Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page B

Enders, do you stand?” asked Calvert.
    For a long moment, there was nothing but the sputter of the lamp. Finally, Enders spoke. “I am content, thank you.”
    â€œValigny?” asked Calvert.
    The comte tapped the table with his knuckle, and Calvert slid him one more card.
    â€œMy lord?” Calvert turned to Rothewell. “Will you draw?”
    Rothewell shook his head. “I stand.” Then, with one flick of his fingertip, he turned his cards faceup.
    From the shadows, the girl gasped. Valigny made a strange, choking sound in the back of his throat. His lucky card—the Queen of Spades—stared up at them, her black eyes glowering with disapproval. Beside her lay the Ace of Hearts, impassive, but glorious.
    â€œGentlemen,” said Rothewell quietly. “I think that’s vingt-et-un. ”

Chapter Three
In which a Profitable Proposal is made
    E nders began cursing as soon as the cards fell. Valigny stared at the black queen for a long moment, then burst into peals of laughter. The comte’s daughter closed her eyes, and set her empty glass down with an awkward chink as it struck the silver gallery tray. Her slender shoulders went limp, and her head fell forward as if in prayer.
    She was relieved, Rothewell thought. She was relieved . At least he had accomplished something.
    Or had he? The girl recovered herself quickly enough. When the comte finally stopped laughing, he rubbed his hands briskly. “Well done, my Lord Rothewell!” He turned to his daughter. “ Félicitations, mon chou. May I be the first to wish you happy. Now take his lordship to your sitting room. A newly betrothed couple needs a moment alone, n’est-ce pas ?”
    She did not look at Rothewell but instead swept from the room as if she were the black queen come to life. His emotions still ragged, Rothewell followed her past the stairs and down a long passageway. What in God’s name had he just done?
    Nothing, that was what. He owed Valigny twenty-five thousand pounds. He needed to keep that thought straight in his head.
    Mademoiselle Marchand turned left. Her steps were certain and quick, as if she knew what lay ahead and meant to soldier through it. With her shoulders set stiffly back, she pushed through the sitting-room door with a quick, capable swish of her hips, turned up the lamp, and motioned Lord Rothewell toward a chair, all without pause.
    He ignored the chair, since she did not deign to sit. Inside the small chamber, a low fire glowed in the hearth, and a second lamp burned by the worn but elegant chair which sat adjacent. Rothewell let his gaze sweep over the room, as if by taking it in, he might divine something of the woman’s character.
    Unlike the gilt and gaudy splendor of Valigny’s parlor, this tidy sitting room was appointed with French furniture which looked tasteful but far from new. Leather-bound books lined the whole of one wall, and the air smelled vaguely of lilies instead of smoke, soured wine, and too much male perspiration. Clearly, this was not Valigny’s territory, but his daughter’s—and unless Rothewell missed his guess, the twain rarely met.
    He turned to face her. “Have you a name, mademoiselle ?” he enquired with a stiff bow. “I gather mon chou is not your preferred form of address?”
    Her smile was bitter. “What’s in a name?” she quoted pithily. “You may call me Mademoiselle Marchand.”
    â€œYour Christian name,” he pressed. “Under the circumstances, mademoiselle , I think it necessary.”
    There was another flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Camille,” she finally answered in her low, simmering voice.
    â€œAnd I am Kieran,” he said quietly.
    His name seemed of no consequence to the woman. She paced to the window and stared out into the gaslit street beyond. He felt oddly wounded. A carriage went spinning past in the gloom, the driver’s shadowy form barely