Rosalie hadn’t known many people at the party, but that did not trouble her. She was used to standing alone in the corner.
She had been on her way to the refreshment table when she passed by Cecil Darlington, who was holding forth before a crowd of young men. She caught a snatch of the conversation.
“Lady Priscilla is aptly named. Frankly, I could do with a lot less of her.”
A round of guffaws ensued. It was not difficult to guess whom they were discussing. The unfortunately named Lady Priscilla Sizemore was one of the few respectable young ladies in attendance that night. Indeed, no one would describe Priscilla as willowy, but Rosalie thought she had a lovely figure. She reminded Rosalie of the models in the paintings she had seen by Titian during her father’s tenure in Rome.
Rosalie thought she detected the whiff of sour grapes. Cecil was rumored to have taken a tremendous loss at the Hazard tables last week. Priscilla had a respectable dowry of fifteen thousand pounds. Her father doted on her and had already refused the suit of eight would-be bridegrooms this season. Rosalie suspected that Cecil Darlington had recently tried his luck and had been roundly rejected.
Rosalie halted next to Cecil and his pack of scapegrace friends. She knew precisely what her mother would tell her to do, and that was to keep moving and mind her own business.
Rosalie obviously wasn’t going to do that. Were the shoe on the other foot, she would have wanted someone to defend her.
She might have got away with saying, “Please, Mr. Darlington. Lady Priscilla is a nice girl.” Or “I know you’re onlyjesting, but I wish you wouldn’t. What if Lady Priscilla were to overhear you?”
But, to put it plainly, that was not who Rosalie was. So instead, she snorted loudly and said, “Oh, please. Lady Priscilla isfartoo good for the likes of you. I doubt she would even give you a second glance.”
She was immediately confronted with four scowling male faces. But the fifth man in their group did not scowl. His expression remained neutral.
Rosalie recognized him at once. He was the notorious Lucian Deverell.
She had spied him from across the duke’s portrait gallery earlier that evening. She had been surprised when someone told her his name. She had heard of Lucian Deverell, of course, but as he never attended respectable society functions, this had been her first time seeing him in the flesh. She had always heard how terribly handsome he was.
She supposed his features were handsome enough. But he lacked any sort of charisma. There in the shadowy portrait gallery, his eyes had been devoid of anything resembling a spark.
But now, in the wake of her remark to Cecil Darlington, something flickered in those grey eyes. Lucian was studying her with interest.
That was when Rosalie noticed that he was wearing a black armband. She hadn’t noticed it from across the room, as he had on a black jacket. That was right—his grandfather had passed away a month ago, or perhaps two.
Suddenly, she felt terrible for having judged him. No wonder the poor man looked glum. He wasmourning.
Rosalie’s ruminations were interrupted by Cecil. “You ought to keep your opinions to yourself, Lady Rosalie. No man likes a termagant.”
Rosalie laughed in his face. “Happily for me, I do not care in the slightest what you think of me, Cecil Darlington.”
Cecil’s voice took on a whiny tone. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you. And you have to admit, Lady Priscilla is a big woman.”
“There’s only one type of man who would be troubled about that.” It occurred to Rosalie that she ought to sweep her gaze up and down Cecil’s scrawny frame to better drive home her point, so she did. “Anexceptionallysmall one.”
She was met with a sea of scowls.
“Why, I never!”
“That wascompletelyuncalled for!”
“And you call yourself a lady!”
Rosalie blinked. Gracious, she hadn’t thought her riposte wasthatgood. Cecil had alluded to Priscilla’s frame, so she had alluded to his. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and all that.
That was when Rosalie noticed that not everyone was glaring at her.
Lucian Deverell waslaughing!
He was trying not to, by all appearances, but every time he managed to straighten his face, it promptly split back into a grin.
He caught her gaze then, and his grey eyes were bright. Rosalie had always assumed the expressionher heart stutteredto be nothing more than a poetic flourish. And yet, that was precisely what her heart did.
Good lord, but the gossips had been right—when he smiled, Lucian Deverell was handsome to an absurd degree. Although she knew she must try to ignore the fluttery feeling in her stomach. He was every bit as bad as the Duke of Tyrone, which was really saying something!
