So much for being one of her oldest, dearest friends. Before Clementine could offer argument, Olive had quickly taken her leave. Which meant she stood alone with Dorset, whose delicious manly scent was every bit as delightful to her senses this evening as it had previously been.Curse him.Why was he standing so near?
“I am not your betrothed,” Clementine grumbled at Dorset when Olive was gone.
“Yes you are,” he argued, his tone smooth, his countenance imperturbable.
She wanted to perturb him. To ruffle his feathers. To irritate him. She wanted to be the bee who gave him a sting.
“Do you have a need for my dowry?” she asked bluntly.
The corners of his finely sculpted lips twitched as if he were attempting to suppress a grin. “Your lack of tact rivals your lack of drawers, I see.”
His casual drawl made her cheeks go hot. “Of all the despicable things you might have said, that is by far the worst you could have chosen.”
“Despicable?” This time he did grin. “I am not the one gadding about the gardens without proper undergarments.”
The utter bounder.
She cast a wary glance around them to make certain no one was near enough to overhear, but all their fellow guests were engaged in either dancing or socializing. “You are a scoundrel to mention it.”
“You seem in a dreadful mood this evening, Lady Clementine.” His gaze roamed over her face, taking her in. “Whatever is the matter? Could it be that you dislike finding yourself ensnared in the same trap in which you caught so many others?”
Ah.She began to understand him. This betrothal nonsense was not about his need for her dowry at all. Rather, it was a petty means of gaining his revenge. She was familiar with his former betrothed Lady Anna Harcastle, who had married the Marquess of Huntly.
“The Marchioness of Huntly is desperately in love with the marquess,” she told him.
His lips compressed, the hint of mirth vanishing. “According to you. Who do you think you are, playing with the lives of so many others? It is about time your life was toyed with a bit, rather in the fashion of a cat batting at a mouse.”
“Am I to infer I am the mouse and you are the cat? Is this betrothal nonsense nothing but a game to you?”
“A game with a twofold purpose, my lady.” He drew his hand along the jaw she had so admired when in his arms. “I must admit that I am enjoying your suffering. But also, whilst I have no intention of actually making you my marchioness, feigning a betrothal for the duration of the house party will leave the both of us free to enjoy ourselves. Discreetly, of course, and with others.”
With others.There was no reason his suggestion should nettle. She wanted nothing to do with the man. And yet, she could not deny it somehow did.
She frowned at him, trying to ignore what he had said about enjoying her suffering. “You mean to break the engagement before the house party’s end?”
“Yes. It is a simple enough plan, really. We wait long enough that everyone’s collective memory has faded, and then we shall declare we no longer suit.”
He was perfectly calm, as if certain she would agree to his scheme.
“No,” she said.
“No?” His dark brows arched.
“I imagine that is not a word you are accustomed to hearing, Lord Dorset—”
“You are correct,” he interjected. “It is not.”
She glared at him as she continued. “However, I have no wish to participate in your plan. I’ll not pretend to be your betrothed. Nor will I be your source of vindictive amusement.”
“I am afraid you have no choice in the matter,” the wicked marquess countered, grinning.
“May I have your attention please?” Miss Julia called from her position in the center of the conservatory, dragging Clementine’s notice from the vexing man at her side. “We have an exceedingly happy announcement to make. It seems that whilst our house party has only just begun, Lord Dorset and Lady Clementine have fallen in love and announced their plans to marry.”
Had she thought him a bounder earlier? That was far too generous. With a sinking sensation in her gut, she dragged her gaze back to the Marquess of Dorset, who was still grinning.
She had been wrong.
It was more than clear to her now that the Marquess of Dorset was the devil himself.
