The Art of Ruining a Rake by Emma Locke

draw him on top of her…
    A knock sounded at the door. Roman cursed and pushed away.
    She sat up quickly and scrubbed at her lips as he rose and went to answer the door, the slivered opening blocked by his lean body. She couldn’t claim madness this time. Zeus, she’d been panting for it!
    His voice carried across the room, too loud for the occasion. “Why, yes, we would like some refreshment. How kind of you to think of it.”
    Her maid’s reply was too muffled for Lucy to hear. She could barely hear anything over the clanging in her ears. She could justify surrendering anything when it came to him. Her pride. Her future. Her sanity.
    She was reckless in her determination to be with him, and it terrified her. A man who so easily initiated an affair in the middle of the afternoon wasn’t capable of lasting affection. What if he hurt her?
    What if she hurt him ?
    A satisfied smile played on his lips as he returned. “It could be very good, being married to me.”
    She tugged her bodice back into place. Then she mirrored his smirk, hoping he didn’t see her fear in her eyes. “We don’t need to be married to do that, my lord.”
    His lips pressed together, the smile erased. “Am I wrong, then? Is this hunger between us truly as primal as you make it seem?”
    She didn’t respond. The hope in his eyes extinguished. Always the dramatic actor, her Roman.
    “Do you not love me even a little?” he asked.
    She looked away. Her throat closed. What she felt for him didn’t matter. Rather, it did matter—it was everything.
    She peered up at him through her lashes. As if by playing the coquette she could convince herself that she didn’t harbor any stray emotions for him. “I shall find my own way to Devon. I need to visit with my sister in Gloucester, at any rate. Do you intend to confess all to Trestin when you see him? Or shall I surprise him with the facts when I arrive?”
    Roman drew up as though she’d offended him. “I never meant to concoct a cock-and-bull story, Miss Lancester. He’s my friend.”
    At least she wouldn’t be the one to explain the ignoble details to her prudish brother. “Thank you.”
    “When can I expect your return to London?” Roman asked, causing her to look up in surprise.
    “My return?” she parroted dumbly, for surely he must know Trestin would never allow her out of Worston. “Have you no sense of the significance of my situation? Even if by some wondrous happenstance my brother did permit me to visit Town, he’d never allow me to see you. ”
    The thought left her bereft. Never seeing Roman again was almost enough to make her weep. And yet, what more could she expect? For Trestin to blithely accept her ruination and send her back into the arms of the scoundrel who’d caused it?
    No. He’d never permit her to see her despoiler. Not unless she agreed to allow Roman to court her, which she would never do.
    Her only hope of seeing her faithless rake again—for she refused to consider a lifetime of never seeing him—was during ton events. Events from which she would be barred, forever, as long as she refused to wed him.
    She folded her hands in her lap, realizing how very bleak her life was to become if she couldn’t conceive how to evade Trestin’s guardianship. “If my brother did agree to allow me to go to London, which I cannot fathom, I cannot see how you and I would cross paths. I expect to be barred from the genteel events we attended last year.” Picnics. Balls. Jaunts through the countryside. That deliciously dark room they’d found at Mrs. Galbraith’s masque soiree.
    Desire smoldered in Roman’s eyes. He remembered those occasions, too.
    Suddenly, his face closed. His jaw tightened. He swept his walking stick aside and made her an elegant bow. “I heartily hope you are wrong about our not crossing paths. And if you truly intend to never set eyes on me again, I do wish you wouldn’t kiss me as if I’m the air you need to breathe. Good day, Miss Lancester.