Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucian was feeling rather smug as he strolled through the front door of Swanscombe House, a special license folded neatly and tucked in his pocket next to his heart.
He was feeling grateful to that Brazen Belle woman, for all that she had spent the majority of her column denouncing him as a lecherous drunkard, because her harsh words had lit a fire beneath Rosalie’s mother.
If it meant that he got to marry Rosalie today, he wouldn’t even be bitter about the fact that the Brazen Belle had referred to him in print as, “as randy as a hare,” and “akin to the beribboned pony at the town fair, in that everyone has had a ride.”
Of course, Rosalie would likely still require some persuasion. But after her conversation with the servants yesterday, it could not have escaped her attention that Lysander was not as lily-white as his reputation would suggest.
And Lucian? Well, he would never suggest that he hadn’t earned his soiled reputation. He absolutely had.
But perhaps he possessed one or two redeeming qualities.
He was nodding to Stephens as he handed over his hat and greatcoat when someone seized his elbow. He glanced down and was delighted to see that it was Rosalie.
“Rosalie,” he began. “My flower. My dove. My beautiful bride-to—”
“Save it,” she hissed, dragging him down the corridor. “I need to speak with you.”
That made him smile. Straight to the point, that was his Rosalie.
She hauled him into a large room with burgundy and gold trappings, then shut the door and wheeled on him. “I presume you read the Rake Review this morning.”
He bowed. “Indeed. I believe that is the reason we’re all dressed to the pink of fashion at this ungodly hour.”
Rosalie’s eyes bore into his, undistracted by his jest. “Why did you do it?”
Lucian tugged at his cravat, which suddenly felt unaccountably tight, and desperately hoped that she wasn’t asking why he had slept with both Lady Reedshaw and her mother, a subject to which the Belle had devoted three entire paragraphs.
Thankfully, Rosalie continued before he was forced to speak. “It hadn’t occurred to me until the Belle pointed it out, but Lord Jarvis did not send his letter informing you that you were the rightful viscount until the last week of January. Yet you arrived in London on February first.”
“I actually returned on the last day of January,” Lucian said.
Rosalie regarded him steadily. “My point still stands. You could not have received Lord Jarvis’s letter. You didn’t come back in order to claim the title. So why did you?”
“Ah.” He had known that Rosalie, being as clever as she was, would ask about that sooner or later.
Considering how far she had come in her investigation, he decided he might as well tell her the truth.
He held her gaze. “I learned that you were on the cusp of marrying Lysander. That was the reason I rushed back.”
He’d been fairly certain the servants would tell her what a controlling cunt Lysander was. Letting them be the ones to inform her had seemed like his best strategy, because she obviously wouldn’t believe a word that came out of Lucian’s mouth.
It seemed they had done an admirable job, because instead of scowling at him, she merely swallowed. “And why did that prompt you to return?” she whispered.
He brought one hand up, tracing the outline of her face. “I told you, Rosalie, that I would never let him have you.”
The last time he had spoken those words to her, she had been furious with him, assuming they indicated nothing more than a petty rivalry with his cousin.
Now, she seemed to understand that there was more to it, more to him, than that.
“What would you have done?” she asked.
“Whatever it took,” he said at once. “I would have started with your father. He obviously adores you and would do anything to protect you. He’s a powerful man and more than a little bit terrifying.
Even if I was too late, and you were already married to Lysander, I think there’s a good chance he could manage to prise you from his grasp. But if not…”
She took his hand, squeezed it. Her eyes, as they held his, were shiny. “If not?”
“The servants told you what he did to our grandfather yesterday, did they not? How he wouldn’t let him leave the house, wouldn’t let him see any of his old friends, controlled every bite of food he put in his mouth?”
Rosalie nodded, her lips grim.
He laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it.
“As soon as I read your marriage contract, I knew exactly why he had refused to sign it. It was because of the clause that allowed you to return to your father’s household if you ever felt that the marriage was ‘untenable.’ Lysander would never agree to that.
It would defeat his purposes if you had the ability to walk away.
No doubt you’ve figured out by now why he proposed? ”
Rosalie’s eyes were unsure. “Is it because of what happened between us? Two years ago?”
He stroked his thumb across her cheekbone.
“Clever girl. He found out that you were the one I cared for. I actually bumped into Edmund Reeves the other day—remember him? The fellow who stumbled upon us in the garden? He sheepishly admitted that he had let it slip during a card game with Lysander last November.”
Rosalie gasped. “November? That’s when he approached Papa to ask for my hand!”
Lucian inclined his head. “Precisely. He would have delighted in taking you away from me, especially because he knew it would kill me to see you unhappy. And I would be powerless to do anything about it.”
Lucian grew somber. “If I found out that he was doing what he did to our grandfather to you…” He stopped to regain control of himself because his voice had taken on a tremulous quality.
He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to say? That I would have shot him, in broad daylight, in the middle of Hyde Park Corner, in front of a thousand witnesses? Because I would have, if that was the only way. I would’ve hung for it, but that would be all right, so long as you were free. So long as he couldn’t hurt—”
Lucian didn’t get to finish that sentence because Rosalie grabbed him by the lapels, hauled him to her, and brought her lips to his.
The kiss was especially sweet because she had kissed him. Maybe, just maybe, he was making strides in worming his way back into her heart.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. He stroked her lips with his tongue and was gratified when she opened for him immediately.
He was contemplating laying her down on the sofa when a voice came from the doorway. “Rosalie, there you… My gracious!”
“Mama!” Rosalie cried, hiding her face against Lucian’s chest.
The duchess strode into the room. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re having a wedding this morning! Speaking of which, the archbishop is ready to begin. Let’s not keep him waiting.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room.
Lucian peered down at Rosalie. “Are we having a wedding, then?” He tried to keep his voice light, as if his future happiness did not hinge on her answer.
Rosalie was studying him intently. The silence that probably stretched for no more than three seconds felt like an agonizing eternity.
Finally, she exhaled. “You know, I think we are.”
Lucian wasn’t about to give her the chance to change her mind. He grabbed her hand and tugged her out the door and toward the Archbishop of Canterbury.