A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) (6 page)

He glanced at the clock. “Where is Delilah?”

“She has a touch of the headache.”

Delilah
had
claimed as much. Though Lucy didn’t believe the flimsy excuse for a moment, she was happy to oblige her sister. Delilah preferred to carry out her mutiny quietly, rather than face their obstinate brother head-on. Lucy might have done the same, except every time she left the house, she had a small, infinitesimal chance of seeing Roman.

Trestin scowled and looked over his shoulder, as if envisioning the chit who was most likely curled beneath her blankets with a stack of love letters from her devoted suitor.

“I had hoped we would be a family tonight,” he grumbled, then downed his second brandy and returned the snifter to the sideboard.

Lucy moved to stand at his side, reaching to lightly touch his sleeve. It wasn’t his fault, really, that he couldn’t understand their sister’s infatuation with the apprentice blacksmith in Devon. To him, love was simply a matter of not giving one’s heart to someone inappropriate. He had yet to accept it wasn’t a feeling one could turn off simply because one deemed the recipient unworthy.

“Delilah will be there in spirit,” Lucy said, rubbing his arm as their mother used to do.

Grudgingly, he seemed to accept this.

Good. Not just because he was mollified, but because she would have turned ten shades of purple if he’d decided not to attend after all. She’d spent the evening practicing her sultriest look in the mirror.

They rode to the fete in silence. The carriage horses exercised a moderate pace through the city streets, as Trestin liked. Lucy mentally urged them faster. Finally, the step was let down and they descended before a striking house ablaze with light. Anticipation began to build in her breast as she approached the bustling façade. This was a party meant to stretch into the wee hours. The sounds of laughter and music strained to be heard over the stamping of horses and the clatter of wheels coming from carriages piling along the street.

“Lady Gladish will undoubtedly remember our family’s scandal,” he said as they waited their turn in the receiving line. “It’s not yet been ten years since Father and Mother’s falling out. Please don’t offer her any reason to think we have a shorter memory.” At his hip, his hand flexed open and closed. A telling habit he’d developed in the years since their parents had died their scandalous deaths.

Trestin
did
feel. He just didn’t know it.

A flare of resentment crackled through Lucy.
She
felt her emotions, and she couldn’t help but to show them.

“I have not forgotten,” she said tersely, ruffled by his attempt to quell her spirits before she’d had a chance to embarrass him. “If you fear we are such a laughingstock, with our peers examining our every move for some hint we are as mad as our parents, why force us to these engagements at all? We weren’t required to come to London.”

He peered down his nose at her. “No. But you wanted to come
here,
didn’t you?”

She hated that he was right. “I never said so.”

For the first time in weeks, he grinned at her. “But you
did
want to come. You would have climbed up into the seat and driven the horses yourself, if poor Mr. Diggs hadn’t picked up the pace. Perhaps I can marry you off, after all.”

“That is not a nice thing to say.” She batted his arm playfully, relieved to see him smiling. She’d missed his teasing, if that could be believed.

“Ah, but if I am nice to you, you won’t have any reason to marry,” Trestin replied, and though it was a gentle jab at her refusal to wed, she didn’t mind. Not when he was merely trying to goad her, as she liked to do to him.

She was still smiling when he remarked absently, “It appears Montborne did come. Doesn’t seem like his sort of rout to me.”

Trestin was staring at the entrance to the grand ballroom some distance away, presumably at Roman. Lucy stood on tiptoe to see past the heads in front of them in the receiving line.

There, at the doors. It
was
him. She’d recognize those blond curls anywhere.

With new impatience, she scrutinized the line ahead of her. Tapping her foot didn’t seem to help. Nor did staring at the back of the carefully coiffed heads in front of her and wishing them to perdition. She imagined thrusting her way through the throng of people—violently, perhaps—and pushing past the receiving line. But no, Trestin would certainly frown upon that.

Finally, finally, they were admitted. As it happened, Trestin’s irrational concern that their hostess would bring up some old unpleasantness wasn’t proven correct—though it
could
have been, had Lucy given into her urge to do bodily harm to her fellow guests.

Instead, Lady Gladish hastened through the introductions, perhaps as conscious of the long line as Lucy had been.

Lucy suffered the mundane chatter, but as soon as pleasantries were exchanged and she and Trestin had been supplied with glasses of wine, she darted past him and slipped through the crush. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the other side of the room. He wouldn’t be able to scold her across the ballroom.

She looked left and right. Now, where was Roman?

“Ho, there,” a deep and all-too-desirable a voice said behind her.

Lucy spun around. It couldn’t be Roman. Why, she’d just entered. She hadn’t even had time to try any of her newfound knowledge.

Yet it
was
him. The man for whom she’d hung her heart on her sleeve stood just out of arm’s reach, not nearly as close as she’d like. He was here. Speaking to
her.

Pretend he’s about to kiss you,
she reminded herself.

No,
she corrected herself as she instantly melted toward him,
not yet.
She mustn’t seem too enamored.

He held a glass of wine in one hand. Steady. Unperturbed. In his other hand he held his open pocket watch, as if he’d just consulted it. His blue, crystalline eyes smiled down on her with the sort of pleasure one might feel upon encountering one’s favorite cousin at a ball.

With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the watch closed and tucked it into his waistcoat.

She indicated his pocket watch as it disappeared into the folds of his silk. “Somehow, I thought you were incapable of telling time,” she said, baiting him, referring to his well-known penchant for tardiness. The marquis appeared when he deigned to arrive, never before.

He blinked, then cocked his head. “But then how would I know when to appear for my assignations?”

A nervous guffaw escaped her. Hardly the coquettish titter she’d meant to release! “You shouldn’t say such things. I am a
lady,
my lord.”

“Nonsense. You’re Ashlin’s sister.” He stepped closer so they were almost shoulder to shoulder. It should have been exciting, but nothing about his sudden nearness felt threatening. He was far too at ease with her.

“Where
is
that faultfinding brother of yours, anyway?” he asked, providing the explanation for his unexpected presence. He wanted to speak to her brother, not her.

“If the two of you cannot be bothered to align your agendas, I am hardly the go-between,” Lucy replied flippantly, flashing her eyes at him before she turned away, as if in a pet. It wouldn’t do to fall all over him trying to answer his question; surely playing coy was one of the tactics Miss Gray would teach her later.

Oh, and very well, perhaps she was a tad put out that he was seeking Trestin.

He sipped his wine, then slanted a glance at her. “I don’t need a secretary to pencil me onto his schedule. Ashlin is like one of my own siblings, only better-mannered. I simply thought he wouldn’t appreciate the way Lord Dudley is staring at you right now.”

Dear Zeus.
She almost spewed wine across the room.

“Who? Where?” Her heart hammered against her chest. Roman was
noticing
her. Rather, he was noticing another man notice her. Which meant he was watching her, didn’t it?

Oh, goodness. He was
watching
her.

“Over there,” Roman said, indicating a group of university-age lads. “In the puce waistcoat.”

For one blissful moment, she was giddy. Then Roman took another steady sip of wine, his eyes never straying from the men, and she touched the lace edge of her bodice against her breast as she held a sinking feeling at bay.

Roman didn’t seem jealous.

Roman
wasn’t
jealous.

She pretended to seek out her alleged admirer across the room, hoping it might spur Roman to action. She arched her spine and imagined she was as beautiful as Miss Gray, looking out among her throng of devotees. “Is Lord Dudley a very handsome fellow?”

Roman turned to look at her, causing her heart to leap. He struck a hand across his heart and affected disbelief. “Miss Lancester. You were worried about
my
lack of propriety.”

She raised a brow, savoring her small achievement. He still didn’t sound jealous, but at least they were bantering. “I merely asked if the man is fine-looking. I did not suggest you ought to arrange a clandestine meeting between us.”

Surprise rounded his lips. When he spoke, his voice was low, as if he was intrigued. “You shouldn’t even know what that means.”

She grinned and lifted one bare shoulder saucily. “Since you insist on quibbling points rather than answering my question, I shall have to see for myself whether Lord Dudley is handsome. Perhaps I will find you later in the evening and let you know what I’ve decided.”

Roman set his empty glass on a passing tray and selected another, bringing it to his lips before he shook his head. “Ashlin wouldn’t want me to send you out alone. Come, let’s see you married off, shall we?”

Her mouth almost fell open. She snapped it closed just in time. This was hardly the rejoinder she’d hoped for. Was he serious about introducing her to Lord Dudley, or had she misunderstood him?

Please, please let me have misunderstood.

“Come along,” he said, leading the way. “Don’t want Dudley to escape.”

She stared at his retreating back stupidly, unsure how their playful repartee had turned into this horror. But, he
was
speaking to her. That was an improvement, wasn’t it?

Dutifully and somewhat resentfully, she followed him.

He slowed until she caught up behind him. “We’re too slow,” Roman mused over his shoulder. “He’s already joined the dance. Never fear, for Lord Kinsey, Lord Alloway, and good old Maltby are standing by the punch bowl. Do you fancy one of them?”

“I-I don’t know, my lord,” she stammered, on the verge of losing her composure. It sounded as if he very much
did
intend to introduce her to every bachelor in the room. She doubted foisting her off on his friends was a cleverly concealed form of flirtation.

Quickly, she took to stock of the situation. Before she could draw his notice to
her,
it seemed he must cease perceiving her as something of a younger sister. But how to do that, if her bantering innuendo wasn’t enough?

He flashed a rakish smile over his shoulder, seeming not the least bit aware of her foot-dragging reluctance to be introduced to his friends. “No wonder Ashlin is having a devil of a time marrying you off,” he jested cheerfully. “Can you at least describe the sort of man you
might
want to marry?”

She stared at the back of his head as he led her between the clusters of chatting guests. She was completely agog at his lack of perception. “Seeing as how I don’t plan to wed, my lord, it is easier to list the masculine characteristics with which I find fault.”

There, that ought to find its way through his hard head.

He stopped tunneling through the crowd and turned to evaluate her. “Pray, my raven-haired virago, tell me what it is about all men you find abhorrent.”

Her lips parted as she flustered. There was so much to unravel in that statement. Did he think her raven-haired?
Was
she a virago in his eyes? Or was he concerned, believing she had no use for men?

Did he worry she had no use for
him?

Lowering her lashes so he couldn’t see her hope, she counted off on her fingers, intending to shock him with her answer. “My reasons are simple: Men do not value a woman’s opinion. They do not consider her feelings. They cannot be trusted.”
And,
she added silently,
I cannot be trusted with you.

He leaned closer. “Just how many men have you known, Miss Lancester?”

Gooseflesh pebbled along her arm. She glanced up at him. Blue eyes drove into hers like crystal shards.

Somehow, she found her tongue. “Just one.” She swallowed tightly as he continued to regard her intensely. “The only one who means anything to me.”

Intrigue flashed across his face. For half a breath, she thought he would respond in kind. Then he laughed and turned to lead the way again. “Ashlin is a right pain in the ass,” he said over his shoulder. “You can’t hold us all answerable for his churlishness.”

Lucy frowned at Roman’s back. She’d been as brazen as she could have been, leaving no room for doubt. Roman was the only man who mattered to her. Yet somehow, he thought she’d meant her
brother?

No… She didn’t think he had. More likely, he was aware of her meaning, and was deflecting her calf love adeptly.