The Art of Ruining a Rake (19 page)

He edged around her and she followed him into a large parlor stuffed to the brim with gentlemen. The air stank of stale wine and tobacco, far more so than at a
ton
ball, but it was the sight of so many well-dressed rogues that caused her to halt mid-step and ogle the assembled lot. Goodness, Madame Claremont had gentlemen packed more densely than at a dinner party!

As far as the eye could see, there were men. Men sprawled across couches, men propped on the floor. Men who flipped through magazines and men who drank, interspersed with men who spoke fervently into the ears of other men.

She’d never seen so much passion crammed against so much ennui.

Several gentlemen and one woman were smoking cheroots. The blonde feigned weariness as she turned the pages of a book. A haze drifted up from the burning tobacco, dimming the sconces. The lingering smoke allowed just enough light to filter over the room.

Lucy tried not to stare at the guests, but it was difficult. A raven-haired seductress trailed her fingertips along the sleeve of a gentleman whose expression invited her to do more than evaluate the quality of his clothing. Lucy was almost certain she could see the dusky half-moon of an areola peeking between the folds of the woman’s bodice.
 

Roman
had
promised her tits.

He gave Lucy a gentle nudge, then indicated for her to approach a handsome, auburn-haired woman seated upon a couch in the middle of the room. Two young bucks reclined on the carpet at her feet, their backs toward Lucy. Neither man turned as Lucy and Roman approached.

“Montborne, you handsome laggard.” Madame Claremont’s sophisticated smile was reserved for Roman. “Do you think the rest of us have nothing better to do than wait for you?”

His answering chuckle poured through Lucy like mulled wine. “An hour to immerse yourselves in conversation means I am never bored debating subjects I care nothing about.”

Madame Claremont’s kohl-lined eyes caressed his face. “I
dream
of your enlightenment.”

She must be fifteen years his senior, if not more. Lucy clawed her nails into his sleeve. Did he
really
flirt shamelessly with women near to his mother’s age? The bounder!

Madame Claremont’s bold stare flicked up and down as she took in and then dismissed Lucy. “Who is your friend?”

Lucy drew up, incensed.

The men at her feet craned their necks. As if they couldn’t have been bothered to look at the door when they’d thought the straggler only Roman, but were now persuaded to make the effort.

Lucy glanced down. One of the men was indeed a stranger. The other was none other than Lord Darius Alexander, Roman’s youngest brother.

Lucy gasped. “Dare!”

He grinned at her, though he didn’t bother to stand. Rather, he raised his tumbler to her in a toast. “Miss Lancester.”

Roman tugged her backward suddenly. “This,” he announced to the room, “is Miss Lancester. She was most recently headmistress of a girls’ school in Bath. I fancied myself in love with her, but that did not end well for me. She’s to become an authoress, and I am sworn to educate her in the ways we idle artists pass the time. I expect she has a few ideas of her own to share.”

No one in the room stirred to welcome her. Lucy schooled her own features to mirror their disinterest, rather than reveal her eagerness. She’d read stories about the fast set. These were people who prized apathy, and looked down on guilelessness.

Madame Claremont’s catlike eyes traversed Lucy’s slim figure, taking in her unexceptional appearance with new interest. “Tell me, Miss Lancester, was it very difficult to throw over our Lord Montborne, or did he make it easy on you?”

Lucy wet her lips. A glance around the room assured her the other guests were listening, though they went to great lengths not to signal it. Two men in particular—a somber, mustachioed gentleman with kind eyes, and a slender, orange-haired lord who reeked of arrogance and money—ceased their fervent conversation and stared fixedly at each other, waiting for Lucy to speak.

She girded herself. This set would expect an outrageous answer. One that would have seen her expelled from decent drawing rooms, had she not already been banished.

“The problem with rakes,” she replied with as much haughtiness as she could muster, “is that it is impossible to know whether one is reformed, or merely pretending to be reformed.”

“For the rest of us, I hope our Montborne is the latter sort.” Madame patted the cushion beside her. “Come, Miss Lancester. If you sit by me, I’ll divulge all the naughty things you should know about every man in this room, so you are not tempted to make the same mistake twice.”

Lord Dare looked up at Madame Claremont through light-colored lashes. “Please don’t. Some of us can’t endure the truth.”

Roman snorted quietly.

Lucy darted an inquisitive look at him, but their hostess beckoned again for Lucy to join her. “Leave the hounds to their circling. They’ll do better without with you watching.”

Roman released Lucy’s arm. “Go on. Madame is sure to entertain.”

As Lucy seated herself, Roman gave his youngest brother a meaningful look.
Get on with you, too,
he seemed to say.

Lord Dare came to his feet with a look of annoyance, and the two men stalked off in opposite directions.

The third man rose slowly, bowed gracefully, and left.

Madame Claremont’s colorful shawl slid along her upper arm as she reached toward a low table cluttered with half-empty glasses. A spicy perfume hung in the air around her. She lifted a partially full tumbler and held it toward Lucy. “Brandy?”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. Even an arm’s length away, the contents smelled sickly sweet.

Madame’s low laugh soothed. “Dear girl, it’s far easier to be enlightened with a bit of warmth in you. Here. Sip carefully.”

Lucy reached for the heavy glass and tipped it against her lips with more bravery than she felt. Fire pooled in her with a reassuring warmth, one that left her in no doubt as to why the others lounged about as if they had no expectation of going anywhere else tonight.

An image of herself reclining at Madame’s feet made her smile. Then she giggled. She clapped a hand across her mouth. “Oh.”

Madame’s fingertips grazed Lucy’s knee. “There is no shame in my house. I haven’t the room. Now tell me, why hasn’t Roman taken his eyes from you since he left your side?”

Lucy couldn’t help but glance at him. His eyes met hers and she felt a surge of heat. He was engaged in conversation with two women, the raven beauty and the blonde. Both looked frustrated by his lack of attention. The sultry one leaned in to purr against his shoulder, but he gave no indication of hearing her. She touched his arm and he glowered at her with exasperation, as though she’d interrupted him from something important.

Lucy warmed from head to toe. Then she smiled to herself.

It was wrong to feel triumphant. He’d been sincerely hurt tonight, and she should feel ashamed for misunderstanding him. For making assumptions about his character. But she was only marginally chastised; the rest of her was elated. He wasn’t just a soulless scoundrel. He had
feelings.

Madame Claremont selected a second tumbler from the tray. She reached for the decanter and poured three fingers out, then closed her eyes to savor the spirits. “And now for the question we are all dying to ask. Why not marry him? You might have been a marchioness.”

Lucy didn’t mean to look at him again. Yet she found him anyway. The black-haired beauty had finally succeeded in drawing his attention. He seemed to be enjoying whatever sordid thing she was whispering in his ear.

Lucy clutched her tumbler in her lap, suddenly overcome with the urge to splash its contents in his face. He might not be heartless but he certainly wasn’t monogamous. “I’ve found I’m an incomparably jealous creature,” she replied, her tone too brittle. “I couldn’t imagine placidly accepting his fickle affection for every woman in a skirt.”

Not when it would be so satisfying to brain him with the decanter.

Lord Dare wandered back toward their couch. Madame beckoned for him with a lithe hand. He brushed his lips over her knuckles.

She addressed Lucy, though she looked at Lord Dare. “You’ll do very well with us, so long as you remember love is
meant to be fleeting. When you feel it, give in to it. When it fades…” She let Lord Dare tug her from her seat. He encircled his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck.

All the while, his eyes held Lucy’s. He kissed Madame just under her ear. Lucy shivered, imagining the tickle of a man’s breath on her skin.

Not just any man. Roman.

Madame caught Dare’s chin. She forced him to look in her eyes. “There are plenty of men to be had. They all have their faults. Once you realize that, you can let go of your jealousy, for there is always another man waiting behind this one. You must not let Lord Montborne make you feel otherwise.”

With that, she drew Lord Dare from the room. Lucy tried to look worldly as she clutched her tumbler in her lap. Zeus on high, they were disappearing to have an assignation, right in front of everyone!

She drained the last of her brandy. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her bravado in coming here was embarrassingly short-lived. At the first hint of impropriety, she’d nearly fallen out of her chair. And what had Madame
meant
about changing lovers on a whim? If Lucy had ever considered taking a lover, she’d imagined
a
lover, not a revolving platter of lovers. Was a man a sweetmeat to be tasted and put back?

She caught Roman’s eye.
Not
because she’d looked for him. Because he was now standing between her and the exit.

A man’s voice jolted her attention from the door. “Pardon me, but I think we must make our own introductions now that our hostess has, shall we say, departed?”

“Oh!” Her gaze fell to her lap. This was all so forward and… and
wicked
.

“Miss Lancester?” the man prodded.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Roman take a step toward her, as if he meant to cross the room. Lucy knew a truly dismal moment. It seemed she would fail at this, too. She couldn’t run with the fast set, after all.

She steeled herself. No. She faced a very dull existence if she didn’t set aside her missishness and take advantage of Roman’s kindness in bringing her here. The empty porcelain salver in her new foyer foretold her lonely destiny. A post that had overflowed with invitations during her Season hadn’t delivered a single card since her return to Town. If she was to have any friends at all, she must find them here. Surely what Madame Claremont had just done with Lord Dare was only as wanton as what she had enticed Roman to do at Mrs. Galbraith’s masque ball.

With a shake of her head, Lucy assured Roman she didn’t require his assistance. To her amazement, he saluted her with his glass and gave her his back. She was so surprised, she had to close her mouth. Her brother took every opportunity to barge into her affairs. For Roman to be available to help if needed, but allow her the freedom to decide whether he was needed, was refreshing and empowering.

And intimate. Her skin warmed. When she wished to leave, he’d escort her home. Anticipating his undivided attention at the end of the evening was inexplicably more thrilling than having it in the moment.

Feeling as though they had reached an agreement, she tilted her head to regard the man who’d been bold enough to approach. A dash of pomade stood his brown hair on end. Pointed lapels framed a square jaw. He was no Greek god, but…

She glanced discreetly at Roman again. To her dismay, he’d returned to his tête-à-tête
with the black-haired seductress. They were doing nothing untoward, merely speaking. Yet Lucy dug her nails into her palms. What subject did Roman find so engrossing, he must lean
that close
to hear it?

Perhaps she did want Roman’s company now.

The man attempting to gain her notice indicated the vacant seat beside her. “May I?” he asked in a voice tinged with a Surrey accent.

Lucy glared in Roman’s direction. “Please.”

The cushion beside her dented. The man reached for the decanter and filled his tumbler, then held the bottle over her empty glass. “Another round, Miss Lancester?”

Lucy dragged her attention away from the striking couple murmuring in the corner. She already felt the effects of her first glass: lightheaded, warm and roused to passion. So this was what it meant to be potted. She could use a good deal more of it, if she was to distance herself from the annoyance of watching
her
friend
flirt.

She held her tumbler out. “Please.”

The stranger tipped the decanter until an inch of golden liquid sloshed into her glass. Then he replaced it on the side table. “I’m Edward Barton-Wright,” he said, raising his cup to toast their acquaintance. “You could say I’m the man waiting behind Lord Montborne.”

Chapter 9