Something inside of Lucian shifted, settled into place. After going so long without her, being in her presence felt like a balm to his soul.
It felt… right.
He stepped forward, seizing her hand and pressing a kiss against her knuckles before she had the chance to protest. “Good morning, Lady Rosalie. These are for you.” He proffered the roses, then dropped his voice to a husky murmur. “You look beautiful this morning.”
He had hoped that her angry expression might soften. He knew that she was drawn to him, physically, at least, in the same way he was drawn to her. It was something he meant to use. He wasn’t above playing every card in his hand.
Instead, her eyes went wide. “Youcad!” she shouted. “Howdareyou?”
This was harsh, even by Rosalie’s standards. But Lucian knew he deserved her ire, and he was willing to bear it.
He gave her his most charming, roguish grin. “Not a fan of red roses, I take it?”
She snatched the bouquet and tossed it onto the console table. “I couldn’t care less about your roses! Not when you have the temerity to show up looking likethat!”
Looking like… Frowning, Lucian spun to face the gilt-framed mirror hanging above the table.
Fuck. One of those harlots had been wearing lip rouge. In a shade of red almost as vivid as the roses.
And the outline of her lips was now smeared in red across his cheek.
“Rosalie,” he said, scrubbing at his cheek. “I can explain. It’s not what you?—”
“Go away!” she shouted, storming off down the hall.
Lucian had to stand there and watch her go. The unfairness of the situation galled him. He had done nothing wrong, for once in his life!
Beside him, Stephens cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said stiffly, holding out a handkerchief.
He didn’t offer any words of condemnation. But Lucian detected disapproval in his flinty expression.
Lucian sighed. “Thank you, Stephens.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his cheek clean. “I know this looks bad. But it isn’t what it seems. I promise.”
Stephens’s face was perfectly blank as he replied, “Of course, my lord.”
Lucian nodded and took his leave. This was a setback, one he didn’t need.
But he wasn’t about to quit the field. He was going to marry Rosalie de Lacy.
No matter what it took.
Chapter Nine
Sobbing prostrate on one’s bed was such a sad cliché that Rosalie made a point never to indulge in it.
Until today.
To make matters worse, she was sobbing over a man. And, most galling of all, the man she was sobbing over was Lucian Deverell.
She told herself that she wasn’t jealous. Whoever he’d been carousing with, she could bloody well have him!
It was the blatant disrespect of coming to call on her fresh after doing goodness knows what with another woman.
She was almost successful in convincing herself that this was true, and that her disappointment did not stem from a tiny sliver of hope that Lucian genuinely cared for her this time around, and that his desire to marry her was in any way sincere. Of course, that wasn’t it!
Suddenly, her bedroom door swung open. Robin began chattering before Rosalie had a chance to lift her head. “I went down to White’s today, just as we discussed, and… Rosie! Oh, my gracious, what’s wrong?”
Perfect. Now her brother had found her in this humiliating state.
