A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (14 page)

“A farrier,” Delilah corrected. “And Mr. Conley may be an apprentice now, but when he returns to Hempsted Heath in Gloucester, he will be the only smithy for miles and miles. He’ll do very well for himself. You’d know this if you’d had the least inclination to meet him.”

Lucy stepped forward before Trestin could argue that none of them ever should have been introduced to a commoner like Mr. Conley. “We’ll be back to Devon soon enough, Delilah. Until then, let’s enjoy what time we have left in London. Perhaps Trestin can escort us to the Museum tomorrow. There is no reason London must be reserved for husband-hunting.”

To Lucy’s surprise, Trestin looked regretful. “I’m otherwise engaged.”

Delilah’s face fell. Lucy was disappointed, too. This was their last opportunity to go about together as a family. Soon, Delilah would find the strength to defy Trestin and marry her farrier. Lucy would remove to Bath. And Trestin….

Well, the Trestin who sought solace in the arms of a lover was a man she hardly recognized. One she might get on with better, if she were given the chance to know him.

Roman cleared his throat. “I’ll take you.”

Delilah looked surprised. “Do you enjoy visiting the Museum, my lord?”

He chuckled. “No, dearest Delilah. But I know where it
is
, and in such comely company as yourself, it’s sure to have its delights.”

Lucy tamped down a scorching pillar of burning hot jealousy.
This
was why her dalliance with Roman could never be more! With every woman—with her own sister!—she must always wonder whether he was inviting the lady to fall in love with him, or simply speaking in the way he conversed.

Heat radiated along the back of Lucy’s neck. At her sides, her fists pressed into her skirts. Likely, his manner of speaking was a bit of both invitation and nonsense. Flirting was ingrained in him: It opened doors for him, it excused his bad behavior, and it kept the unmarried young ladies vying for his hand, in spite of his penniless state. He wouldn’t change, and she would be a fool to think otherwise.

Her mother had been just such a fool.

Roman retrieved her hand and bowed over it, shaking her from her reverie. “Now, Lucy-love” —a thrill went through her—“it’s time we found our seats. May I escort you in?”

Her face heated as she slipped her arm through his. That was the problem with Roman. Even knowing he was a confirmed rake who could flirt with her as easily as her sister, she still wanted him. Standing next to him felt like a privilege, as though she’d been singled out for a special honor. And his light blue eyes did seem to heat when he looked down at her. Or was she imagining it?

He falls in and out of love like he changes cravats,
she’d told Celeste
.

He was fickle. She knew that. It had always seemed like a curse, but what if it could work in her favor? Perhaps he wasn’t as enamored of the woman whose soul he considered a pillow, after all.

Perhaps she could change him.

“Before we take our seats,” Roman murmured to her as he drew her away from Trestin, “there is a room I’d like you to see.”

Her heart sped. Yes, this was it, exactly proving her point. He’d made such a lovely speech about the young lady he’d claimed to admire, yet he made
her
feel like the only woman in the world. Clearly, his heart wasn’t as engaged as he seemed to think.

“Very well,” Lucy said, a bit breathlessly.

He turned into a large, open room. Paintings as tall as herself hung down one wall. He went directly to the third one and stopped them before it. “What do you think?”

A serene-looking woman sat beside a golden-haired little boy. Like Roman, the child’s ringlets fell in charming curls around his face. He was mid-play, climbing across the back of his mother’s chair, as if sitting for the portrait was a strain on his boundless energy.

The woman appeared slightly amused as she looked toward her errant son. Loose curls of her own rich brown hair cascaded across her arms and breasts, as if she’d been caught in a private moment between breakfast and dressing for the day.

Lucy glanced away from the oil, unsure what to think. She’d expected a scandalous painting of a half-dressed nymph, not this intimate intrusion into a maternal scene she never expected to experience, herself. “Do you want it?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. I couldn’t afford it. Even if I could, I’ve nowhere to put it. I just like to look at it when I come here.” He gazed at the painting as if they were the only ones in the room.

She looked again. Lamentably, even with a more thorough second look, her heart didn’t soar. If anything, she felt awkward. He’d offered to share this with her and she didn’t understand it. What was it about it that called to him? Did he see himself in the child? Or worse, was he implying he saw her in the dark-haired woman?

Oh, my. Was
that
what he meant for her to think?

“Do you see her?” Roman asked, pointing to the woman. “She reminds me of you.”

A little gasp escaped her. She moved closer to him without thinking. Almost reached for his hand—

Oh, for all the gods. This was
dangerous
.

“She has a streak of independence,” Roman continued, cocking his head to one side. “I like that about her. Her son is allowed to frolic and she doesn’t mind sitting for a portrait in dishabille. Things aren’t required to be perfect in her world.”

Lucy’s breaths came shallow. His description of her was eerily close to how she felt. She didn’t need perfection. She wanted him. “Why would that remind you of me?”

Though she couldn’t see him, she sensed him shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.”

Her ears pounded with the beat of her heart. “Do you think of me often?”

His heel squeaked against the marble floor as he turned toward her. “It’s not my intention.”

His answer was better than a simple
yes.
He thought of her against his will! She was elated.

As difficult as it was not to spin into his arms, she remained where she was. Let him come to her, as Celeste had advised. Make him be the one to lose control.

Lucy waited. And waited. In the silent room, all she could hear were her own quick breaths. Then, finally, so quietly it seemed he feared frightening her away, he stepped toward her. He moved to stand in front of her until he was close enough that her arm brushed against the superfine of his coat.

Slowly, she turned toward him. He lifted one hand, and, with a crooked finger, brushed one a tendril of dark hair away from her face.

She caught his gaze. Crystalline intensity trapped her so that she couldn’t have broken the connection if she’d wanted to end it. He towered over her, yet she felt as though they were meeting eye to eye. He wanted her. And she desired him back.

Suddenly he blinked. Those azure eyes focused. The hand that had been inches from her face whipped behind him. He stepped backward and frowned, as if having a private argument with himself.

Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t try to hide her surprise. Let him think he’d shocked her. He didn’t know she’d yearned for this moment her entire life.

“I think of all the Lancesters fondly,” Roman said evenly, though a frown still marred his brow. Not even he believed that poppycock.

She smoothed her expression, as if his explanation made all the sense in the world and she no longer feared he’d suddenly blurt out he was in love with her. “We do adore your nonsense.”

He bowed succinctly. “I am your fool.”

But as she rested her fingertips on his sleeve and allowed him to guide her back to the main hall, she wondered which one of them was the fool.

Chapter 10

AFTER MEETING WITH Lady Clifton and receiving a substantial amount of ready cash, Lucy took her precious banknotes directly to the solicitor Celeste had recommended. It was all beginning to seem frighteningly real. Not only had Lady Clifton been a generous donor, with many pretty words of encouragement for Lucy, but she’d also mentioned the name of a prominent family who might wish to send their daughter to the school. Her first pupil! Lucy could scarcely believe it.

She didn’t stay long at Mr. Cartwright’s office. She was glad to have made the trip, however, as he’d had some very exciting news to impart. They’d been given permission to let the little white cottage in Bath. In fact, they could occupy it now, if they so chose.

Lucy’s hands shook as she signed the contract. This was it. She had enough funds for the year and a place to call home. Trestin couldn’t stop her from leaving now.

Yet she wasn’t ready to leave London, not yet. Not after Roman had almost kissed her. She must spur things along with him. But how? He’d sent word over that morning, regretfully explaining he couldn’t escort them to the Museum after all. She had the sensation he was avoiding her.

Because of last night?

Lucy tortured herself with the question all day. When she went down later that evening to assemble for Lady Julson’s ball, Trestin wasn’t in the drawing room. Neither was Delilah. Lucy went to his sideboard and lifted the bottle of brandy up to a flickering candle. The liquid burned tawny gold, the same color as her brother’s eyes. But it was Roman’s eyes she saw in her mind. A pure, ice blue, yet hot enough to melt her resistance.

“Montborne tells me you’re quite the sensation,” Trestin said behind her, causing her to almost drop the decanter.

She quickly set the bottle back on the table and spun around. “If his introducing me to several eligible young men counts, then I suppose that’s true.” The thing she desired least was for her brother to feel he needed to watch her more closely.

“A different story than what I heard, but one that makes far more sense.” Trestin went to the brandy bottle and set it back into its proper place beside two empty snifters.

Before she could ask what he meant by that—or what, specifically, Roman had told him—Delilah entered the room. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said breathlessly, as though she’d rushed down. “I see the carriage is already out.”

“No cause for running down the stairs,” he chided, much more the worried older brother who’d cautioned them against riding horses too fast and playing cricket behind the peach house than the man who’d brought them to London.

To Lucy’s surprise, he maintained idle conversation all the way to Lady Julson’s. He further surprised her when they entered the already-crowded ballroom and, rather than wandering away as he’d done so many times before, he stayed by her side.

The
entire
night.

No one approached. Roman didn’t come. She stood alongside her brother and spoke about inanities all night. It was the worst ball of her short season, and she couldn’t wait for it to close.

By the end of her tremendously tedious evening, Lucy was more than ready to retire to her bed and hope for a better day on the morrow. She had just crawled under her covers when there was a knock on her door.

“Lucy? May I come in?” Delilah kept her voice pitched at a whisper.

Lucy sat upright. Tonight was turning into a strange one, indeed. “Please.”

The door opened enough for her sister to slip through. Delilah shut it behind her, then trod lightly to Lucy’s bed.

Lucy shifted over and Delilah climbed in beside her.

“It’s so cold in the corridor,” Delilah said, tugging the blanket up to her chin. “I suppose I won’t be pitter-pattering around the house once I wed Mr. Conley.”

Lucy pulled the coverlet down so she could see her sister’s face. “What do you mean?”

Delilah rose up on her elbows. She didn’t need a candle, with that smile. “Mr. Conley is coming! He wrote to me again. He says he’s tired of waiting for Trestin’s approval. We’re to go to Gretna Green and handfast over the anvil!”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t!”

Delilah’s smile stretched even wider. “That’s what Trestin thinks, which is why I’ll succeed. He’ll never expect me to elope, and you won’t tell him!”

“I won’t,” Lucy agreed, feeling far less excited for her sister than the look on her face implied. It was evidently perfectly acceptable for
her
to make secret plans to leave her sister, but she didn’t like it at all that Delilah had been behind her back, doing the same.

“When will he be here?” Lucy asked, trying to be supportive. “Oh, dearest, are you sure this is what you want?”