Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Page B

the—the what do you call it?—the fly in the honey?” she answered. “My grandfather was a vengeful man. I inherit nothing until I come here—to England—and marry a suitable man. A man of the English aristocracy.”
    â€œAh, yes! There’s that English gentleman again,” said Rothewell.
    She flashed a bitter smile, but to his frustration, it did nothing to lessen her allure. “ Mais oui, ” she agreed. “Then, however, to receive anything beyond my marriage portion, I must produce a child. My grandfather wished to ensure that the dreaded scourge—that frightful French blood of my father—was soon diluted out of existence in his descendants.”
    Rothewell took a step back. “I’m afraid you have netted the wrong sort of fish, my dear,” he returned. “I have no interest in this misbegotten scheme.”
    She tossed him another disparaging glance, then edged away. “Of course you do,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “You are a hardened gamester, are you not? Take a risk! You have a fifty-fifty chance the child will be female, and your precious title will be unsullied.”
    â€œOh?” he growled. “Assuming I give a damn for my title, what then?”
    She gave a Gallic shrug. “Then, monsieur, you can divorce me,” she replied. “I gladly will give you cause, if need be. I have had no offers of marriage, c’est vrai, but many offers of another kind. Offers made only with the eyes—so far. But it will be no problem for me simply to accept one.”
    Like the lash of a whip, his hand seized her arm, turning her to face him. “You would not dare, mademoiselle, ” he gritted. “For if you tried that trick with me, it wouldn’t be a divorce you’d get.”
    The woman had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Ah, suddenly principled, are you?”
    He released her arm, but she did not back away. The hot, spicy scent of her filled his nostrils now. “I may not give a damn for my title, Mademoiselle Marchand,” he snapped. “But I care a great deal about being made a cuckold.”
    â€œOh, everyone has a price, Rothewell.” Was there an unexpected note of melancholy in her voice? “You. Lord Enders. Valigny. Oui, monsieur, even I. Have I not just proven it?”
    â€œA price?” he returned. “There may be little about me that is honorable, mademoiselle, but I have no need to marry a woman for her money. Indeed, I have no need—or desire—to marry at all.”
    â€œWhat nonsense!” She cut another of her cool glances at him. “That is precisely why you remained at the card table, n’est-ce pas ?”
    â€œNo, damn you, it is not,” he snarled.
    Mademoiselle Marchand blinked her eyes, as if attempting to clear her vision. “ Non ?” she murmured, drifting back to the window. “Then why did you play Valigny’s little game, Rothewell? What other reason could you possibly have?”
    It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it was because he could not bear the thought of Lord Enders’s heaving himself atop so lovely and so innocent a young woman—but no. That would not do. It probably wasn’t even true. Why should he give a damn what happened to Valigny’s insolent by-blow? Oh, she was beautiful, yes. And infinitely beddable. But she had a tongue like a serpent, and eyes which seemed determined to pierce his darkest recesses.
    How the devil had he got himself into this mess? There was nothing of the gentleman in him, and there never had been. He was no better than that scoundrel Valigny, or the sick, twisted Lord Enders.
    Her piercing eyes were on him now, watchful. Insistent. “Why, Rothewell?” she said. “Now it is my turn to demand the truth.”
    â€œThe truth!” he said bitterly. “Would either of us recognize it, I wonder?”
    She stepped toward