Aylesford Castle was always passed down the maternal line, from mother to daughter. It also happened that the castle was not empty. It was the preferred residence of Rosalie’s Great-Aunt Millicent, a cantankerous eighty-six-year-old who did not suffer fools.
RosalieadoredGreat-Aunt Millicent. And if she didn’t marry him…
Panic must have shown on her face, because a wicked smile had crept across Lucian’s lips. “Do you remember what happens to Aylesford Castle—and the rest of your dowry—if you break the marriage contract?”
She recalled perfectly, curse him. If she were the one to renege on the arrangement, everything went to him. It would be a heavy blow. Between the money and the castle, her dowry was worth around thirty thousand pounds.
But her father was rich enough to bear it, and for the sake of Rosalie’s happiness, she knew he would. It would be one thing if only money was on the line. But the thing that would be devastating would be losing the castle that was her birthright, that had been passed from mother to daughter for five hundred years. How could she bear to be the one to destroy that legacy? And even worse, what would become of Great-Aunt Millicent? She would lose her home! Oh, she would always have a place beneath her father’s roof. But her ornery great-aunt would be miserable living in someone else’s house, on someone else’s terms. She would butt heads with Rosalie’s mother over every little thing. She deserved to live out her final years in peace.
Rosalie looked Lucian dead in the eye. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.
He snorted. “Of course, I would. Who’s that batty old great-aunt of yours who lives there? Lady Mildred? Lady Muriel?”
“Lady Millicent,” Rosalie said stiffly.
“Lady Millicent!” He leaned in as if he were whispering sweet nothings. “I’ll throw her out on her arse.”
She shuddered as his scent washed over her and his breath caressed her ear. She drew in a breath, trying desperately to piece together the scraps of her composure. “You will do no such thing!”
“No. I won’t.” The music was slowing as the waltz came to an end. Lucian gave her a final twirl, then pulled her close. His expression was adoring as he brought one hand up to delicately frame her face, then whispered, “So long as you marry me.”
He bowed over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss against her gloved knuckles. Then, he turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.
Chapter Four
Lucian couldn’t help but smile as he crossed the ballroom. That had gone perfectly to plan. He could still picture the fury sparking in Rosalie’s pale blue eyes.
She could be as mad as she wanted. He liked a hellcat in bed, after all. Her fury would be just the thing to make the wedding night invigorating.
Because there was definitely going to be a wedding night.
“Lucian.” His ruminations were interrupted as a familiar face appeared before him. Lucian took the man in at a glance—artfully arranged dark hair, impeccably tailored black coat, boots so glossy you could check your teeth in them, snow-white cravat pierced with a stickpin bearing a purple stone the size of Lucian’s thumbnail, unlined copper skin, and a handsome face split into a roguish grin.
Lucian grinned in return. “Vander.”
His old school friend inclined his head. “Fancy a drink?”
Lucian squeezed his shoulder. “With you? Always.”
Lucian followed Vander as he cut a path through the throng of curious onlookers. They had met fifteen years ago at Eton. “Vander” was short for Evander Beauclerk. He was the only sonof an obscenely wealthy cit. What was it that Vander’s father did again? Some sort of banking, perhaps? Vander didn’t much like to talk about his old man. Lucian got the impression they were like chalk and cheese. He took more after his mother, a beauty from India whom Lucian used to flirt with outrageously whenever he was invited to the Beauclerk manse.
Lucian had been one year behind Vander in school, but they had been part of the same crowd. Specifically, the crowd that hadn’t given a damn about their schoolwork.
Vander had been a good friend to him over the years. Lucian wasn’t as plump in the pocket as most of their friends. Vander had never given a damn. Once, when Lucian had found himself particularly down at heel, he’d tried to cry off from a night out with his friends. Vander had insisted that he come out. Not only had he covered Lucian’s drinks, but Lucian had found a ten-pound note in his pocket the following morning.
And, of course, Vander had helped him with his grandfather. Lucian felt his throat constrict at the memory. Whoever said blood was thicker than water was dead wrong. Lucian’s family, what he had left of it, anyway, could go fuck themselves. That was the one good thing about his new title. Now that his status had improved, he was going to give the cut direct to every one of those cunts who used to act like they were better than Vander because his father was in trade.
Although honestly, Vander had already beaten the shit out of most of them. Vander was a damn good boxer.
Oh, well. Lucian was going to cut those fuckers regardless. It was the principal of the matter.
At last, they reached one of the corridors flanking the ballroom. Vander steered him into a room that proved to be the library. It was blessedly deserted save for another old friend, David Daughtry, Viscount Trundley.
“David!” Lucian said, coming over to pump his hand.
“Lucian!” David replied warmly, then cringed. “Sorry. I should probably start calling you Valentine now.”
Lucian waved this off. “I call you David. Call me whatever the hell you want.”
