Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Two Years Ago
The first time Rosalie clapped eyes on Lucian Deverell was at the Duke and Duchess of Tyrone’s rout.
One could be forgiven for assuming that Rosalie was right at home at a party being hosted by a duke and duchess, and a rakehell such as Lucian was the odd man out.
In this case, such an assumption would have been wrong.
The Duke of Tyrone was the worst sort of scoundrel, and he had for many years been shunned by the haute ton.
Why, he had even been featured in March’s edition of the Rake Review!
But he had recently settled down and married, and he seemed bent on turning over a new leaf. Determined to help the man known as the Mad Duke re-enter society, Papa had ignored Mama’s objections and insisted that they attend the newly married couple’s party in a show of support.
Most of the ton had stayed away, and it had been a relatively small gathering. Around half of the guests consisted of the duke’s scandalous friends.
Hence, the reason Lucian had been in attendance.
Rosalie hadn’t known many people at the party, but that did not trouble her. She was used to standing alone in the corner.
She had been on her way to the refreshment table when she passed by Cecil Darlington, who was holding forth before a crowd of young men. She caught a snatch of the conversation.
“Lady Priscilla is aptly named. Frankly, I could do with a lot less of her.”
A round of guffaws ensued. It was not difficult to guess whom they were discussing.
The unfortunately named Lady Priscilla Sizemore was one of the few respectable young ladies in attendance that night.
Indeed, no one would describe Priscilla as willowy, but Rosalie thought she had a lovely figure.
She reminded Rosalie of the models in the paintings she had seen by Titian during her father’s tenure in Rome.
Rosalie thought she detected the whiff of sour grapes.
Cecil was rumored to have taken a tremendous loss at the Hazard tables last week.
Priscilla had a respectable dowry of fifteen thousand pounds.
Her father doted on her and had already refused the suit of eight would-be bridegrooms this season.
Rosalie suspected that Cecil Darlington had recently tried his luck and had been roundly rejected.
Rosalie halted next to Cecil and his pack of scapegrace friends. She knew precisely what her mother would tell her to do, and that was to keep moving and mind her own business.
Rosalie obviously wasn’t going to do that. Were the shoe on the other foot, she would have wanted someone to defend her.
She might have got away with saying, “Please, Mr. Darlington. Lady Priscilla is a nice girl.” Or “I know you’re only jesting, but I wish you wouldn’t. What if Lady Priscilla were to overhear you?”
But, to put it plainly, that was not who Rosalie was. So instead, she snorted loudly and said, “Oh, please. Lady Priscilla is far too good for the likes of you. I doubt she would even give you a second glance.”
She was immediately confronted with four scowling male faces. But the fifth man in their group did not scowl. His expression remained neutral.
Rosalie recognized him at once. He was the notorious Lucian Deverell.
She had spied him from across the duke’s portrait gallery earlier that evening.
She had been surprised when someone told her his name.
She had heard of Lucian Deverell, of course, but as he never attended respectable society functions, this had been her first time seeing him in the flesh.
She had always heard how terribly handsome he was.
She supposed his features were handsome enough. But he lacked any sort of charisma. There in the shadowy portrait gallery, his eyes had been devoid of anything resembling a spark.
But now, in the wake of her remark to Cecil Darlington, something flickered in those grey eyes. Lucian was studying her with interest.
That was when Rosalie noticed that he was wearing a black armband. She hadn’t noticed it from across the room, as he had on a black jacket. That was right—his grandfather had passed away a month ago, or perhaps two.
Suddenly, she felt terrible for having judged him. No wonder the poor man looked glum. He was mourning.
Rosalie’s ruminations were interrupted by Cecil. “You ought to keep your opinions to yourself, Lady Rosalie. No man likes a termagant.”
Rosalie laughed in his face. “Happily for me, I do not care in the slightest what you think of me, Cecil Darlington.”
Cecil’s voice took on a whiny tone. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you. And you have to admit, Lady Priscilla is a big woman.”
“There’s only one type of man who would be troubled about that.” It occurred to Rosalie that she ought to sweep her gaze up and down Cecil’s scrawny frame to better drive home her point, so she did. “An exceptionally small one.”
She was met with a sea of scowls.
“Why, I never!”
“That was completely uncalled for!”
“And you call yourself a lady!”
Rosalie blinked. Gracious, she hadn’t thought her riposte was that good. Cecil had alluded to Priscilla’s frame, so she had alluded to his. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and all that.
That was when Rosalie noticed that not everyone was glaring at her.
Lucian Deverell was laughing!
He was trying not to, by all appearances, but every time he managed to straighten his face, it promptly split back into a grin.
He caught her gaze then, and his grey eyes were bright. Rosalie had always assumed the expression her heart stuttered to be nothing more than a poetic flourish. And yet, that was precisely what her heart did.
Good lord, but the gossips had been right—when he smiled, Lucian Deverell was handsome to an absurd degree. Although she knew she must try to ignore the fluttery feeling in her stomach. He was every bit as bad as the Duke of Tyrone, which was really saying something!
Cecil’s face had turned red with fury. “You’ll regret that!”
Fortunately, Rosalie knew precisely how to play that off. She gave a carefree laugh, followed by her most imperious, do-you-know-who-my-father-is smirk. “No, Mr. Darlington. I don’t believe I will.”
Then, she had turned on her heel and strode away.
She hadn’t given Lucian Deverell another thought. She hadn’t had occasion to see him for the first twenty-two years of her life, and doubted she would see him in the next twenty-two. It wasn’t as if they ran in the same circles.
But the strangest thing happened the following day. He turned up at Lady Windermere’s garden party! Who would ever have thought—the devil himself, at a garden party?
And stranger still, he sidled up to Rosalie while she was busy feigning interest in Lady Windermere’s roses.
“Enjoying your namesake?” he asked.
Rosalie was so startled by his approach, never mind the fact that he somehow knew her name, that she accidentally blurted out the truth. “Not really.”
He made a tutting sound, but he was smirking. “So, you’re insulting Lady Windermere’s roses, just as you insulted Cecil Darlington the other day.”
“No! Lady Windermere’s gardens are lovely. It’s just that…”
He leaned in, his grey eyes bright with mischief. “It’s just that?”
She glanced at the flowers. “Roses aren’t particularly interesting. At least, not interesting enough to occupy me for the next three hours.”
He nodded across the sweep of lawn toward the house. “You could always entertain yourself by making conversation with the other guests.”
She peered dubiously in the direction he had indicated. “Could I?”
A laugh burst from him. “The odds do seem rather poor, don’t they? I’m Lucian, by the by.”
She gave him a sharp look. “I know who you are, Lucian Deverell.”
He gave a mocking bow. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately for you, I know what a scoundrel you are.”
He arched a coal-black eyebrow. “Paradoxically, I consider it fortunate. It saves us so much time if you have absolutely no expectation that I will behave in a gentleman-like manner.”
She crossed her arms as she regarded him, taking no pains to conceal her skepticism. “And what makes you think I would want to speak to a scoundrel like you?”
He leaned in. “Because, unlike just about everyone else at this party, I am not a dead bore.”
Rosalie would never know what came over her. She had never been bold where men were concerned, had never been a natural flirt.
But some strange impulse had her leaning forward, too, until mere inches separated their faces. She could feel his breath against her lips, could smell his sweet-and-spicy cologne.
“Prove it,” she whispered.
A grin spread across his face, slowly, like a sunrise. It was a scoundrel’s grin, a pirate’s grin, the way a buccaneer looked at a piece of treasure he wanted to plunder.
Except, the thing he was looking at…
… was her.
He tilted his head to the side. She could tell by the gleam in his eye that he had come up with a clever retort. He opened his mouth, and—
—and someone seized Rosalie’s arm, yanking her back so hard she stumbled.
“Rosalie Jane de Lacy!” her mother snapped. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing, Mother!” Rosalie cried, barely managing to regain her footing before she stumbled into Lady Windermere’s rosebushes. “I was merely having a conversation with Mr.—”
“I can see with whom you are conversing!” Her mother cast a poisonous glare toward Lucian. “What were you thinking? You could be ruined!”
Rosalie gaped at her mother. “Ruined? Really, Mama—nothing improper has occurred. We’re in full view of—”
“That makes it even worse!” her mother shrieked. “Everyone can see you cavorting with this… this…” The duchess abandoned her sentence, apparently unable to think of a word sufficiently foul to describe Lucian.
Rosalie glanced at him, feeling embarrassed by her mother’s rudeness. But Lucian looked amused, rather than offended. Grinning, he shrugged as if to say, How can I argue? It’s true.