Chapter 3 #2
And that was why this man was so dangerous. He was nigh irresistible. He oozed charm the way an overripe peach oozed nectar. All he had to do was smile and crook his finger, and women, Rosalie included, fell at his feet.
And he was obviously an accomplished liar.
She lifted her chin, not deigning to look at him as she answered, “Not in the slightest.” She was pleased that she managed to sound both cold and indifferent in equal measures.
It was even true, in a way. She had not missed the real Lucian Deverell one bit.
The man she had thought he was for one beautiful, fleeting instant, on the other hand…
She missed that man desperately. Because that man was the only person who had ever made Rosalie think, This man…
This is my match. The rare man whose wit is as quick as mine.
The one who finds me delightfully piquant, instead of acerbic.
This is the person I’m supposed to go through life with.
But she had been wrong. That man didn’t exist.
She would do well to remember that.
Lucian led her into the space that had opened in the center of the dance floor. The orchestra struck the opening bars of a waltz. It would be a waltz, because that was just her luck.
Still regarding her with that smug smirk, he spun her to face him, placed a hand on the small of her back, and pulled her close. And the next thing Rosalie knew, they were dancing while the entirety of the ton looked on.
She had never danced with him before. Back before he left for the Continent, he had rarely attended proper society functions, and when he had, he had certainly never asked the likes of her for a dance.
So, it was only now that she discovered that he was an outstanding dancer, moving with the grace and power of a panther, and guiding her so effortlessly that she needn’t expend mental energy worrying about the steps.
Unfortunately, this left her free to focus on his conversation.
His expression was exceptionally smug. “This must be a happy day for you.”
She couldn’t stand to look at him, so she diverted her gaze over his shoulder. “I assure you, it is not,” she replied frostily.
His voice was a deep rumble in her ear, sending shivers down the length of her spine. “You wanted to marry me once. Rather desperately, as I recall.”
Hot shame flooded her cheeks as she recalled how she had begged him to tell her he didn’t mean it.
That the cruel words he was uttering were the real joke.
Not the kisses they had shared the previous night.
No doubt he could see her humiliation written in crimson blotches across her face—the curse of being a redhead!
“Well, you certainly cured me of my momentary confusion,” she said stiffly.
He somehow managed to shrug while waltzing. “You should try to recall those feelings. We’re going to be together ’til death do us part, after all.”
“We will not,” she hissed in his ear. “As soon as this interminable dance is over, I am going to find my father and explain that you are the last man on the face of this earth whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry!”
He responded with a smirk. “No, you won’t. The marriage contract has already been signed.”
“Not by me,” Rosalie shot back.
He steered her into a graceful spin, smiling for the crowd of onlookers. “Yes, by you. I know you. You read every word of that document. You probably have most of it memorized. Do you remember how it referred to your husband-to-be?”
Rosalie’s mind raced, and her heart sank. “It referred to him merely as Viscount Valentine.”
He bent his head toward her ear. “Which is me,” he whispered, making her shiver.
“Maybe,” she hissed. “Your cousin, Lysander, thought the same.”
He shook his head, looking amused. “I am Viscount Valentine. The House of Lords issued the writ of summons last night. Jarvis pushed it through. It seems he never forgave Lysander for all those times he ratted him out at Eton. He wanted to make sure there was no chance of my cousin contesting it.”
She feigned a bright smile. “Well, I am made of sterner stuff than your cousin. Rest assured that I am going to contest this alleged marriage contract.”
He had the temerity to laugh, and he did it so charmingly that the crowd of onlookers doubtlessly thought she had made some delightful jest. But his grey eyes were full of poison. “No, you won’t. Think, Rosalie. What piece of property did your doting papa insist on including as part of your dowry?”
Suddenly, Rosalie felt dizzy, and it wasn’t because they were waltzing. “Aylesford Castle,” she whispered.
Aylesford Castle was always passed down the maternal line, from mother to daughter. It also happened that the castle was not empty. It was the preferred residence of Rosalie’s Great-Aunt Millicent, a cantankerous eighty-six-year-old who did not suffer fools.
Rosalie adored Great-Aunt Millicent. And if she didn’t marry him…
Panic must have shown on her face, because a wicked smile had crept across Lucian’s lips. “Do you remember what happens to Aylesford Castle—and the rest of your dowry—if you break the marriage contract?”
She recalled perfectly, curse him. If she were the one to renege on the arrangement, everything went to him. It would be a heavy blow. Between the money and the castle, her dowry was worth around thirty thousand pounds.
But her father was rich enough to bear it, and for the sake of Rosalie’s happiness, she knew he would.
It would be one thing if only money was on the line.
But the thing that would be devastating would be losing the castle that was her birthright, that had been passed from mother to daughter for five hundred years.
How could she bear to be the one to destroy that legacy?
And even worse, what would become of Great-Aunt Millicent?
She would lose her home! Oh, she would always have a place beneath her father’s roof.
But her ornery great-aunt would be miserable living in someone else’s house, on someone else’s terms. She would butt heads with Rosalie’s mother over every little thing.
She deserved to live out her final years in peace.
Rosalie looked Lucian dead in the eye. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.
He snorted. “Of course, I would. Who’s that batty old great-aunt of yours who lives there? Lady Mildred? Lady Muriel?”
“Lady Millicent,” Rosalie said stiffly.
“Lady Millicent!” He leaned in as if he were whispering sweet nothings. “I’ll throw her out on her arse.”
She shuddered as his scent washed over her and his breath caressed her ear. She drew in a breath, trying desperately to piece together the scraps of her composure. “You will do no such thing!”
“No. I won’t.” The music was slowing as the waltz came to an end. Lucian gave her a final twirl, then pulled her close. His expression was adoring as he brought one hand up to delicately frame her face, then whispered, “So long as you marry me.”
He bowed over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss against her gloved knuckles. Then, he turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.