A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (11 page)

Delilah sent her maid away, then twisted on her stool to face Lucy. “If I look more angelic than you, it’s because I am. Sneaking off with Lord Felton! And Roman has been your shadow all week. What game are you playing? I have to think you’re up to something untoward.”

Were it not for Roman’s vow to dote on her tonight, Lucy might not have felt as gleeful as she did. Celeste’s sobering lecture had cast a pall on her afternoon. But now, just minutes before she was to see the man who’d finally, finally begun to take notice of her, she couldn’t keep from grinning like a loon. “It is something of a game, though I see it more as a strategy. If I tell you, though, you must promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone. Not even Mr. Conley.”

Delilah crossed her heart with one finger. “I won’t put anything into writing that Trestin might read.”

Close enough. Lucy had to—needed to—tell her sister everything. “I’ve been to see Celeste. You do recall Miss Gray? She returned to London after Trestin chased her out of Devon.”

“No!” Delilah’s expression was comically aghast.

Lucy nodded, smiling wider. “When Trestin is at his lessons, I slip away and meet with her for lessons of my own. She’s been teaching me how to be more…
intriguing
to the male half of our species.”

“You mean Roman.” Delilah ran her fingertips over the worn marble handle of her hairbrush. She seemed to choose her words carefully. “I know how you feel about him, dearest. But catching his eye—what on earth shall you do if you succeed? He isn’t a man to be trifled with, and there’s your reputation to consider. Trestin—”

“Would have my head if he knew. You cannot tell him!”

“I wouldn’t!” Delilah gripped the brush’s handle until her knuckles turned white. “That doesn’t mean I’m not concerned. Please, tell me she isn’t teaching you anything untoward.”

Lucy shook her head. “She’s quite vehemently against outrageous flirting. She prefers a more understated, poised style.”

Delilah glanced up. “Oh?”

“She doesn’t approve of giggling and wide-eyed flattery. Women are more interesting when they are unattainable, she says. Holding one’s self at arm’s length is more likely to capture his permanent regard, much the way Mr. Conley pursues yourself. He values you, for he cannot have you, and every iota of effort he expends to win your affection is a deposit on your worth.” As soon as she said it, Lucy realized it was true, and her appreciation for Celeste’s advice grew. “Miss Gray is impressively well-versed in the ways of men.”

“But not surprisingly,” Delilah drawled.

Lucy chuckled, once again pleased with herself for seeking out her brother’s spurned sweetheart in the first place. “It
was
her livelihood. I find it very informational. I’d say she’s instructing me in a sort of feminine self-possession, much like how men have their posturing and pontificating, but more subtle. According to Celeste, seduction is nine parts how I view myself and one part how Roman sees me. Fascinating, really.”

Delilah’s brown eyes widened with curiosity. “And Roman is taking note?”

“Oh, yes. Others, too.” Lucy couldn’t help feeling proud. For so many years, she’d been invisible. Just a handful of flirtatious exchanges later, she felt as though she could conquer the world.

Delilah shook her head primly. “Trestin wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, no. I didn’t set out to hurt him, of course. The awful thing is, I suspect he’d almost hate more the fact that my teacher is Miss Gray than the actual lessons themselves.” She smoothed the flounce on her skirt. “Fortunately, he hasn’t noticed my absence, or my success with several gentlemen, the poor soul.”

Her sister ceased fidgeting with the brush in her lap. “Poor soul? What do you mean?”

Lucy sighed. “As little as I liked our brother’s overbearingness, this aching, apathetic Trestin breaks my heart.”

Delilah’s lips formed a moue of sympathy. “To be honest, I’ve hardly realized he is in a brown study, I’ve been so engrossed in my own. But, maudlin or not, he’s bound to notice our tardiness tonight. This is one outing he won’t miss.”

Delilah rose and went to her wardrobe, then selected a silk shawl matched perfectly to the snow white color of her new ball gown. Both items had been purchased specially for her come-out, with precious coin Trestin didn’t have. All because he wanted to see his sisters settled.

Truly, for all his misguided efforts to marry her off to the wrong men, Lucy could never repay her brother for his kindness. He did love them, even if he failed to say it.

“I’ve been so wretched,” Delilah said, drawing the silk wrap around her shoulders. “I didn’t realize he’s still despairing. Do you think he loves her?”

Lucy reached for her own shawl tossed in a heap on the bed behind her. “Who can say? I believe he intended to court her. You know how he is; I imagine he wrote a perfect story for them in his mind, complete with names for their unborn children.”

Trestin had fallen for her quickly, and hard. He valued perfection, and he’d believed he’d found it in Miss Smythe.
 

Lucy’s thoughts trailed as she remembered Celeste’s advice to be singular and confident, rather than alluring. In Devon, Trestin had been transfixed by the headstrong bluestocking next door. Miss Smythe had been beautiful, yes, but that wasn’t what had made her appealing. It was her poise. She’d held herself proudly, refused to be coerced, and made one feel they were favored to have her attention.

Was it possible to feign twenty years of experience, a depth of wisdom and a shuttered heart? Was it even necessary, if all Lucy intended was to capture Roman’s interest long enough to taste the delight of being in his arms?

“Lucy?”

She blinked out of her reverie. Delilah was already at the door. Lucy slid off the edge of the bed and smoothed her bodice. It wasn’t cut as low as she would have liked—not that she had an expanse of bosom to show, anyway—but it fit her well. She could stand proud in it.
 

But could she glide, as Celeste seemed to do?

Lucy looped her arm through Delilah’s as they made their way to the drawing room where Trestin waited. Before they entered, Lucy nudged her sister. “See him brood?”

“Why, he looks awful!” Delilah whispered back. “How does Miss Gray fare?”

Lucy sighed. Fire danced across Trestin’s profile as he stared into the hearth. One hand held him upright against the mantel. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to realize they stood just outside the door.

She shook her head sadly. “The same, I fear.”

Delilah pursed her lips. “I don’t like seeing him like this. But what can be done? He was so angry when he learned of her soiled history. He’ll never forgive her for being unchaste.”

Lucy hesitated, unsure whether she ought to divulge any information about the shocking introduction she’d witnessed just before Lord Felton had whisked her into the gardens. “I believed so, too, but I’m no longer so certain. Trestin asked Roman to introduce him to a very beautiful, very mercenary-looking woman. A lady, but one whose interpretation of marriage seems fluid.”

Delilah’s brows rose. “Will he take a mistress?”

“It seems he might. I wish he would choose Miss Gray!”

Delilah slanted a wry look her way. “It really
is
none of our business.”

“Rubbish. Our brother is unhappy. We’ve everything to do with it.”

Delilah was quiet a moment. Then her pretty face split in a crafty smile. “Mayhap it is best Lord Montborne is willing to shepherd Trestin about. He ought to meet as many women as possible, until he is forced to admit none of them can compare to Miss Smythe.”

Lucy was impressed. “That is rather brilliant of you.”

Delilah grinned more widely. “It’s what he tried with us. Only, he meant for us to fall in love with one of his bachelors.”

Lucy hugged her sister’s arm closer. “I dread the day you leave me for Mr. Conley.”

As Delilah gazed into the drawing room, wonder shone in her eyes. She seemed not to see the flicker of firelight, but herself at Conley’s hearth. “Oh, Lucy. I long for it. No more squabbles, nor dashed hopes nor rules dictating who I may and may not see.”

Lucy tried not to feel slighted. She, too, looked forward to her new life in Bath; it didn’t mean she was anxious to leave Delilah, or even Trestin.

“We just need to survive the remainder of the Season,” Lucy said, tugging her sister inside the door. “Then we may all do precisely as we like.”

Chapter 7

TRUE TO HIS word, Roman was waiting for Lucy at the end of Lady Ditsworth’s receiving line, though they were early to arrive.

Lucy was breathless before she was even standing in front of him. Roman never, ever troubled himself to be punctual, yet he’d come tonight, for her.

He beamed at her, then bowed low over his extended leg. “My lady. I am your servant tonight.”

“Heavens, that’s an outrageous gambit!” Lady Ditsworth exclaimed, one hand flattened against her expansive chest. “Do not fall for it, Miss Lancester. Our Lord Montborne is a shameless flirt.”

Delilah tittered and poked Lucy in the ribs. Lucy ignored her sister. She was far too absorbed by the way Roman seemed to be watching her, as if daring her to contradict her cousin—when they both must know she was exactly right!

“I’m in a mood to be humored tonight,” Lucy said a bit breathlessly, extending her hand for Roman to take.

As he bent and brushed his lips across the air over her knuckles, he didn’t remove those sparkling eyes from hers. “Then I am your jester.”

As he straightened, he tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow, drawing her into line beside him, to her increasing delight. Then he turned to her sister. “Miss Delilah, had I a sister with your luster, I’d be hard-pressed to allow her a come-out at all.”

Delilah’s smile truly was radiant. “I would have stayed home happily, my lord.”

Trestin looked heavenward, aggrieved by her lack of appreciation for his attempts to see her properly introduced into Society.

Roman chuckled. “Try to enjoy the evening anyway. It was no mean task, rounding up all the unattached gentlemen in London. I should hate to think my efforts were wasted.”

Delilah’s laugh sputtered. Her eyes caught Lucy’s. Oh, she knew how deeply that hurt!

Lady Ditsworth beamed from ear to ear. “Did you put yourself out for me, Lord Montborne? How kind of you! I did worry we’d be thin on young men, as I haven’t held a good party here since my Eliza made her come-out ten years ago. Did you hear that, Trestin? Our ball will be a smashing success!”

But his attention had drifted. “Wonderful,” he replied, his lips forming a not-quite-smile as he stared blankly at a red-haired woman being escorted up the stairs to the receiving line.

She wasn’t Celeste.

Lucy forgave him his woolgathering. Trestin had spent years scrimping and saving for their come-out. For any other man, his lack of enthusiasm would have been expected, but was his insistence on a proper London Season that had brought them here at all. If he was inattentive, it was only because he was truly, deeply miserable.

That one dark spot was to be the only disappointing part of Lucy’s evening. Not only had Roman personally urged every handsome, eligible man to accept his invitation, he must have instructed them to treat her like a princess. If there was a downside to dancing every set with a different man, it was the constant frustration that the man wasn’t Roman. And yet, each time she found him across the room, he was watching her with an expression of bemusement that tugged her heart to her toes.
 

Sometimes he looked away first. Once, he acknowledged her with a two-finger salute. Usually, however, it was she who was forced to break the spell. There were simply too many others demanding her attention.

The candles were flickering near their bases when Lucy found herself alone for the first time in hours. Lord Kinsey had gone off to fetch another lemonade. She hummed along to the orchestra and tried to find her sister in the swirl of silk-clad dancers.

“You wanted this, I believe.” Roman startled her out of her girlish fancy and handed her a lemonade. Her insides fluttered as he murmured, “It seems Kinsey found better things to do.”

She took a delicate sip as her heart sped. Had he dispatched the poor viscount?

Roman moved into place beside her, closer than he ought to stand. Heat emanated through his sleeve. He smelled clean, like lemon peel and starch, as light and airy as his insouciant personality.