The Art of Ruining a Rake (42 page)

Her voice shook slightly. Nevertheless, she felt calmer. What danger did a gun present now, aside from the immediate concern? Her quarrel with Roman had depleted her entirely. She couldn’t imagine hating him, let alone killing him. Why, if she saw him again, she’d undoubtedly burst into the tears she’d worked so valiantly to hold back.

“I’ll remove it,” she said, more forcefully this time. “When I see Lord Montborne, I’ll return it. There is no need to involve Mr. Gordo or Lord Trestin.” The last thing she wanted was to explain to her brother why a loaded gun had been left in his house. They both had so much reason to abhor pistols.

The servants looked relieved. Lucy didn’t feel as optimistic. She didn’t want anyone else handling the innocuous-looking weapon, however, and she didn’t want to leave it where her brother could find it.

Gingerly, she picked up the pistol. If it was loaded, as she suspected it was, the trigger could be disturbed by even the slightest touch. With steady hands and a racing heart, she pointed the pistol toward the floor and released the flintlock. It clicked harmlessly back into place.

She ascended the staircase to her room carefully, and tugged her bedside drawer open. When Roman returned, she’d remember to give it to him. Until then…

She must not even think about it.

HE FINALLY CAME to her after two more long days. Lucy paused mid-step at the entrance to the drawing room.

Roman was standing by the window. His hands were gripped behind him, his body tense. She’d dreaded this moment for an entire week. She was terrified of seeing him, of the speeches he might make, and the words she longed to hear…

That he might not say.

He turned to her slowly. The radiance that made him so characteristically
him
was missing. Reflected in his eyes was her own misery.

His curly hair was still damp, as if he’d dressed in haste to meet her. “It’s brilliant, Lucy-love,” he said quietly. “I came to tell you first thing, before I am caught up in business matters. Every word moved me. I shall be ruined for all other authors after you. It will do very well, I think.” He pointed to her satchel on the couch, fat with the pages she’d written.

His praise left her speechless. It was almost enough to cause her to forget the real reason she’d languished day and night waiting to see him again. “Do you think so?”

He came toward her. He stopped several lengths away, but close enough for her to see his eyes were a deep, cobalt blue. “It really is very good,” he said. “You should be proud. I am.”

Her throat constricted. It seemed inconceivable that anything she’d written could warrant admiration. “Thank you. That means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

Though the distance between them was slight, they stood on opposite sides of a canyon. He searched her face. Seeking her forgiveness? Wanting her to give him one reason to come closer?

She hugged herself and looked away.

“I do feel compelled to wonder whether or not
you’ve
read your book,” he said softly. “Have you? Do you know what marvel you’ve written, my love?”

She enveloped her arms tighter about herself and swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
Don’t call me that,
she wanted to say. Followed by,
please, say anything. Make this all better.
But she suspected she knew what he meant.

James.

“Naught but a bit of make-believe,” she replied with as much conviction as she could muster.

“I don’t think
you
believe that.”

“’Tis fiction, my lord—”

Suddenly he was in front of her. He took her hands, preventing her from moving away.
 

She turned her head, giving him the side of her face. But there was nothing to shield her from his nearness.

“James is very real,” he said against her temple. His assertion was low and warm and insistent. “
You
see him.”

She tried to pull away. “He is a character, my lord. A figment of my imagination that has clearly captured yours.”

Roman held her hands firmly. His own kid-gloved thumbs stroked against her knuckles. “You love James. Despite his faults.”

He was doing it. Melting her. And oh, she wanted him to go on and on forever.

If he tried hard enough, plied her sweetly enough, she might come to believe him again.

But she wasn’t ready now, not just yet. It would be a long time before he proved himself to her. “’Tis easy to love someone who exists only in your mind.”

His grip on her hands tightened. “Tell me they’re not just words on a page.”

She tried to twist from him. “You’re a poet. You understand the interchangeability of words. You weigh them and rhyme them and choose the best ones for the message. They mean nothing.”

He tugged her closer to him until her shoulder met the warm, solid wall of his chest. “You love me.”

She stilled lest the truth spill out of her in waves. Yes, she loved him! She wanted to be his, forever. She wanted to be the only one who ever touched him. She wanted his eyes reserved for her alone.

She didn’t look at him, but stared blankly at the window to her right. He tensed. For an eternity, it seemed, he held her hands, until her fingers pressed against each other so hard they hurt.

His ragged breaths fell against her cheek as he struggled to make sense of her. “I came,” he said, “because in these the last few mornings I’ve been reading, I’ve learned how much you do care for me. I’ve plucked each precious word for safekeeping in my heart.”

He caught her chin in one strong hand and forced her to look up at him. “You found a way to forgive James. Forgive me. Please.”

She let herself become lost in his eyes, in his intensity. When she could bear it no more, she looked away again.

He angled her head so that she had no choice but to see him. “Pretty words, you’re thinking. I can see your doubt. They are no less true
.
I want to be a man who deserves you. I
am
trying. My past is set in stone, but my future is with you.”

“I cannot share you,” she whispered.

He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. “You never have to. I’ll show you again and again, for days and months and years, until you come to see it for yourself. I’ll wear you down, Lucy, my love.”

She cracked a smile at the thought of him hounding relentlessly her until she surrendered. “Please don’t.”

He didn’t laugh. “I’m the one you wrote about. I’m the man you want. I wish it were as plain to you as it is to me.”

Before she had a chance to respond—if she even could—he released her and stepped away. “Now for a bit of unfortunate timing. I’m afraid I’m about to be late for a meeting with my chief engineer. Do you think we could discuss your revisions before I leave? The twelfth part needs work.”

She drew up hotly. “I thought you said the whole of it is brilliant.”

“I did.” He stepped forward and kissed her on the lips so suddenly and so briefly, it almost couldn’t have happened. Before she could catch her breath, he pulled her to the couch where the satchel containing her manuscript had been tossed. “You’ll come to find that—as with men—
all
books need polish before they shine.”

Chapter 20

WHEN ROMAN ARRIVED at Mr. Shaw’s office, he was surprised to see Bart already seated across from his chief engineer.

“What are you doing here?” he asked his brother, though Bart’s presence didn’t rankle quite the same way Tony’s would have done.

Bart craned his neck to look over his shoulder. “Tony asked me to come.”

Roman’s mood, which had improved considerably after his visit with Lucy, spoiled again. “Why?”

Mr. Shaw stood and indicated the empty chair. “Have a seat, my lord. You’ll be glad of Lord Bartholomew’s presence in a moment.”

Roman didn’t like the sound of that. Nor did he appreciate the implication that his chief engineer was aware of his raw feelings toward his younger brother, even if it was entirely his own fault.

He never had been any good at concealing his emotions.

Roman took the chair and angled it so that he could see both men. “What’s happened? And why wasn’t I informed of it before he was?”

“I requested an audience with you as soon as I was made aware of the situation,” Mr. Shaw said calmly, “and Lord Bartholomew was summoned by Lord Antony to represent your legal interest.”

More
excellent
information. But Roman wasn’t about to take out his irritation on an innocent man. “Tell me, then, and be quick about it. What legal matter?”

Bart’s stiff posture was almost as alarming as his presence. “The bridge you were constructing has collapsed,” he answered.

Roman shot to his feet. “What the devil? Was anyone hurt?”

“No, my lord,” Mr. Shaw replied. “None so far as we can tell. All the workmen have been accounted for.”

Roman allowed himself a moment of relief. Then he asked, “When did this happen?”

“On Sunday last,” Bart replied.

Roman held his tongue, though he wanted to ask again why he was just learning of it now.

Then he remembered Tony had been against construction of the bridge from the start. He no doubt didn’t trust an important investigation to a man who’d made a poor decision to begin with.

“You assured me the plans were sound,” Roman said to Mr. Shaw. “We haven’t even made use of the bridge yet.”

The chief engineer looked abashed. “It’s not the design that failed, my lord. The bridge burnt down before it could be completed.”

Roman struggled to comprehend. “A stone bridge can’t burn down.”

Mr. Shaw cast Bart an uncomfortable look. “Not the bridge itself, exactly, but the centring.”

When Roman raised his brows to convey his naïveté, the engineer went on, “The centring is a temporary falsework that holds the shape of the arch while the stones are arranged and mortared together. It’s made of wood. Without it, the unfinished bridge cannot support itself.”

“I see.” But that only made things more confounding. How the devil could the assembly have caught fire when there was nothing around it for miles?

Bart was watching him so keenly, he must be missing some pertinent bit of information.

“Have out with it, man,” Roman said crossly. “I didn’t come for games.”

Bart leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. “Someone set fire to it
on purpose
.”

Roman sat back as though physically distancing himself from the idea. “Surely not!”

Mr. Shaw’s lips pressed together. “It seems so. I received an account from the shift manager. He states the fire occurred at night, on a Sunday. No work was being performed and there were no reports of lightning in the area—I asked him to be sure of this. A nearby pile of timber was untouched, as were several containers of lime. It is suspicious, to say the least.”

“We suspect arson,” Bart stated succinctly. “Attempted. Only part of the centring was scorched. Enough to cause structural degradation, is that correct, Shaw? But not enough to bring the whole thing down to pieces.”

The engineer nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Roman sank into his chair, conceding the issue. “We were sabotaged. But why?”

Bart glanced at the engineer. “Would you mind sparing us a moment?”