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

recently—following my mother’s death.”
    Rothewell looked at her, stunned. “Christ Jesus,” he whispered. “She did not tell you?”
    Mademoiselle Marchand shook her head. She would not hold his gaze. “I was a fool,” she said softly. “A fool to think Valigny could help me. No decent family will receive him. He has wasted my precious time.”
    â€œVery well.” Rothewell swallowed. “You have six weeks. And then what happens?”
    She lifted her chin a fraction. “My twenty-eighth—how do you say it?—the anniversary of one’s birth?”
    â€œYour birthday?” said Rothewell, incredulous. “You must be married by your twenty-eighth birthday?”
    â€œTo obtain so much as the first sou, oui, I must first marry by twenty-eight, and bear a child of my husband within two years.”
    â€œAnd your father knows this?” Rothewell felt vaguely appalled. “He knows it, and he used you? To stake a card game?”
    â€œValigny, I fear, is without scruple,” she said emotionlessly. Her eyes were still upon him, dark and knowing. “But be assured, my lord, that I am going to marry. Otherwise, there is nothing for me. Nothing but Valigny’s generosity, which has never proven very reliable.”
    â€œI see,” he murmured.
    â€œSo what is it to be, Rothewell?” she quietly continued. “Am I to marry you? Or must I take the licentious Lord Enders to my bed?”
    Good Lord, she really meant to marry one of them? And the choice was to be his?
    He looked again into her bottomless brown eyes. She was serious. Deadly serious.
    Rothewell felt as if someone had just crushed the air from his lungs.
    But Mademoiselle Marchand—Camille—was still looking at him, her expression oddly serene, her hands once more carefully folded. She was waiting. Waiting for his answer. He drew a deep breath, then let his gaze run over her once again. She was so beautiful she could almost have made the dead rise— almost —and there was no denying that despite all the emotion of this awful night, yes, he still desired her. The kiss had served only to fan the flame which had sprung to life the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
    Well, he had begun this travesty, hadn’t he? He might as well finish it. God knew it would make little difference to him.
    â€œHave you a maid?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œOui, bien sûr,” she said. “Why?”
    Rothewell caught her almost roughly by the elbow. “Because we are going to find her,” he said grimly. “And then we are going to your bedchamber to pack your things.”
    â€œIn the middle of the night?” Her voice arched. “Why?”
    â€œYes. In the middle of the night.” He had opened the door and propelled her through it. “Because I’ll be damned if you will ever spend another under Valigny’s roof.”

    Within the hour they were out of the house and Rothewell was helping Mademoiselle Marchand into his carriage. Her hand was warm and light in his own. He looked down to see her fingers, slender and neatly manicured. It was a capable-looking hand.
    Since leaving her sitting room, he had moved as if in a dream, instructing Mademoiselle Marchand, barking orders at the servants, and holding Valigny deliberately at bay. And all the while, it felt as though he watched another man indelibly altering his life.
    The maid turned out to be a thin, pale-faced girl who was terrified of Rothewell. As to Mademoiselle Marchand, her every gesture was calm, her expression unreadable. A very composed woman, he thought—unless she was being kissed senseless.
    The footman called Tufton came down with the last bag and glanced at the carriage door with obvious concern. When he had lashed the bag to the back of the carriage, Rothewell stepped beneath the streetlamp, and thrust out his card.
    â€œI am in Berkeley Square if you need