The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online

himself. There could be very little doubt that features like his derived from noble progenitors, but in his case said ancestors had presumably engaged on the wrong side of the blanket.
    Regardless, that face . . . held her attention effortlessly. While she heard the various reports and absorbed the implications, her gaze remained, not on whoever was speaking, but on Roscoe. At no point did he glance up at the gallery, leaving her free to indulge her now rampant curiosity and study—examine—him.
    It wasn’t every day she got the chance to so closely scrutinize any male, let alone one of his caliber. One who embodied the devilish attraction she’d spent all her life being warned, in dire terms, against.
    He wasn’t prettily handsome; he was too old for that, and there was a touch of harshness, of sharply edged hardness, in the sculpted planes of his face. His finely shaped lips often held a cynical twist, while his heavy lidded dark eyes—she still wasn’t sure what color they were—combined with his frequently impassive expression, hinted at world-weariness and distance.
    If his face, with its suggestion of veiled strength and reclusive personality, intrigued, his body fascinated. She’d been impressed enough in the gallery, but being able to measure him against other men left her even more appreciative of his height, his long-limbed grace.
    He moved in a manner that transfixed her senses. He leaned back in his chair, listening to one of the others speak, and she drank in the pose, one that spoke of a male in his prime who was utterly at ease in his large, powerful body.
    Only when the meeting broke up and he rose and, with the others, left the library—still without glancing her way—did she blink free of the spell and finally turn her mind to other things.
    The instant she did, the import of all she’d heard rushed into the forefront of her mind.
    No matter how she viewed things, what she’d learned through the meeting made it abundantly clear that in suggesting that Roscoe was corrupting Roderick, she’d transgressed. Badly. She would have to apologize.
    Sincerely.
    Roscoe might be a noble bastard, might be London’s gambling king, but beneath his hard, aloof, and powerful exterior lay a thinking and caring man. A man who deserved her applause, not her censure.
    He might not be a gentleman, but clearly he was accepted by others within the pale, and as long as Roderick’s association with him remained discreet, no matter from what angle she viewed the situation she couldn’t see any valid reason to interfere. Roderick would come to no direct harm through interacting with Roscoe in his role as chairman of the Philanthropy Guild. Indeed, Roderick most likely would learn a thing or two from London’s gambling king—a conclusion that was faintly discombobulating.
    Stranger situations no doubt existed, but she couldn’t offhand think of one.
    A part of her—the more craven part—wanted to leave the gallery and, while Roscoe was engaged with seeing his guests out, slip out through the rear garden and hurry home . . . but no. She’d come into his house and insulted him, but he’d allowed her to watch the meeting and through it learn what she’d needed to know about Roderick’s new venture.
    Rather than being anxious about her brother, she was now rather proud of him.
    And that—the slaying of her anxiety and her improved appreciation of Roderick—lay at Roscoe’s door, so like any considerate guest, she sat and waited for him to return and show her out.
    Five minutes later, the door opened. Her disconcerting host halted in the doorway, filling it, and looked at her.
    Drawing in a determined breath, she rose and faced him. Raising her head, she met his gaze levelly. “My apologies, Mr. Roscoe. Clearly I was laboring under several misapprehensions with respect to both yourself and my brother. I must thank you for allowing me to learn the truth.”
    Roscoe didn’t blink, but he was surprised. In his