The Art of Ruining a Rake (48 page)

Lucy blinked. She heard a man answer.

“Yes,” he said. “God, woman,
yes
.”

Roman.

Roman was behind the door.

The ringing in her ears quieted. Clarity came to her. Great Zeus, she couldn’t
kill
him.
 

She loved him.

She heard him moan again and her heart ached to be with him. She wanted to be the one who brought him to climax. Her. Only her.

How had her mother gone through with it? Murdering Roman was impossible.

Suddenly, she knew why Mother had turned the next bullet on herself. If anything happened to Roman, she’d want to die, too. Though she could hear what he was doing with Lady Letitia, all she wanted was for it to stop. Not for him to be gone. She was furious and devastated, but she couldn’t imagine so much as slapping his cheek with her glove. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Now that she was so close to him…

She wanted to be with him forever.

The sounds of pleasure faded. She remained at the door, the pistol barrel listing toward the carpet.

She wasn’t going to do it.

She didn’t
want
to do it.

She lowered the pistol. Then, blinking into awareness, she expertly restored the flintlock. She must go. If she witnessed anything more damning, it would make it that much more difficult to forgive him. And she wanted to forgive him.

She wanted to love him.

She untied the satchel. The velvet bag gaped open. She filled it with warm metal and pulled the strings, then doubled the laces so a firm knot held it closed.

The smaller loops didn’t fit her wrist anymore. She threaded her fingers through them, then turned around and collided with Roman.

“Lucy.” He towered over her, so virile and handsome and
here.

“You!” she gasped out. “What are you doing? Aren’t you—?” She looked over her shoulder at the closed door. He caught her chin and turned her head forward. His lips swept over hers.

Oh, thank Zeus.

It
wasn’t
him
.

He pulled her into his arms so tightly, her breasts crushed painfully against his chest. She pressed herself even closer, savoring the proof he was with
her
. He groaned and wedged his leg into her skirts, sealing their bodies from lips to toes, his hands splayed against the small of her back. “Lucy,” he murmured between kisses. “My love.”

She sensed he’d seen her make the decision not to enter the room. By the way he clung to her, it seemed he’d witnessed her love take its momentous turn.
 

His tongue delved into her mouth, merging them into one, and she praised the gods again, this time because she’d escaped unscathed. He didn’t seem horrified by her lapse of good sense. He’d trusted her implicitly, believing she’d never hurt him, and he’d interpreted her change of heart for what it was: a shedding of her foolish belief she was capable of harming the man she cherished.

The man she loved.

Her fervency matched his. His kiss was insistent; tender, yet possessive. She kissed him back. He
wasn’t
in the room. He
did
love her. She loved
him
. She
wasn’t
mad.

She wasn’t her mother.

She gave him everything, surrendering her soul, begging for his understanding. When that wasn’t enough, she stretched on tiptoe, hugging her arms around him, needing to be closer. Wanting him to know she regretted ever doubting him.

She explored his mouth the way he’d claimed hers. Let her kiss prove that no matter what mistakes they might make in the future, she’d never injure him. Given all the provocation in the world, she hadn’t so much as confronted him angrily. She loved him too much to hurt him.

He lifted her up so they were evenly matched. “Roman,” she said, dropping ardent kisses over his mouth, cheeks, his closed eyes. “My beautiful Roman. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He kissed her back. He didn’t need to return her precious declaration. Ten or twenty times, he’d told her he loved her, and she’d failed to believe him. His confidence in her lucidity, his joy in seeing he’d been right, was him showing he did love her. He’d been waiting an age for her to realize it.

She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and held him as tightly as she could. He was here. He was hers.

A crack rent the silence. A man yelped in response.

Lucy and Roman froze.

“Take it,” the woman’s bark instructed firmly through the door. “Bite it with your teeth.”

Then:
WHAP.
“Take it!”

Lucy reeled back. She looked at Roman with wide worry, her hands still clinging to his shoulders. “What sort of bed play is that?”

“We should go.” Slowly, he slid her to her feet, distracting her from the troubled look on his face.

“But—”

Roman glanced at her with new resolve, frightening her with his intensity. “
You
should go,” he amended. “I’ll come down in a moment. I must see to something first.”

Lucy bit back her response. He was asking her to trust him.

Here. Alone.

With Letitia.

Lucy wanted to be strong for him. She must be strong for him. But why did he want to stay? “Wh-what could you possibly need with her?” she asked, her voice shaking only a little.

The man in the room made another whimpering sound. Roman shifted almost imperceptibly toward the door. His hands still encircled her arms, and he tightened his grip on them as if forcing himself not to leave her, or forcing her to stay rooted in place.

He stared over her head, as if he could see through the door if he tried hard enough. “Go.”

“No,” she said, doubt mounting in her breast. “I want to know what’s going on.”

He blanched but didn’t look at her, tripling her bad feelings. Her heart pounded harder. “Who is it? Do you know him? Do you care that he’s—that he’s with her?”

Roman shook his head vehemently, not looking at her. “She can tup every man in Britain, if it makes her happy. I don’t care what she does with her time.”

Lucy nodded slowly, convincing herself this was the truth. She believed him. She did. He was out here, not in there. Yet he knew what was taking place behind that door. He did care what was happening, even if jealousy wasn’t the reason.

Something was upsetting him.

“Roman, who is it? Or, if it’s not a
who
that has you concerned,
what
is it? What is wrong?”

He dragged his gaze back to hers. Guilt darkened his face. “Wait for me below. Please, Lucy. Trust me.”

The more queerly he behaved, the more anxious she became. “Who’s in there?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What is she doing to him? Roman, tell me why you’re uneasy.”

A muscle tensed at his jaw. He looked at the door again. Then he turned back, visibly forcing himself to concentrate on her. “I came for you, dearest heart. Believe me, I would not be here but for Tony’s direction. I don’t care how Letitia amuses herself anymore.”

Lucy tightened her grip on his sleeves. “But you do care, and you did come. I didn’t inform Lord Antony of my destination. Yet you knew where I’d go. And I think—I think you’re worried about the man in your place. The man who must resemble you closely, else Mr. Tewseybury and Lord Steepleton wouldn’t have thought…” Her eyes widened. “You
do
know who is with her. And you care deeply. It’s Lord Dare, isn’t it? Lord Dare has taken your place.”

The sorrow on Roman’s face bespoke the truth. “I think so, yes. And it’s my fault. I told Letitia he might be amenable to the idea.”

Horror at the thought of Lord Dare being subjected to—whatever was taking place behind the door—turned Lucy rigid. She guarded her expression lest she come across as judging Roman.

But she wasn’t angry. She was glad to know he’d found some sort of an arrangement. So very, very glad for him. Surely, Lady Letitia could provide the means to stave off his creditors. He no longer needed to fear for his life.

And anyone, anyone was better than Roman.

Lucy collected her thoughts. So long as Lord Dare was a willing party, and the man caught in Lady Letitia’s clutches wasn’t Roman, it seemed a clever trade. But as she searched for the right words to reassure him, the unusual noises filtering through the door made her blood run cold. She’d known Roman was experienced in the bedchamber. She’d never suspected what those
experiences
might entail. What was taking place behind that door?

No. She must not ask.

“I see,” she said slowly. “You wish to remain behind to confront your brother.”

Roman glanced at the door, his relief palpable. “Yes. That’s not why I came, but now that I’m here, I want to know that he’s happy.”

“He seems willing…” Lucy said dubiously, as another crack split the air.

Roman nodded slowly. “I suppose an arrangement like this might suit him better than it does others.” He grimaced. “While I did propose the idea to Letitia once, I never approached my brother with it. After Tony informed me you’d come and gone from Merritt House bearing a tale of my infidelity, I realized she must have sought him out herself.”

A swift, whipping sound preceded another muffled groan.

Lucy moved toward the door as the man cried out, louder this time. “Is that a switch? It sounds like a birch cane.”

The man yelped again.

Roman caught her hand. His eyes sought hers. Clear and blue, they asked her to keep faith with him. “Please, Lucy. Do you trust me?”

The thought of Roman behind that door, doing those things, tied her stomach in knots. But it was in the past. His past. She couldn’t allow his colorful history to ruin their current happiness, or their future.

She took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said, entwining her fingers with his as if to prove it. She could master her misgivings. She did trust him. “With all my heart.”

He smiled wanly. “Thank you.”

They stood together, arms extended and fingers interlaced, as he seemed to search for a way to explain.

She girded herself to listen calmly. Whatever terrible thing he told her, whatever licentiousness had brought him to this point…

He was
not
behind that door.

Roman didn’t look directly at her, but she didn’t feel he was evading her. Some stories were difficult to tell. “I feel I owe you an explanation. The fact is, Lady Letitia lost her husband three years ago. With time, her…appetites returned, but her heart never healed. I met her through a different widow with whom I had an understanding.”

He waited to see if she wanted him to continue. She straightened her spine, then nodded once and squeezed his hand.

He tightened his hand on hers, returning the reassurance. “Letitia has told me I remind her of Robert, her late husband. At first that didn’t signify to me, but over time, I’ve come to understand how deeply she loved him, how profoundly his loss devastated her. Robert died without consulting her first, you see. What we are hearing may be less sordid than it seems, when one considers her frame of mind.”

Lucy blinked as the pieces fell into place. Letitia had replaced Robert with Roman, then replaced Roman with another tall, blond stand-in. A pattern of lookalike lovers attesting to the depths of her misery.

Lucy winced as a blow as excruciating as if a horse had kicked her socked her in the chest. Letitia had lost the man she’d adored. Lucy couldn’t conceive of the utter despair she must live with every day.

To have lost a husband… A love… She raised her hand to her heart and squeezed her eyes closed as thought became very personal. If she ever lost Roman…

If she ever
lost
him, she’d die.

Slowly, she willed herself to look at him. “Oh, my darling. How awful for her.”

His head snapped up. His eyes widened with disbelief, then an incredulous smile turned her heart. He stepped toward her, bringing her hand to his lips. “Lucy. My darling Lucy. You’re more than I shall ever deserve.”

“Thank you for telling me.” She kissed his knuckles back. He needed her to be strong. To give him proof that she didn’t revile him for what he had divulged. “How lucky she was to have you to keep her husband’s memory alive for her.”

Roman gazed at her with adoration so great, she swelled with love. “You amaze me, Lucy-love.”

She stepped toward him and looked up into his face. Then she raised his other hand so she might press her lips to both. “As you amaze me.”
 

Chapter 24