Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, Rosalie attended Lady Mayberry’s ball. She was in her usual position, standing in the corner with two of her fellow wallflowers, when her friend Annabelle Fox-Strangeways gasped. “Is that Lucian Deverell?”
Rosalie craned her neck to look. She already knew that the answer would be yes. The gossip on everyone’s lips tonight was that the man referred to as the devil himself had somehow managed to secure an invitation to a ball.
“What could he be doing here?” Lady Frances Calthorpe whispered.
Rosalie shook her head, mystified. All of the usual reasons for attending a ball seemed implausible. He did not make respectable conversation. Rosalie should know! He did not appear to have any fondness for the watery beverages on offer. He did not enjoy such insipid pastimes as dancing.
And he certainly couldn’t be searching for a bride.
Annabelle leaned in. “Do you think he sneaked in the servants’ entrance?”
Rosalie nodded sagely. “That seems like the most plausible explanation.”
“Do you know what I heard?” Frances asked. “I heard that he didn’t attend a single lecture during his time at Cambridge. He must be some kind of idiot!”
“He’s really not,” Rosalie said without thinking.
Silence fell. Rosalie looked from Frances to Annabelle. They were staring at her, dumbstruck.
“What?” Rosalie asked.
“You’ve spoken to him?” Annabelle hissed.
Rosalie blinked at them. “I… yes.”
“When was this?” Frances asked.
Rosalie bit her lip. “Let’s see. The first time was—”
“The first time?” Annabelle grabbed her arm, pulling her behind a potted palm. “Do you mean to tell me that you spoke with the most scandalous man in all of London more than once, and you couldn’t be bothered to tell us?”
Frances leaned in. “Just how many times have you spoken to him?”
Three, her brain supplied. Not that I’ve been ruminating obsessively over our conversations.
She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “I don’t know. A few.”
Frances and Annabelle exchanged a look.
Annabelle turned to her. “You’d better start at the beginning.”
“All right.” Rosalie cleared her throat. “The first time I encountered him was at the Duke and Duchess of Tyrone’s rout.”
“What?” Annabelle hissed. “You attended the Duke and Duchess of Tyrone’s rout?”
Frances cast a pregnant look toward Annabelle. “And again, she didn’t tell us.”
Rosalie sighed. “Here’s what happened...”
She described the unkind remark she had overheard about Lady Priscilla.
Annabelle cringed. “You said something. Didn’t you?”
Rosalie bristled. “Of course, I did! Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“No,” her friends replied in unison.
Rosalie lifted her chin. “Well, I took him to task.”
Frances rubbed her forehead. “I am terrified to ask precisely what that entailed.”
“It wasn’t that bad!” Rosalie protested.
Her friends regarded her with identical pointed expressions.
“Well… Perhaps it was. But you must admit that he deserved it! What I said was—”
“Rosalie, there you are!”
Rosalie was saved by her mother, who bustled into their circle in a flurry of mauve silk.
The duchess inclined her head toward the center of the room. “Come, I’ve arranged for you to dance the next set with Lord Pritchard.”
Rosalie suppressed a groan. Lord Pritchard was a baron who was twenty-some-odd years her senior. In spite of the fact that his hairline was receding and his stomach advancing, he seemed to regard himself as a veritable Casanova.
Frances and Annabelle were shooting her looks that conveyed that they still expected a full report regarding her conversations with Lucian.
Rosalie gave them a tight smile. “Coming, Mother.”
She followed her mother across the ballroom and dutifully curtseyed to Lord Pritchard. It was just one dance, after all. She would paste on a brittle smile and get through it, and then she would contrive some excuse to make her escape.
The dance was a waltz. Splendid.
As Lord Pritchard led her onto the dance floor, she caught sight of Lucian standing near the refreshment table, smirking at her. She lifted her chin, pretending not to have seen him.
Lord Pritchard drew her into his arms, a little too close, and Rosalie had to suck in her stomach to keep from brushing against his protruding belly.
She tried to draw back slightly, but Lord Pritchard was five inches taller and probably ten stone heavier than she was, and he either did not notice, or did not care about, her discomfiture.
The orchestra began to play, and they started to twirl. “You look lovely this evening, Lady Rosalie.”
“Thank you,” Rosalie said, avoiding his gaze. It was a standard compliment, yet the baron managed to make it sound lurid. Perhaps because he was leering at her bosom as he said it.
“Do you like to hunt?” he asked.
“I do not, no.” Rosalie happened to be an excellent horsewoman. But she was not fond of fox hunting. It was one thing to stalk something you would actually eat. But she failed to see the point of terrorizing the poor fox.
“That will have to change,” Lord Pritchard observed.
Rosalie gave him a sharp look. “I beg your pardon?”
“Once we’re married.” He said it as if he were explaining a simple point to a small child. “Your mother assured me you had a good seat. No matter. I can teach you myself if—”
“There seems to be some confusion,” Rosalie cut in. “I have not agreed to a match with you or with anyone else.”
“She hasn’t told you, then,” he replied, his voice unconcerned.
Rosalie bristled. “Whatever understanding you think you have with my mother, I assure you it is not binding. My father is the one who has the final say over such matters, and he would never force me to marry without my consent.”
The baron gave her a baleful look. “So, we’ll be doing this the hard way.”
He would regret those words just as soon as she could reach her father. “This dance is over.”
She attempted to slip from his grasp, but Lord Pritchard gripped her hand so hard she felt the bones shift and pulled her flush against him.
She had not noticed how close they were to the French doors that had been left open to let in the cool night breeze.
It was a simple matter for a man of his size to steer her through them.
The balcony was deserted, their only witnesses the spray of stars overhead. The baron propelled her into a shadowy corner and boxed her in against the stone balustrade.
Calm. You must stay calm. It would be all right. Rosalie knew what to do. One of her male cousins had shown her the year before she made her come-out.
The first step was to distract him. She made her voice indifferent. “You mean to ruin me, then? How very cliché.”
On the word very, she brought her knee up sharply, aiming for his groin.
His hand shot out, staying her leg with ease. His smile had a malicious edge. “A knee to the groin, eh? Which one of us is a cliché now, Lady Rosalie?”
For the first time that evening, Rosalie felt a prickle of true fear. “Unhand me, you brute!” She hated the way her voice trembled as she uttered the words.
“I think not,” he replied. “You see, my racing stud has not been doing very well lately, and your thirty-thousand-pound dowry will save me from having to sell off my bloodstock. I’m sure you understand.”
Rosalie struggled to get away, but he clamped a meaty hand around her wrist. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice growing shrill.
Lord Pritchard looked amused. “Go ahead. Scream. That’s what I need, after all—for us to be discovered alone togeth— Aieee!”
A cracking sound was audible over his shrill scream.
Lord Pritchard lurched to the side, releasing Rosalie’s wrist. As she sagged against the balustrade, Lucian Deverell came strolling out of the shadows into a pool of moonlight.
“One problem with that plan, old chap. It turns out that you two are not alone.”
Lord Pritchard clutched the railing, his face red in the moonlight. “What have you done to my knee?”
“Stamped it in,” Lucian replied conversationally. He turned to Rosalie. “Very painful. You should add that move to your repertoire. Your instinct to knee him in the groin was good, but it’s such an effective move that many men will be expecting it.”
The baron was glaring furiously at Lucian. “You’ll pay for this! I’m going to ruin you! Just see if I don’t!”
Lucian winked at Rosalie. “There goes my spotless reputation.” He turned to the baron. “If you think your knee is bad, just wait. Lady Rosalie is the apple of her father’s eye. By the time the Duke of Swanscombe is finished, they’ll have to clean up what’s left of you with a rag.”
Considering she had been in a state of panic mere seconds before, it was remarkable how quickly Rosalie’s mood had turned around now that she had an ally. “They really will,” she agreed.
Lucian gave Lord Pritchard a shove. “Go on, now. Hobble off into the gardens like a good little coward. And don’t think of breathing a word about this to anyone.
If you say anything about Lady Rosalie, or about me, then we will have no choice but to explain the precise circumstances of how you came to be injured to the duke. ”
“Good riddance,” Rosalie called cheerfully as the baron hobbled down the stairs, muttering curses to himself.
Once he disappeared, Rosalie turned to Lucian, intending to thank him.
But before she could speak, he said, “I wanted to apologize for the other night. It wasn’t my intention to poke fun at you. At least…” He waved a hand, struggling to explain. “Not in a mocking way. I wasn’t laughing at you. I thought we might laugh about it together.”
“I believe you,” she said quickly. Strangely, it was true. The basic fabric of his character had not changed. She still knew him to be the worst kind of rakehell.
And yet, a man who would come to her aid in her moment of need could not be entirely bad.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
He inclined his head. “You’re welcome. I suppose it takes one scoundrel to know how to deal with another.”