Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Page A

only of a marriage portion.”
    â€œVraiment?” Her brown eyes widened disingenuously. “A pity I did not have my ear to the door, my lord. Valigny has told you but half the tale—the half he knows.”
    He moved closer—so close he could see the fringe of thick black lashes which rimmed her chocolate-colored eyes—and set one heavy hand on her shoulder. “Then suppose, Mademoiselle Marchand, that you tell me the other half?—and pray do so now. ”
    Her chocolate eyes seemed suddenly to shoot sparks. “Oh, you are just another spoilt, drunken rakehell, Rothewell, like all Valigny’s friends.” Her seductive voice was low and tremulous. “What would a fifty-thousand-pound marriage portion do for me? Why would I marry you? Out of the goodness of my heart? There is none! If ever there was, Valigny has trampled it out of me.”
    Rothewell was struck suddenly by three things. Her English was a good deal better than she’d been letting on. His cock was on the verge of stiffening, a strange circumstance indeed. And she was bloody well right about the money. Why would she marry him? What had she to gain? Her father would take half the marriage portion, and he, himself, would ostensibly take the other half.
    â€œI’ll have the truth out of you, madam,” he gritted. “All of it. Now.”
    Something like hatred glinted in her eyes. “And so I shall tell you,” she said. “Three months past, Valigny found out that I was left a marriage portion in the will of my grandfather, and it is eating him alive. Oui, he is addicted, monsieur . Addicted to the game, and always desperate. For the money to play his game, he will do anything.”
    Rothewell glowered down at her, strangely aware of her sharp, spicy scent, and of the tiny pulse point just below her ear. “Aye, go on.”
    For an instant, her dainty pink tongue toyed with one corner of her mouth, but Rothewell was almost too enraged to appreciate it. Almost . “There is more.” She dropped her voice, her words swift and quiet. “Things Valigny does not know. But I wonder…I wonder if you can be trusted.”
    â€œNo,” he said flatly.
    She let that thought sink in for a moment. “ Zut! ” she said beneath her breath. “You have me at sword point, monsieur . May I not rely on your honor as a gentleman?”
    â€œThat’s a slender reed to grasp, my dear,” he said. “But you may cling to it if you wish.”
    Her eyes shot daggers at him then. “ Mon Dieu, you are a devil!” she said. “A devil with the eyes of a wolf. But perhaps I must risk it.”
    â€œWhy not?” he answered. “Could I possibly be more of a devil than your father?”
    â€œ Oui, that is most true.” But her temper, he could see, was still hot and she was still hesitant. “There is more than a marriage portion for me,” she finally said. “The solicitor of my grandfather advises me that his English—what do you say? His propriété ?”
    â€œHis country estate, you mean?”
    She nodded. “Yes, the land, the house, the title—all these have gone to a cousin. But all else—much else—is to be mine. There is money, oui , but also mills and mines for coal. Things which I do not understand— not yet . But it is worth many, many thousands of pounds.”
    Rothewell felt his eyes widen. It was true, then, what Valigny had said. But the man apparently did not comprehend the magnitude of what he’d just gambled away. “And Valigny knows nothing of this?”
    â€œ Non .” She lifted one elegant shoulder beneath the silk of her gown. “I was not fool enough to tell him everything.”
    Rothewell felt his suspicion growing. “If you are so wealthy,” he said, “what need have you to marry at all?”
    Here, Mademoiselle Marchand’s lips thinned. “Alas, there is