I’d like you to read it.”

He could scarce believe she’d bestow such an honor upon him after what he’d just told her. “May I? Do you have it with you?”

She nodded. “Mr. Benjamin took my satchel for safekeeping. Do you think it will take very long to read?”

Roman started to reach for her hand, but she balled it against her skirt.

“I’ll do my best to have it back by the end of the week,” he promised, trying to accept her sudden retreat without panic. “I’ll deliver it myself.”

“Thank you,” she said, staring at her fist. “You’ll tell me if it’s utter rubbish, won’t you? No one else will be as honest with me as you.”

No one else will be as honest.
He hoped he warranted that confidence. He’d told her everything deplorable about himself because he wanted his new, tenuous honor to be real.

“Am I to be an arbiter of literature as well as fashion?” he said lightly, though perhaps it was too soon for jests.

She smiled faintly. “If it’s to be popular, it must have your approval.”

He barely kept himself from embracing her. Confound it, how he wanted to take her in his arms and protect her from all the terrible things he’d done and all the jealous people they might encounter.

He didn’t. He was too scared she’d pull away.

“Your opinion of my opinion gives me hope,” he murmured.

She didn’t encourage him. Nor did she insist otherwise.

And because she didn’t…

He truly did have hope.

LUCY DIDN’T SEE Roman again for the rest of the week. She couldn’t. She was too shaken. For all that she’d imagined his sexual escapades—and over the years she had, in great detail—she’d imagined them differently. The Roman of her fantasies pursued dalliance like a dance. He captured ladies’ hearts with his wicked gleam and clever, flirtatious banter. In her daydreams he never truly loved the women he kissed, never gave his whole heart to any girl. It was too big for any one woman to keep for herself.

And she, like the females of her acquaintance, had always held out hope that one day, during
this
ball, at
this
dinner party, things would be different.

Lucy stared at the blank foolscap before her. The first page of her next novel.

Or a letter she wanted to draft, but couldn’t?

Her hands still shook too much to hold a pen. She let it fall from her fingers. She rounded her shoulders and slumped in her chair, then pushed away the tray of dry toast and chocolate left by Carson earlier in the day. How long would this melancholy last?

How long could it?

At times, she wished he wouldn’t have told her. She’d been happy. She’d almost,
almost
convinced herself it was safe to wed him. He loved her. She had believed that. As much as he was capable, he
did
feel devotion toward her. Then this.

A tear threatened to fall. It was, like her dreams, blinked away. She sat that way, not crying, as she’d done for five long days. Another hour went by. No—a glance at the clock proved her hellish eternity was barely longer than the tick of the minute hand.

Would this despondency never end?

She’d rather be livid. Fury was cold. Satisfying. She closed her fist and tried to feel strong. Even that small comfort was denied to her as her hand fell open, defeated. A sad laugh bubbled up and she shook her head. She wasn’t the dangerous, murderous woman she’d thought herself to be. She was powerless. Heartbroken. She didn’t want him to die; s
he
wanted to die. Every day.

But she didn’t. Fate wasn’t that kind.

The thin parchment blurred before her. He had her manuscript. He was going to return it, eventually. She would have to see him again. She could scarce believe she’d given it to him, and she deeply regretted it.

She’d gone numb in the moment. After he’d confessed all, her mind had become a buzzing whir of nothingness. She wished she hadn’t gone daft at the time, because she wanted to rail at him now that it was too late to do so.

She’d been distraught, unable to think coherently. His assurances had been mere noise. She’d only seen his handsome, bleak expression, and even that had come through a fog.

She laughed at her own naïveté. She wasn’t murderous. She was weak. Kind to him when she should be hardhearted.

She remembered the panicked feeling of wanting to comfort him, of nearly begging him to feel safe with her. When
she’d
been the one in need, the one who merited assurances and consolation. Surely nothing hurt more than learning the man she’d come to love wasn’t only the inconstant inamorato she’d known him to be. This…

This was contemptible.

Why?
she asked herself again. What made his past so abhorrent? The only difference between what she knew today and what she’d known yesterday was that he’d been a professional, paid consort, not unlike her sister-by-law, whom she respected highly. Why did it matter if he’d made love for money, rather than sport? He remained a rake, as he’d always been. Why did it matter what had motivated him to lie with a woman, if the outcome was the same?

She hugged her wrap tighter about her body. Another hot, lone tear escaped to wind down her cheek. But this
was
different. She couldn’t quite describe it. It sickened her to know he’d gone so blithely into women’s beds. As if the act meant nothing to him. He could have been a carriage driver or a haberdasher and it would have been the same to him. All in a day’s work.

She couldn’t believe it—she was wishing he were more
roguish
. But yes, when he’d been merely lustful and lovesick, it had been better. She’d accepted his appetites were too great to be contained, his heart too easily lost to a pretty face. That, it seemed, remained accurate. But there was another side to him. One disconnected from his soul. He removed his clothing and performed like a stud horse. How could a man like that love eternally? When he could so easily cut ties with his emotions, all for the promise of a new waistcoat?

And here she’d thought their kisses
meant
something. He was a performer, a professional. What he did and how he felt had no bearing on each other.

That’s not true, and you know it.

It wasn’t
entirely
true. She did believe he loved her, in his own way. But her faith in that way had been destroyed. What did it mean if he loved her, if his body was free to anyone—or worse yet, available at the right price?

Her hand finally made the fist she’d wanted. Who
were
these women who sought out male concubines? No one of her acquaintance, he’d said. No sort she’d ever even heard of. Her arms tensed, primed to strike out. Yes, these were thoughts she wanted to encourage. Why, there was a woman out there right now who still considered Roman at her command.

Lucy wanted to find that woman and shank her with a sharp object.

Hatred, pure and hot, roared to life. There existed rich,
immoral
women who tried to use Roman as a toy. How
dare
they! He was not an object. He belonged to no one, and no amount of money ought to be able to change that. What of his power to choose? It should be a level pitch, where all ladies who wished to catch his eye might play on equal terms.

As she had done.

A scratch at the door interrupted her thoughts. Lucy sat up a bit straighter and was surprised to realize she was nearly half-standing, such was her ire. She rose fully to her feet and turned in time to see Carson enter.

“Oh!” Lucy’s maid said, seeming surprised. “You’re up.”

Lucy composed herself as best could be done quickly and straightened the wrap as it threatened to fall from her shoulders. “It seems.”

Carson’s smile bordered on pitying. She didn’t know the exact cause of her mistress’s blue devils, but she’d seen enough of Roman that it couldn’t be hard to guess.

“I’m glad, then,” she said, wringing her hands together.
“Something
needs to be done, but Lord Trestin has gone out for the day.”

Lucy immediately tensed. This must be serious indeed. The servants never asked her opinion, as her brother was perfectly comfortable giving orders about absolutely everything. “What has happened?”

Carson’s gloved hands didn’t stop their worried fidgeting. “It’s just that Miss Burrows has found something unsettling and we… We don’t know what should be done about it.”

Lucy went behind her dressing curtain and began discarding the outer wrap and night rail she’d all but lived in these last five days. “What is it? Here, help me out of these clothes so I may go down to see for myself.”

“I don’t mean to cause a fuss,” her maid said as she reached for Lucy’s petticoat, hanging on a hook beside her pelisse. “It’s just that none of us wants to be the one what moves it.”

Lucy waited impatiently for Carson to help her don and then button up her simplest morning gown. “Shouldn’t you ask Mr. Gordo?”

“The watchman, more like. Besides, Mr. Gordo is paying a call on a friend.” Carson’s hands efficiently turned Lucy around before she could express her surprise at the idea of stern Mr. Gordo visiting anyone, let alone a friend. “There. They’ll be glad to see you, my lady. It’s been havoc for near an hour, as we didn’t want to disturb you.”

Lucy hurried to the first floor. Murmurs of servants whispering and scolding each other drew her to the parlor. The staff fell back as she entered. The decorative drawer of a three-legged table hung askew, as if the drawer had been opened, then quickly abandoned. She moved closer, her feet suddenly dragging as her premonition held her physically back.

She knew what she’d see before the silver chassis gleamed at her, confirming it.

Dare’s dueling pistol.

She instinctively reached for it. The grip was cold. The pistol felt heavy in her hand, balanced, leading her to believe it was primed and loaded. Great Zeus. Was she
holding
it? A gun?

Carefully but quickly, she set it on the table and stepped back. It sat there, mocking her as her heart raced. It was just a pistol. She knew how to use it. How to make it safe or dangerous. Her heart pounded in her throat nonetheless. A cold sweat broke across the back of her neck. How could Dare have been so dimwitted as to leave it? After she’d asked him in no uncertain terms whether he’d brought it?

She willed herself to calm. She should have suspected he’d be desperate enough to lie. He’d said ruffians were following him, and he’d proved to her that they were willing to go to any lengths to have their due.

Then Trestin had arrived and helped her toss the wretch out on his ear. He’d had no chance to retrieve the weapon before he’d retreated.

“What should we do with it, Miss Lancester?” Carson asked, stepping forward from the throng of gathered servants.

Lucy looked to her lady’s maid blankly, as if the answer lay that way. The wooden grip had left its impression in her hand and she closed her fist as if testing the solid weight of the pistol again. “I’ll remove it,” she heard herself say.