Calm. You must stay calm.It would be all right. Rosalie knew what to do. One of her male cousins had shown her the year before she made her come-out.
The first step was to distract him. She made her voice indifferent. “You mean to ruin me, then? How very cliché.”
On the wordvery, she brought her knee up sharply, aiming for his groin.
His hand shot out, staying her leg with ease. His smile had a malicious edge. “A knee to the groin, eh? Which one of us is a cliché now, Lady Rosalie?”
For the first time that evening, Rosalie felt a prickle of true fear. “Unhand me, you brute!” She hated the way her voice trembled as she uttered the words.
“I think not,” he replied. “You see, my racing stud has not been doing very well lately, and your thirty-thousand-pound dowry will save me from having to sell off my bloodstock. I’m sure you understand.”
Rosalie struggled to get away, but he clamped a meaty hand around her wrist. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice growing shrill.
Lord Pritchard looked amused. “Go ahead. Scream. That’s what I need, after all—for us to be discovered alone togeth—Aieee!”
A cracking sound was audible over his shrill scream. Lord Pritchard lurched to the side, releasing Rosalie’s wrist. As she sagged against the balustrade, Lucian Deverell came strolling out of the shadows into a pool of moonlight. “One problem with that plan, old chap. It turns out that you two are not alone.”
Lord Pritchard clutched the railing, his face red in the moonlight. “What have you done to my knee?”
“Stamped it in,” Lucian replied conversationally. He turned to Rosalie. “Verypainful. You should add that move to your repertoire. Your instinct to knee him in the groin was good, but it’s such an effective move that many men will be expecting it.”
The baron was glaring furiously at Lucian. “You’ll pay for this! I’m going toruinyou! Just see if I don’t!”
Lucian winked at Rosalie. “There goes my spotless reputation.” He turned to the baron. “If you think your knee is bad, just wait. Lady Rosalie is the apple of her father’s eye. By the time the Duke of Swanscombe is finished, they’ll have to clean up what’s left of you with a rag.”
Considering she had been in a state of panic mere seconds before, it was remarkable how quickly Rosalie’s mood had turned around now that she had an ally. “They really will,” she agreed.
Lucian gave Lord Pritchard a shove. “Go on, now. Hobble off into the gardens like a good little coward. And don’t think of breathing a word about this to anyone. If you say anything about Lady Rosalie, or about me, then we will have no choice but to explain the precise circumstances of how you came to be injured to the duke.”
“Good riddance,” Rosalie called cheerfully as the baron hobbled down the stairs, muttering curses to himself.
Once he disappeared, Rosalie turned to Lucian, intending to thank him.
But before she could speak, he said, “I wanted to apologize for the other night. It wasn’t my intention to poke fun at you. At least…” He waved a hand, struggling to explain. “Not in a mocking way. I wasn’t laughingatyou. I thought we might laugh about it together.”
“I believe you,” she said quickly. Strangely, it was true. The basic fabric of his character had not changed. She still knew him to be the worst kind of rakehell.
And yet, a man who would come to her aid in her moment of need could not be entirely bad.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
He inclined his head. “You’re welcome. I suppose it takes one scoundrel to know how to deal with another.”
She looked him up and down. He looked both delicious and dangerous, leaning back against the balustrade. “And now, I find myself out here alone with you. Am I out of the frying pan and into the fire, then?”
His grey eyes flashed in the moonlight. “Not at all. Unlike Lord Pritchard, I don’t need to use force to get a woman to touch me.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” She found herself taking a step closer to him, proving his point.Like a moth to the flame.
She gripped the railing in order to stop herself from drifting forward. “I suppose you never answered my question.”
He arched a brow. “Your question?”
“From the other night. About why you would bother to seek out my company. I thought I knew the answer—that you were making sport of me. But now, I’m not so sure.”
He was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the soft thrum of a nightjar from somewhere deep in the gardens below.
He attempted his signature flippant smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What reason does a man usually have for wanting to speak with a beautiful woman?”
