He waggled a finger at her. “I’m the one doing the asking. Last one?—”
She held out a hand. “Wait. You’ve had three already.”
“No, I haven’t.”
She ticked them off on her fingers. “Why did I accept Lysander, was I in love with him, and do I hate you.”
He waved this off. “The second one doesn’t count. It was in clarification of question number one.”
“It most certainly does count.” She held out her hand. “Now, give me the key.”
“Not until you answer my final question.”
Rosalie bristled. “It’s not my fault you lost count. You can’t change the rules now.”
He smiled, seeming to enjoy her annoyance. “Certainly, I can. As you are so fond of reminding me, I am a cad. But I have a proposal for you. You want to know why I’m glad that you hate me. You answer my final question, and I’ll answer yours.”
Rosalie considered. Although his refusal to play by his own rules was infuriating, she should probably just agree. It was the only way to get out of this blasted room.
“I want two questions,” she grumbled.
He smiled again, like the cat who got the cream. “Very well. Why did you want to know whether I used to borrow Vander’s phaeton?”
Rosalie’s heart lurched. What answer could she possibly give? She attempted to stall. “So, you were eavesdropping.”
He managed to give a graceful bow while seated on the sofa. “Naturally. As you are so fond of reminding me, I am a?—”
“Cad,” she said with him. What was she to do? It was an unusual question, and not an easy one to explain away.
She decided that providing as little information as possible was the best approach. “Lysander mentioned it to me.”
He made a sweeping gesture to the Beauclerks’ parlor. “And you thought it was worth the effort to come over here and confirm if it was true because…”
She attempted to look nonchalant. “Perhaps I am trying to ascertain your true character.”
He gave her an arch look. “Because you are looking for an excuse to weasel your way out of our betrothal.”
She laughed. “That is hardly a secret. Although it is a rather wild assumption on your part to think that the two are connected.”
His eyes gleamed. “Ah, but my cousin only ever commented on my use of Vander’s phaeton in one context—when he was accusing me of mistreating my poor, dearly departed grandfather.”
Rosalie said nothing.
After a beat, Lucian continued, “That’s it, isn’t it? Lysander spun you the whole sorry tale, and now you’re trying to find evidence to support that I’m as repugnant as my cousin claims.”
Rosalie lifted her chin. “Are you afraid of what I’ll find?”
“Not in the slightest. After all, your opinion of me could not possibly sink any lower. Go ahead, Lady Rosalie. Do your worst.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, you’ve upheld your end of the bargain. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to retrieve the key yourself?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Completely certain.”
He sighed and reached inside his jacket. “A pity. Here you are, Lady Rosalie. Go on, now—flee my wicked clutches.”
She took the key and hastily stood. She was already across the room, fitting the key into its hole, when something occurred to her.
She glanced at Lucian over her shoulder. “You didn’t answer my questions.”
“You didn’t ask them,” he shot back.
