Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle

is she?”
    “Yes, and quite good at it,” said Rothewell. “Indeed, I believe I would back her ten to one against any man I know—but press your attentions where they are not wanted, Lord Nash, and you will answer to me .”
    Nash looked truly puzzled. This meeting obviously was not going as he had planned. But what the devil had he expected? Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck Rothewell. He let his eyes drift over Lord Nash’s expensive attire, and pondered it. “Frankly, Nash,” he finally said, “now that I think on it, I know of but one reason why you might have an interest in my sister—and it is not flattering.”
    Nash’s eyes glittered. “Pray speak plainly, Rothewell.”
    “I am referring to her fortune,” Rothewell answered. “As you doubtless know, my sister is quite a wealthy woman. But she will not give it up, Nash—and a marriage would require her to do just that.”
    The marquess drew back an inch, his confusion replaced by outright hauteur. “You dare to suggest I am a fortune hunter?” he snapped. “Good God. Certainly not.”
    Rothewell steepled his fingers together thoughtfully. “Then I beg your pardon, of course,” he said curtly. “I suppose Xanthia is not precisely what one would consider parson’s bait, however lovely she may be. And her strong personality…well, I daresay I have made my point in that regard.”
    Nash’s posture was so rigid now, he looked as if he’d swallowed a poker. “Perhaps there has been some mistake,” he finally acknowledged. “I begin to collect that your Miss Neville would not make an ideal wife after all.”
    Rothewell flashed a faint smile. “For the right man, Xanthia would make an admirable wife indeed,” he said. “But I am relatively confident that you are not that man. I will not see such an intelligent and lovely woman wasted on someone who neither loves her nor deserves her.”
    Nash lifted a piercing, steady gaze to meet his host’s. “You make it sound as if you had someone else in mind.”
    It was Rothewell’s turn to shift uncomfortably in his chair. “My sister has an offer, yes,” he admitted. “A proposal of long standing from a family friend. I daresay they will get round to tying the knot one of these days.”
    “I see.” Abruptly, Nash rose, his eyes suddenly flat and inscrutable. “My apologies, Lord Rothewell. I have inconvenienced you quite unnecess—”
    Suddenly, the study door burst open, and a whirlwind carrying a stuffed leather folio swept in. “Kieran, I have the most shocking news ever!” said his sister as both men rose. “And the Belle Weather is in six weeks early, so I thought that we might—” Her eyes had shied wild in the direction of Rothewell’s guest. “Oh. Good Lord. I…I do beg your pardon.”
    She was halfway out the door when Rothewell caught her. “Not so fast, old thing,” he said. “I take it you know our new friend Lord Nash?”
    “ Lord Nash?” Xanthia had flushed three shades of pink. “I—no, I do not. That is to say…that is to say I did not perfectly understand who…or why…”
    Rothewell could not recall ever having seen his sister at a loss for words. He let his eyes drift over her face, to reassure himself that she did not fear this man.
    No, there was nothing but grave embarrassment etched on her face. “Obviously, this unfortunate business does not concern me,” he said, releasing his sister’s arm. “I shall leave you to it.”
    “Leave us to what, pray?” Xanthia was looking at Nash with a sidelong suspicion now.
    “I’m damned if I know.” Rothewell shrugged, and took up his brandy glass. Then, thinking better of it, he snared the bottle, too. It might be a long night.
    “Good evening, Miss Neville,” said Nash, when the door was closed. “We meet again.”
    Nash watched Miss Neville’s suspicion shift to outrage. “Oh, Lord Nash, is it?”
    “Please do not claim you did not know,” he said.
    “I did not know.” Each word was crisply