Rosalie swallowed, gathering her courage. “Two years ago, you made it abundantly clear that you have no feelings for me, save contempt. Why, then, did you agree to my father’s suggestion that you marry me?”
His grey eyes were steely. “Because you were on the cusp of marrying Lysander. And I wouldneverlet him have you.”
She swallowed. So that was all it was—she was a means by which to score a victory over his much detested cousin. Nothing more.
“I see,” she said haltingly. “I’m sure you recall my original question.”
He rose from the sofa. “You want to know why I’m glad that you hate me?”
She nodded, her throat turning unaccountably tight as he stalked across the room toward her.
He came up behind her, so close that, although he wasn’t touching her, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool room. His spicy-sweet scent enveloped her.
His deep voice stroked her ear like a caress. “Because, my darling Rosalie, the opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference.”
He moved even closer, stroking her elbow. She could feel his breath against her tender skin. She had never swooned in her life, but now she reached out and clutched the doorknob, terrified she would collapse in a heap upon the Axminster carpet.
He spoke again, his voice velvety soft in her ear. “And if you hate me so very much, it must mean that you cared just as much two years ago.”
Her cheeks burned with humiliation. That was the worst part.
That he was right.
Drawing a shaky breath, Rosalie’s fingers fumbled for the key. Somehow, she managed to twist it in the lock.
She stumbled through the door and fled without looking back.
Chapter Eight
After Rosalie left, Auntie Azita took Lucian to Rundell and Bridge. She brought along a selection of jewels from her personal collection as Vander had suggested she might.
“I have been wondering what to do with these for an age,” she told Lucian, opening a velvet pouch and pouring a handful of tiny pink sapphires into the jeweler’s tray. They were oddly shaped, some of them little more than slivers, but they were a beautiful, saturated color. She had also brought four marquise-cut emeralds that were only slightly bigger.
She explained her vision to both the jeweler and Lucian. “A Giardinetti ring, I think. Not only is her favorite color pink, but her name is Rosalie. You can arrange the sapphires into roses and use the emeralds for leaves. It won’t be the flashiest ring, or the most expensive. But I fancy that Lady Rosalie does not want that. It will be unique.” She nodded crisply, a satisfied smile gracing her lips. “Just like her.”
It was perfection, which was precisely what Lucian had expected from the woman with the best taste in London.
When he offered to pay her for the cost of the gems, she swatted his hand. “Absolutely not!” She turned to the clerk. “And you will send your bill for this ring tome.”
“Auntie Azita,” Lucian protested.
She held up a hand. “I insist. It is traditional in India to give gold as a wedding present. This will be our gift to you, Cedric’s and mine.”
Lucian finally gave in and accepted gracefully. He settled for taking her to Gunther’s for ices. As he knew Auntie Azita wouldn’t take it the wrong way, he spent the entire outing complimenting her outrageously. She basked in the attention, both from Lucian and from every customer who came into the shop, and the chance to be seen being doted upon by the most talked-about man in London.
Now that the ring was taken care of, Lucian only had one task to worry about:
Wooing his bride.
So it was the following morning that he set out for Swanscombe House. He had asked his butler, Collins, to obtain an obscenely large bouquet of hothouse roses. Collins had come through in an admirable fashion. The roses were a deep crimson. There were four dozen of them. They were fresh. Crisp.Perfect. They were artfully arranged with a sprinkling of fluffy, white baby’s breath and tied with a white silk ribbon.
Lucian clasped the butler’s shoulder. “Outstanding work, Collins.”
Collins bowed. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”
As it was less than a quarter mile to Swanscombe House, Lucian set out on foot. The morning was crisp but dry with a pale blue sky the precise shade of Rosalie’s eyes overhead.
As soon as he stepped out the door, things grew strange.
