“I would rather marry most men than you,” she said with enough scorn that he believed her. Good. It was better they were on the same page. “But the gentlemanmustbe eligible. And to my liking, at least a bit.”
What she meant, no doubt, was not a man like Helmsley, and at the thought, his blood heated. He had not seen the man since their altercation in Vauxhall, and it was a good thing, or he might not have waited to issue a challenge before throwing the first punch.
His fists itched. Scum like that did not belong on the earth.
“Of course he would be . . . respectable,” he said through gritted teeth. “And for you, I shall even be a rake reformed. Thetonwill be shocked to see how well you have won me over.” Doing so would draw attention to her and her charms, which would be no bad thing, especially if she flirted with others. It would be a small sting to be seen as losing out to another, but he did not mind overmuch. “I have but one final request, little bird.”
“What is it?”
He flashed her his most charming smile. “You must not fall in love with me.”
She arched a single brow. “I hardly think that will be an issue.”
“Then you have yourself a deal.” He extended a hand, but she eyed it suspiciously, making no move to shake it. “What is it?”
“Are you sober?”
“As the grave.”
“I believe this is the first time I have seen you so.”
He nodded. “That is likely.”
“If we are to do this, I think you should be sober more often. Around me, I mean,” she added hurriedly. “As part of your reformed rake act.”
He frowned. This was one of the many reasons he had never seriously courted anyone since Madeline—and even then, the way he had behaved had hardly consisted ofcourting. Having ladies come to him, keen to win him over, was far more satisfying, and required very little effort on his behalf.
But in order to make other gentlemen jealous, he would need to flaunt her and show them precisely what they were missing. And for that, he would have to pretend to be smitten with her.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall remain sober while escorting you, and you may have all the flowers and trinkets your heart desires. And before the time is out, I will have a veritable line of gentlemen queueing for your hand in marriage.”
Her brows drew together and one corner of her mouth curved into a smile that looked a little too cynical for her fresh, innocent face. “We shall see,” she said.
* * *
With the agreement, no matter how foolishly made, in hand, Jacob paid a visit to Lady Louisa Bolton. They had met shortly after Madeline’s death, when she was married to a much older gentleman she despised. In a fit of pique and heartbreak, they had briefly become lovers, but quickly came to the conclusion they were better as friends. And considering Villiers was all too happy to see the world burn as long as he made a bet on who held the torch, she was perhaps his only true friend.
He did not stop to examine how painfully tragic that was.
He found her painting in her drawing room, one brush behind her ear and her apron splattered with paint. When she saw him, she raised her eyebrows, putting her brushes down—all except the one behind her ear.
“Goodness, Jacob,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag as she rose. “It’s barely past noon.”
“An achievement I agree,” he said dryly, plucking the paintbrush from her head. “Is your mind disturbed, Louisa? You only paint when you’re in a foul mood.”
She gave him a dirty look. “It’s none of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She rang for tea. “I hear I have to offer you congratulations. Tell me, Jacob, what charms does she have that she enticedyouinto matrimony?”
He took a seat and stretched his legs out in front of him. “It is not real.”
“Excuse me?”
“The engagement is merely a front to protect her reputation while I find her a more suitable husband.”
Louisa stared at him for a few moments. “I think you should start from the beginning.”
