Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
After Rosalie left, Auntie Azita took Lucian to Rundell and Bridge. She brought along a selection of jewels from her personal collection as Vander had suggested she might.
“I have been wondering what to do with these for an age,” she told Lucian, opening a velvet pouch and pouring a handful of tiny pink sapphires into the jeweler’s tray.
They were oddly shaped, some of them little more than slivers, but they were a beautiful, saturated color.
She had also brought four marquise-cut emeralds that were only slightly bigger.
She explained her vision to both the jeweler and Lucian.
“A Giardinetti ring, I think. Not only is her favorite color pink, but her name is Rosalie. You can arrange the sapphires into roses and use the emeralds for leaves. It won’t be the flashiest ring, or the most expensive.
But I fancy that Lady Rosalie does not want that.
It will be unique.” She nodded crisply, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. “Just like her.”
It was perfection, which was precisely what Lucian had expected from the woman with the best taste in London.
When he offered to pay her for the cost of the gems, she swatted his hand. “Absolutely not!” She turned to the clerk. “And you will send your bill for this ring to me.”
“Auntie Azita,” Lucian protested.
She held up a hand. “I insist. It is traditional in India to give gold as a wedding present. This will be our gift to you, Cedric’s and mine.”
Lucian finally gave in and accepted gracefully.
He settled for taking her to Gunther’s for ices.
As he knew Auntie Azita wouldn’t take it the wrong way, he spent the entire outing complimenting her outrageously.
She basked in the attention, both from Lucian and from every customer who came into the shop, and the chance to be seen being doted upon by the most talked-about man in London.
Now that the ring was taken care of, Lucian only had one task to worry about:
Wooing his bride.
So it was the following morning that he set out for Swanscombe House.
He had asked his butler, Collins, to obtain an obscenely large bouquet of hothouse roses.
Collins had come through in an admirable fashion.
The roses were a deep crimson. There were four dozen of them.
They were fresh. Crisp. Perfect. They were artfully arranged with a sprinkling of fluffy, white baby’s breath and tied with a white silk ribbon.
Lucian clasped the butler’s shoulder. “Outstanding work, Collins.”
Collins bowed. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”
As it was less than a quarter mile to Swanscombe House, Lucian set out on foot. The morning was crisp but dry with a pale blue sky the precise shade of Rosalie’s eyes overhead.
As soon as he stepped out the door, things grew strange.
A young woman clutched his arm. She nodded toward the flowers. “Are those for me, my lord?” she asked, giggling.
She was remarkably pretty, with rich brown curls and a generous bosom.
Lucian could not have been less interested.
He sidestepped, extracting his arm. “They’re for my betrothed.”
Another woman, this one a blonde with full, kissable lips, seized his other arm. “I didn’t think you were the marrying type.”
Lucian attempted to tug his arm free, but the blonde was more tenacious than the brunette. Frowning, he placed his hand over hers and peeled her fingers from his arm. “Yes, well, perhaps a leopard can change its spots after all. I certainly intend to. Excuse me.”
He strode briskly down the pavement. He could hear the two women hurrying after him, undeterred.
They attacked at the same time, seizing both of his arms.
“Marriage,” the brunette mused. “To one woman. Forever. That sounds… dull.”
The blonde squeezed his arm. “You should have some fun before you settle down.”
Bloody hell. What was going on? Lucian was used to having women express interest in him. Widows and the unhappily married, for the most part. But not in the middle of a public street.
Maybe it was the fact that he now had a title and money. Now that he’d had a chance to listen to their accents, he perceived that these two were not ladies in the strictest sense of the word. No doubt they were hoping for compensation.
Or maybe it was that bloody Rake Review column. He couldn’t so much as cross the street without some woman giggling behind her fan.
Whatever the reason, he was determined to put a stop to it. “I’m not interested,” he said, not bothering to be polite. “At all. And I will thank you to unhand me.”
His request was summarily ignored. The more he tried to shrug the pair of ladybirds off, the more they clung to him. They seemed to delight in their little game, giggling each time they grabbed his arm anew. He felt lips brush his cheek, and one of them had the audacity to pinch his bottom.
As unwelcome as their advances were, he wasn’t about to strike a woman, so all he could do was walk as quickly as he could.
At last, he reached Swanscombe House. He hurried up the steps.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” the blonde said, pouting.
“At least promise you’ll come and see us!” the brunette called. “We’re over at the Domus Emporium.”
Lucian recognized the name. It was one of London’s most expensive bordellos. He’d been there a time or two during his misspent youth, although it wasn’t the sort of place he’d been able to afford with any regularity.
“It’s now being run by the Duke of Malum’s younger brother,” the blonde added brightly. “You should see what he’s done with the place!”
Lucian had absolutely no intention of taking them up on this offer. His shoulders sagged with relief when the door to Swanscombe House swung open. The butler quelled the two women with a sharp look, and at last, Lucian was rid of them.
Lucian paused in the foyer to straighten his coat. “These are for Lady Rosalie, of course. I believe she is expecting me.” This was not to say that Rosalie would be pleased to see him. But he had arranged the visit with her mother, so she would probably be forced to receive him.
The butler—Stephens, that was his name—did not answer but stood gaping at him.
Lucian heard voices from an open parlor door.
Rosalie.
She sounded annoyed. Someone had obviously advised her of his presence.
Stephens made no move to lead him into the house. After a beat of silence, Lucian said, “I’ll just show myself in, shall I?”
The butler shook himself from his stupor. “My lord,” Stephens hissed, his expression urgent. “Before you do, there is something you should—”
Just then, Rosalie came storming out of the parlor. She looked fresh and lovely in a simple white morning dress, in spite of the scowl twisting her lips.
Something inside of Lucian shifted, settled into place. After going so long without her, being in her presence felt like a balm to his soul.
It felt… right.
He stepped forward, seizing her hand and pressing a kiss against her knuckles before she had the chance to protest. “Good morning, Lady Rosalie. These are for you.” He proffered the roses, then dropped his voice to a husky murmur. “You look beautiful this morning.”
He had hoped that her angry expression might soften. He knew that she was drawn to him, physically, at least, in the same way he was drawn to her. It was something he meant to use. He wasn’t above playing every card in his hand.
Instead, her eyes went wide. “You cad!” she shouted. “How dare you?”
This was harsh, even by Rosalie’s standards. But Lucian knew he deserved her ire, and he was willing to bear it.
He gave her his most charming, roguish grin. “Not a fan of red roses, I take it?”
She snatched the bouquet and tossed it onto the console table. “I couldn’t care less about your roses! Not when you have the temerity to show up looking like that!”
Looking like… Frowning, Lucian spun to face the gilt-framed mirror hanging above the table.
Fuck. One of those harlots had been wearing lip rouge. In a shade of red almost as vivid as the roses.
And the outline of her lips was now smeared in red across his cheek.
“Rosalie,” he said, scrubbing at his cheek. “I can explain. It’s not what you—”
“Go away!” she shouted, storming off down the hall.
Lucian had to stand there and watch her go. The unfairness of the situation galled him. He had done nothing wrong, for once in his life!
Beside him, Stephens cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said stiffly, holding out a handkerchief.
He didn’t offer any words of condemnation. But Lucian detected disapproval in his flinty expression.
Lucian sighed. “Thank you, Stephens.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his cheek clean. “I know this looks bad. But it isn’t what it seems. I promise.”
Stephens’s face was perfectly blank as he replied, “Of course, my lord.”
Lucian nodded and took his leave. This was a setback, one he didn’t need.
But he wasn’t about to quit the field. He was going to marry Rosalie de Lacy.
No matter what it took.