Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page B

could see.
    But he likely needn’t be concerned, the baron consoled himself, going to the small sideboard in his study to pour himself another tot. He knew almost no one in London, and certainly had invited no one to call upon him. He was surprised, therefore, when one of his newly employed footmen came in bearing the card of a gentleman whose name he had never before heard.
    “I am not at home,” he growled.
    But the servant looked ill at ease. “I think he means to wait, my lord,” said the footman. “After all, it is Lord Nash.”
    Rothewell scowled. “Who the devil is Lord Nash?” grumbled the baron. “And why should I give a damn?”
    “Well, he is the sort of fellow who generally gets what he wants,” said the footman.
    This was enough to pique Rothewell’s curiosity. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Show the fellow in.”
    Naturalists say that when certain carnivores meet in the wild, they circle and scent one another, each assessing the other’s willingness to back away. Rothewell never backed away from anyone, and his hackles went up the moment the man crossed his threshold.
    The man called Nash was whipcord-lean and moved with a controlled strength which was rather more formidable than outright brawn might have been. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, with perhaps a suggestion of silver at the temples. He carried an expensive-looking driving cape over one arm, and his gloves in one hand, as if his stay was to be brief.
    “Good evening, Lord Rothewell.” The man had eyes like obsidian ice. “How kind of you to receive me.”
    Glittering eyes. Expensive clothes. A voice too soft—and not quite English, either , he thought. This, at least, should be interesting.
    Rothewell waved a hand toward a chair. “Do sit down,” he said. “How may I assist you?”
    As if to make a point, Nash repositioned the chair nearer the desk. “I am here on a matter which is of a personal nature.”
    “I can’t think what the devil that might be,” said Rothewell, “since I never before laid eyes on you.”
    The man smiled faintly, as if he did not believe him. “No, I have not the pleasure of a formal acquaintance,” he answered coolly. “But I believe I had the honor of meeting your sister last night at Lord Sharpe’s ball. Miss Xanthia Neville—she is your sister, is she not?”
    The man, Rothewell decided, looked like a wolf; a wolf with a lean and hungry look about him. “I do not remember you from Sharpe’s ball,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “But yes, Miss Neville is my sister. What of it?”
    “I collect you are her guardian,” said Lord Nash in his too-quiet voice. “I should like your permission to pay court to her.”
    “You should what —?”
    “I should like to court Miss Neville.” If anything, his voice was even quieter, and more ominous. “I somehow feel certain that my suit will be acceptable to you.”
    Rothewell was not remotely intimidated. “It certainly is not,” he barked. “Why should it be? My sister is an exceptional woman. And she is not in need of—nor, so far as I know, even in want of —a husband. Moreover, it is Xanthia’s permission you’ll need—and if you knew a bloody thing about her, you would already know that .”
    “Ah, an independent-minded young lady,” remarked Nash. “How very charming.”
    “She is not independent-minded,” said Rothewell. “She is independent . And stubborn. And imperious, when she’s in the right—which she is, more often than one wishes to admit. Good God, Nash, she’s nearly thirty years old. Moreover, she…she is not like other women. Have you any notion what you are asking?”
    “I am asking if I may court your sister.”
    “Why?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Why Xanthia?” he demanded. “If you want a wife, why not chose some young, biddable miss, Nash? Life will go a damned sight easier for you, trust me.”
    Lord Nash was looking faintly uncomfortable now. “Miss Neville is the managing sort,