Lord Valentine’s Rotten February (The Rake Review, Season Two #2)

Prologue

London, England

Lady Rosalie de Lacy knocked twice on the heavy cherrywood door to her father’s study before pushing it open. “You summoned me, Papa?”

Arthur de Lacy, the Duke of Swanscombe, rose to his feet, setting aside the papers he had been perusing and peeling off his spectacles. “Rosalie. Thank you for coming.” He gestured with one brawny hand to the red leather wingchair positioned before his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Rosalie bit back a smile as her father settled into the oversized chair he’d had custom made to accommodate his burly six-foot, seven-inch frame. There was a common jest amongst the ton—He’s Duke of Swanscombe? Duke of Bearscombe would be more apt.

In terms of stature, both Rosalie and her younger brother, Robin, had taken after their mother, who was of average height.

Robin at least had inherited Papa’s thick brown hair, but Rosalie resembled her mother the duchess in every particular, with pale skin dusted with freckles, strawberry blonde hair, and pale blue eyes.

She may look like her mother, but in all the ways that counted, she was her father’s girl.

Her father gestured to the teapot. “Would you pour?”

“Of course.” Rosalie noted as she prepared her father’s cup, then her own, that the pot contained her favorite blend of tea, which had a touch of orange blossom and vanilla, rather than the plain black tea he preferred.

She smiled as she sipped from her cup. It was like her father to prioritize his daughter’s preference over his own.

The duke consumed half the contents of his cup in one sip. “I had a visitor this afternoon. Lysander Deverell, Viscount Valentine.”

“Oh?” Rosalie asked, setting her own cup aside.

Her father was studying her rather intently. “Do you truly not know the reason for his visit?”

She gave a startled laugh. “I haven’t the faintest notion.”

A single crease appeared between her father’s bushy brows. “That is… unexpected. You see, the reason Lord Valentine came to call was to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Rosalie, who had been reaching for her cup as her father made this pronouncement, managed to slosh tea not just in the saucer, but onto her father’s leather blotter. “I beg your pardon?”

The duke reached across the desk to dab at the spill with his handkerchief, unbothered, at least, about the mess. His brown eyes were sharp as he asked, “You truly had no notion? He has not been courting you?”

“Courting me? Gracious, no.” She scarcely knew the man! She had not spoken to Lord Valentine in… at least three years. Possibly four. And she would estimate that they had exchanged no more than two dozen words during the entire course of their acquaintance.

The duke nodded firmly. “Very well. I will write to the viscount refusing his—”

“Wait.” Rosalie found that her hand had shot out of its own accord, wrapping itself around her father’s thick wrist.

On the one hand, it was startling that Lysander Deverell had asked for her hand.

And yet… he was titled. Wealthy. And his reputation was spotless. He was precisely the sort of man her mother expected her to marry.

He was even young and… Rosalie couldn’t quite bring herself to use the word handsome, even though she knew there were dozens of giggling debutantes who thought him precisely that.

Unfortunately for Rosalie, Lysander’s particular brand of blond-haired, blue-eyed, cherubim-sprung-to-life looks held little appeal. She had always preferred—

Rosalie stopped herself from finishing that thought. The person whose name had almost flitted across her mind had shown her how few thoughts he spared for her. She was determined to give him precisely the same treatment.

But, returning to Lysander, at least he had all of his teeth—something that could not be said of all of Rosalie’s suitors.

And so, to her own surprise, the words that emerged from Rosalie’s lips were, “I wish to accept.”

Her father’s eyebrows shot up. “Have you been nursing a secret tendre for this Lysander fellow?”

Rosalie’s cheeks heated. She knew it would be easiest to tell a white lie. Her father would accept her decision without another word if he believed Lysander was the object of her affections.

But she couldn’t lie to her Papa.

“I have not,” she admitted.

The duke frowned. “Then why are you so eager to accept his suit?”

Rosalie strove to keep her voice light. “It’s a good match. Lord Valentine is of appropriate rank, and his reputation is unimpeachable.”

He studied her for a beat. “Both important points, to be sure. But they are not enough. A marriage should also involve, at a minimum, affection. Unless I am misjudging your expression very badly indeed, there is no affection, at least on your part. I would therefore recommend that you refuse Lord Valentine. There is no need to rush into anything.”

Rosalie laughed incredulously. “Try telling that to Mother.”

The corners of her father’s mouth tightened. “I will handle your mother. Marriage is for a lifetime. It is a decision you must consider very carefully.”

She stiffened her spine and summoned her resolve. “I have considered it, Papa. And I do want this match.” She gave a humorless laugh. “I think it is the best offer I am likely to receive.”

“Not at all. It’s not as if Lord Valentine is the first man to ask for your hand.” Her father waved a hand. “What was the name of that other fellow?”

“Do you mean Lord Wallington?” Lord Wallington was a wealthy earl who had proposed at the end of her first season. He was eighty-seven years old and almost entirely deaf. Rosalie assumed that was the reason he had not seemed to grasp how unsuitable the rest of the ton found her.

Her father gave her a baleful look. “Of course, I don’t mean Lord Wallington. The chap I’m thinking of was young and handsome.”

Rosalie gave a humorless laugh. “Surely you’re not thinking of Bradford FitzSimon?

” Indeed, Bradford was young and handsome.

Unfortunately, he was also a complete and utter cad, and his proposal had come quickly on the heels of a twelve-thousand-pound loss at the gaming tables, suggesting that it was Rosalie’s thirty-thousand-pound dowry, rather than her person, that he found appealing.

The duke huffed. “Bradford FitzSimon—I should say not! This fellow was hopelessly in love with you.”

Hopelessly in love with her? No one had ever been hopelessly in love with her.

Once, for a fleeting moment, she had thought…

No. No! What was she doing, thinking of him twice in the space of five minutes, when she had vowed never to think of him again? No one had ever been hopelessly in love with her. Full stop.

“I believe you are a trifle confused, Papa. Lord Valentine’s offer is by far the best one I have ever received. I wish to accept him. Very much.”

Her father looked unconvinced. “If you are accepting him in order to assuage your mother, I beg you to allow me to have a word with her. I was unaware that her comments were troubling you to this extent. If they truly bother you, I will make it clear that she is never to broach the topic again.”

Rosalie sighed. She was not accepting Lysander precisely to get her mother to stop nagging her, although it would be a welcome consequence.

No, if Rosalie was being honest, the reason she wanted to accept Lysander’s suit was that after six years on the Marriage Mart, she was tired.

Tired of attending the same balls and routs.

Tired of laughing at jests she’d heard a hundred times.

Tired of feigning interest in Lord Prickett’s gout, or Lady Helen’s new bonnet, or who Lieutenant Halliday had been seen walking in the park with that afternoon.

But most of all, Rosalie was tired of the whispers. The ones that she always heard, for all that they were ostensibly made behind her back.

Six years on the Marriage Mart, and Lady Rosalie still hasn’t learned how to keep her mouth shut.

What man would want such a brazen shrew for his wife?

No man wants a wife who is more intelligent than he.

Thirty thousand pounds and the daughter of a duke, and still, no man will have her!

The only thing worse than a lifetime of being married to a man she did not love was a lifetime of being the biggest laughingstock in London.

“It’s not that,” Rosalie said. “I do want this marriage, Papa. If I marry Lord Valentine, I will always have a place.”

“You will always have a place in this household,” he said in his ducal voice, the one that brooked no argument.

When she started to object, he raised a hand.

“And do not give me any nonsense about how I will not always be around. Firstly, Robin would never turn you out. Never. Point the second, I have it all arranged. Whenever I shuffle off this mortal coil, you will have your own inheritance—property, money… I even specified that you are to receive your favorite horse.” He thumped his fist on the desk for emphasis.

“You will be a wealthy, independent heiress. Not someone’s poor relation.

So, you see, there is no need to marry a man you do not love. ”

Rosalie’s voice was tremulous. “This is my sixth season, Papa. Most people consider me to be on the shelf. This is a good opportunity for me to marry and have a family. I do want that.”

The duke frowned. “But you do not love him.”

“I don’t,” she said helplessly.

When he spoke, her father’s booming voice was eerily quiet. “You cannot blame a father for wanting better for his Rosie-Roo.”

Hearing the childhood nickname on his lips broke something within her, and the words came pouring out. “It’s more than that, Papa. Everyone says I’m strident. That I’m overly opinionated. They call me a shrew. Don’t you see? If I marry Lord Valentine, I will no longer be a laughingstock.”

Although she was not crying—yet—he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. His voice was firm. “You are not a laughingstock. You are the daughter of a duke.”

She dabbed at her eyes, just in case. “Surely that proves that there must be some truth to what they say. I am the daughter of a duke, and I have thirty thousand pounds. And still, I haven’t managed to catch a husband!”

The duke scowled at the unfamiliar prospect of a problem he could not fix with a snap of his fingers. “To have the good opinion of such simple-minded fools would be the true insult. Your mind is as brilliant as a diamond. Such people are beneath your notice. You will disregard them, Rosalie.”

“I will try.” Rosalie lowered the balled handkerchief to her lap. “But, as I was saying, I do want a family of my own, and children. This is my opportunity to achieve that dream. Lord Valentine is a decent man. I’ve never heard a word said against him. It’s a good match, and I want to accept him.”

Resignation filled her father’s eyes, along with a hint of sadness. “You are determined, then?”

Rosalie clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into the heel of her palms. “I am.”

The duke inclined his head. “Very well. I will give him a conditional acceptance. He may have your hand, but first, he must agree to a set of stipulations that will be laid out in your marriage contract. It will probably take the lawyers a few weeks. I want to make sure it is ironclad. There will be no possibility of Lord Valentine touching your fortune, and if he should refuse to sign it, there will be no wedding.”

Rosalie stood and came around the desk. Bending down, she pressed her lips against her father’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”

She felt slightly queasy as she slipped from the room, but she didn’t look back. She would not change her mind.