He leaned down and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “Calm down, Rosie-Roo. Everything is fine.”
“Everything is not fine.” Her voice broke on the last word. “I lost my betrothed on the eve of my betrothal ball. I’m about to become the biggest laughingstock London has ever seen. I’ve been wracked with anxiety all day!”
His expression turned somber. “I am sorry for that. I’ve been busy ironing out the particulars. I thought your mother would have told you.”
Rosalie scrubbed angrily at a tear that was threatening to spill. “Well, she didn’t.”
He pressed her hand with his giant one. “My poor dear.” Abruptly, his giddy grin returned. “But wait until you see what has happened! I couldn’t have planned things better if I’d arranged them myself.”
“Arranged what?” she asked, exasperated. “What is going on?”
“You’ll see!” He took her arm and started toward the ballroom door. “Come. We can’t keep everyone waiting.”
Rosalie stumbled after him. Any efforts to resist her bear of a father were utterly futile, so she gave in and fell into step beside him, opting to preserve a modicum of dignity rather than be dragged into the ballroom. Much as she loved her father, she could not have been more exasperated with him than she was at this moment.
The ballroom was packed, and as they entered, a hush fell over the richly dressed crowd. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were fixed upon Rosalie and her father as they mounted the steps to the dais that would house the orchestra in a few short minutes. Her father was grinning broadly. Rosalie tried to look nonchalant, but she doubted she managed it very well.
Her father bowed over her hand, positioning her on the near side of the dais, then took center stage. His booming voice carried easily over the crowd. “Has anyone else had an eventful day?”
A ripple of laughter swept across the crowd. Rosalie tried her best to smile along, but she felt positively ill.
Her father looked unconcerned. “We had a bit of news ourselves this morning. It was quite the surprise, learning that the viscount who had asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage wasn’t a viscount after all, and on the eve of her betrothal ball! I’m sure all the fathers out there will understand my feelings upon learning the news. There’s nothing worse than disappointing your little girl, now is there?”
There was a murmur of masculine agreement. Rosalie’s smile tightened. Although her father could justifiably be described as doting, the majority of men of thetondid not give a whit about their daughters. What a bunch of hypocrites!
Her father continued, “No one is going to disappoint my little girl on the day of her betrothal ball. No one, I say! What my Rosalie wants, my Rosalie is going to get. And so, withoutfurther ado, I am pleased to present my daughter’s betrothed, Lord Valentine!”
Rosalie’s first thought was,But that’s not possible—Lysander is no longer Viscount Valentine!
Followed by,Wait.
Surely not.
Even my luck isn’t that bad.
But it turned out that her luck was, indeed, that bad, because the man who came striding through the doors to the ballroom was the very man she had spent the past two years struggling to forget—Lysander’s cousin, Lucian Deverell, the new Viscount Valentine.
A delighted gasp went up from the crowd, reminding Rosalie that everyone she knew and several hundred people she didn’t had their eyes fixed on her in this, the worst moment of her life. She tried to smile, to feign pleasure at the thought of marrying the man who had not merely broken her heart, but had stomped it into shards, ground those shards beneath his boot heel, and kicked the remains into the gutter for good measure.
Lucian did not seem to be having the same difficulty. A soft smile graced his lips as he graciously inclined his head toward the crowd that was jubilant at the prospect of seeing the lateston ditplaying out before their very eyes.
Her father came over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Lord Valentine—the real one—returned just in time. And he was most accommodating when I suggested that he fill the role of bridegroom.” He turned to beam at Rosalie. “So never fear, darling. You’re still going to be Lady Valentine!”
Rosalie tried to smile. She was fairly certain it looked more like a snarl, but she did the best she could. Her father was beaming at her, clearly expecting her to be delighted, as if her heart’s desire had been to marry whatever man bore the titleViscount Valentine, no matter how repulsive he might be. As for Lucian…
She peered around her father and caught his eye. His expression could best be described as a smirk, but there was real delight in his eyes, delight at her expense.
Why, that blackguard! He was laughing at her!
Rosalie’s eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. She fervently hoped the assembled guests weren’t close enough to notice. Her father clearly didn’t, because he grabbed Rosalie’s elbow, pulled her across the dais, and placed her hand in Lucian’s.
“And now,” the duke announced, oblivious to the vitriol bouncing back and forth between the bride and groom, “the happy couple will open the ball by leading us in the first dance!”
Hoping against hope that this might be an extremely realistic nightmare from which she would presently wake, Rosalie allowed Lucian to lead her down the steps.
She felt his warm breath against her ear. “Did you miss me?” She was overwhelmed with his signature scent—spicy and sweet, with a mix of pepper, sage, orange blossom, and a splash of rum. She was instantly transported back to that garden, drenched in moonlight, and that fleeting moment when she had honestly believed…
Rosalie shook herself.Whywas she reminiscing about that night? Lucian had made it abundantly clear that it had meant nothing to him. That it had all been part of a cruel wager.
