Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The first thing Lucian did was close the damn door.
Auntie Azita had left the key in the lock. Perfect.
He quickly turned the key and slipped it into his pocket.
Rosalie sputtered with outrage. “Just what do you think you’re doing? Mrs. Beauclerk said the door was to remain open.”
Lucian gave her a bland smile. “So she did.”
“You villain,” she hissed.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “So you’ve told me. Repeatedly. If I have to tolerate these accusations, I should at least be able to enjoy the fruits of my misdeeds.”
She held out a hand, palm up. Her jaw was locked in that mulish set that he secretly found adorable. “Give it here!”
Instead of complying, he sank onto the sofa. He lounged back, hands behind his head. He propped his legs up, but he was careful to keep his boots off the cream silk upholstery. He wasn’t a monster. “Come and take it.”
She eyed him warily. He had placed the key in his inside jacket pocket, the one that was currently wedged against the back of the sofa cushions. In order to retrieve it, she would have to unbutton his coat, climb halfway on top of him, and scour his torso in search of the slim pocket.
God, the mere thought of her doing that had his cock swelling. Not to its full hardness, but he was wearing the latest fashion, which called for breeches so tight you could tell a man’s religion. If Rosalie’s gaze strayed in that direction, she was bound to notice.
He glanced at her face. Oh, she had noticed, all right. Her predominant emotion appeared to be revulsion.
But unless he was mistaken, which he rarely was when it came to women, there was also a sliver of longing.
He could work with that.
He gave her his best bedroom eyes. “Come on, Rosalie. You know you want to.”
“I assure you, I do not!”
He added a feline smile. “So, you’re saying that you want to remain closeted in this room with me.”
He was half afraid sparks would shoot from her icy blue eyes. “That is not what I meant, and you know it!”
“If we spend too much longer alone together, you’ll be ruined. Then you’ll have to marry me.” He tutted. “You say that’s the last thing you want, but your actions tell a different tale.”
He was glad she didn’t have a knife readily at hand, because judging by her expression, he was fairly certain she would have stabbed him in the thigh. “You, sir, are a cad!”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “A cad! However shall I bear such an insult? What will you call me next? A knave? A louse? A toad? Or even… a popinjay?”
She fired off a string of rapid Italian, that was, suffice it to say, much stronger than popinjay.
He bit back a smile. God, but he had missed her. She was like a spicy curry after years spent subsisting on plain porridge.
Not that she needed to know that. Yet.
Instead, he feigned shock. “Tsk, tsk, Lady Rosalie. Unfortunately for you, I spent six months of my absence in Venice. I managed to pick up a little Italian.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure those were the first words you learned.”
He ignored her barb. “Venice is stunning. The City of Love!”
“Whatever it is you do, it isn’t love,” she said waspishly.
“Could you be referring to lust? Are young ladies even supposed to know about lust?” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing the patronesses of Almack’s aren’t here. You’d lose your voucher.”
“They can have the bloody thing!” she snapped. “There’s nothing at Almack’s but weak lemonade and even weaker minds. If it weren’t for my mother’s insistence, I would never darken its door.”
He happened to agree. “I’m glad you told me your opinion. Once we’re married, I promise never to take you there.”
She snorted. “As if you could ever secure a voucher.”
He shrugged. “Touché.” Giving her a lurid look, he gestured to the length of his body. “Well, Rosalie? Do you want the key, or not?”
She lifted her chin. “I thought you didn’t need to resort to force to get a woman to touch you.”
He had said that to her, once upon a time, on a balcony beneath a sky strewn with stars. Of course, she would remember it.
“Another direct hit. Well done.” He sat up. “In that case, I suppose I’ll have to offer you a different method to win the key.”
Her eyes were icy. “I am terrified to ask what that might be.”
He held up three fingers. “Questions. Three of them, to be specific. Answer them for me, and I will set you free.”
Rosalie regarded Lucian warily.
It was difficult to decide which was more dangerous—opening up to him by answering his questions, or opening up his coat and running her hands over every inch of his flat stomach and deliciously sculpted—
She cleared her throat. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions.”
He patted the sofa beside him. “Come. Sit.”
She hesitated.
He arched a brow. “I believe we’ve established that I’m not going to force myself on you.”
They had, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, although she did not like Lucian Deverell at all, she was still horribly drawn to him.
Really, who could blame her? She pictured the way he had looked a moment ago, sprawled across the sofa like a fallen angel, with those hooded dark eyes and soft, kissable lips. What chance did a woman stand?
He held out a hand. “Please, Rosalie?”
Like an idiot, she took it. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was as if he were the Pied Piper and she were… every rat in town.
She shook herself. She really needed to come up with a better metaphor.
She sat beside him, and he turned to face her.
Instead of releasing her hand, he held it, stroking his thumb over its back.
She should have pulled hers away, but it felt so good.
It wasn’t merely that his hand was warm, strong, and surprisingly soft.
It was the caring implied by the gesture and the sincerity in his eyes.
Which she knew was utter rot! This was Lucian Deverell! The devil himself!
He made you believe he cared two years ago and look how that turned out.
Rosalie withdrew her hand from his. He released her without comment.
She cleared her throat. “What is your first question?”
His grey eyes were gentle, but compelling. “Why did you agree to marry my cousin?”
Perfect. One question in, and she already didn’t want to answer. The truth—that Lysander was the only one who had asked, that she was sick of feeling like a laughingstock—wasn’t something she could admit. Not to the man who had broken her heart.
She chewed her lip. She felt honor-bound to answer the question. But perhaps she could answer honestly without telling him every tiny, humiliating detail.
“He asked, and it seemed like a respectable match.” She shrugged. “I had to marry someone.”
His eyes were intent. “But you weren’t in love with him?”
“No,” she admitted. “It was a pragmatic arrangement.”
He exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed. “All right. Next question—do you hate me?”
At least this one was easy to answer. “Yes. So much.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “That’s good.”
She gave him a strange look. “Good? Why is that good?”
He waggled a finger at her. “I’m the one doing the asking. Last one—”
She held out a hand. “Wait. You’ve had three already.”
“No, I haven’t.”
She ticked them off on her fingers. “Why did I accept Lysander, was I in love with him, and do I hate you.”
He waved this off. “The second one doesn’t count. It was in clarification of question number one.”
“It most certainly does count.” She held out her hand. “Now, give me the key.”
“Not until you answer my final question.”
Rosalie bristled. “It’s not my fault you lost count. You can’t change the rules now.”
He smiled, seeming to enjoy her annoyance. “Certainly, I can. As you are so fond of reminding me, I am a cad. But I have a proposal for you. You want to know why I’m glad that you hate me. You answer my final question, and I’ll answer yours.”
Rosalie considered. Although his refusal to play by his own rules was infuriating, she should probably just agree. It was the only way to get out of this blasted room.
“I want two questions,” she grumbled.
He smiled again, like the cat who got the cream. “Very well. Why did you want to know whether I used to borrow Vander’s phaeton?”
Rosalie’s heart lurched. What answer could she possibly give? She attempted to stall. “So, you were eavesdropping.”
He managed to give a graceful bow while seated on the sofa. “Naturally. As you are so fond of reminding me, I am a—”
“Cad,” she said with him. What was she to do? It was an unusual question, and not an easy one to explain away.
She decided that providing as little information as possible was the best approach. “Lysander mentioned it to me.”
He made a sweeping gesture to the Beauclerks’ parlor. “And you thought it was worth the effort to come over here and confirm if it was true because…”
She attempted to look nonchalant. “Perhaps I am trying to ascertain your true character.”
He gave her an arch look. “Because you are looking for an excuse to weasel your way out of our betrothal.”
She laughed. “That is hardly a secret. Although it is a rather wild assumption on your part to think that the two are connected.”
His eyes gleamed. “Ah, but my cousin only ever commented on my use of Vander’s phaeton in one context—when he was accusing me of mistreating my poor, dearly departed grandfather.”
Rosalie said nothing.
After a beat, Lucian continued, “That’s it, isn’t it? Lysander spun you the whole sorry tale, and now you’re trying to find evidence to support that I’m as repugnant as my cousin claims.”
Rosalie lifted her chin. “Are you afraid of what I’ll find?”
“Not in the slightest. After all, your opinion of me could not possibly sink any lower. Go ahead, Lady Rosalie. Do your worst.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, you’ve upheld your end of the bargain. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to retrieve the key yourself?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Completely certain.”
He sighed and reached inside his jacket. “A pity. Here you are, Lady Rosalie. Go on, now—flee my wicked clutches.”
She took the key and hastily stood. She was already across the room, fitting the key into its hole, when something occurred to her.
She glanced at Lucian over her shoulder. “You didn’t answer my questions.”
“You didn’t ask them,” he shot back.
Rosalie swallowed, gathering her courage. “Two years ago, you made it abundantly clear that you have no feelings for me, save contempt. Why, then, did you agree to my father’s suggestion that you marry me?”
His grey eyes were steely. “Because you were on the cusp of marrying Lysander. And I would never let him have you.”
She swallowed. So that was all it was—she was a means by which to score a victory over his much detested cousin. Nothing more.
“I see,” she said haltingly. “I’m sure you recall my original question.”
He rose from the sofa. “You want to know why I’m glad that you hate me?”
She nodded, her throat turning unaccountably tight as he stalked across the room toward her.
He came up behind her, so close that, although he wasn’t touching her, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool room. His spicy-sweet scent enveloped her.
His deep voice stroked her ear like a caress. “Because, my darling Rosalie, the opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference.”
He moved even closer, stroking her elbow. She could feel his breath against her tender skin. She had never swooned in her life, but now she reached out and clutched the doorknob, terrified she would collapse in a heap upon the Axminster carpet.
He spoke again, his voice velvety soft in her ear. “And if you hate me so very much, it must mean that you cared just as much two years ago.”
Her cheeks burned with humiliation. That was the worst part.
That he was right.
Drawing a shaky breath, Rosalie’s fingers fumbled for the key. Somehow, she managed to twist it in the lock.
She stumbled through the door and fled without looking back.