Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

visible upon the box. Unasked, Rothewell started across the room to join her, but she cut an immediate and forbidding glance over her shoulder.
    He hesitated. Why press forward with this travesty? Indeed, what had possessed him to pursue it at all? Pity? Lust? One last effort to redeem his hopelessly blackened soul? Or was it simply a gnawing hunger for something which he had not already tasted to wretched excess?
    And what had brought such a beautiful creature to such a desperate point—and she must indeed be desperate though she hid it like a master.
    Rothewell dropped his gaze. A glass of what looked like strong claret sat on a dainty piecrust table by her chair, and a book lay open beside it. He glanced at the spine. It was not a novel, as one might expect, but An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations by the Scot, Adam Smith.
    Good God, was the woman a bluestocking? Rothewell glanced again at her face, now in profile as she stared into the night.
    No. With lips as lush as those, it simply was not possible. Moreover, she was too cool. Too Continental and sophisticated.
    â€œMademoiselle Marchand,” he said quietly, “why are you cooperating with your father in this unholy scheme?”
    At last she turned from the window, her hands held serenely at her waist, one laid neatly over the other. “I do it, monsieur , for the same reason as you,” she replied, her French accent less pronounced now. “Because there is something in it for me.”
    â€œWhat, a title?” Rothewell sneered. “I assure you, my dear, mine is scarcely known. It will do you little good.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn for your title, sir,” she calmly returned, her chin up. “I need an English husband—one who can do his duty.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œA husband who can get me with child—and quickly.” She let her gaze run down him as if he were now the horseflesh on the block. “Surely you can accomplish that much, monsieur , despite your haggard appearance?”
    Strangely, it was not the insult but her apathy which stirred his ire. “What the devil are you talking about?” he said darkly. “If you wish for a child, mademoiselle , there are many eligible bachelors in London who would doubtless oblige you.”
    â€œAlas, I am told they have all gone to the country for shooting season.” She laughed with mocking lightness. “Oh, come, monsieur ! With Valigny’s reputation? And my mother’s? I am thought scandalous, my lord. But you—ah, you do not look as if scandal much disturbs you.”
    â€œYou have a tart tongue, madam,” he returned. “Perhaps that is your problem?”
    â€œ Oui, but you’ll not be long burdened with it,” she answered evenly. “Just wed me, Rothewell, and do your duty. It will prove a lucrative wager indeed—less Valigny’s cut of the settlement, naturellement . I will pay you a generous sum of money as soon as my child is born healthy. Then you may go on your merry, dissolute way.”
    â€œGood God,” he said, his temper ratcheting up. “Just what is a man’s seed selling for nowadays, Miss Marchand? Can you tell me? Have you put a price on it?”
    She faltered but a moment. “It is worth a good deal to me,” she returned. “A hundred thousand pounds, monsieur . How does that sound?”
    â€œGood God,” he said again. “I begin to believe you as coldhearted as Valigny.”
    A bitter smile curved her full, sensuous lips. “And I begin to believe it is your precious title which concerns you after all,” she answered. “English arrogance is—”
    â€œTitles and arrogance be damned!” he snapped, stalking toward her. “In any case, there will be no child. My God, there isn’t even going to be a marriage . And what is this nonsense about a hundred thousand pounds? Valigny spoke