The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(4)

Mortification welled as she thought of the flirtations—and, yes, a few stolen kisses—that she’d believed would win her a proper husband and coveted place in Society. In reality, all that had come of her dalliances had been more ugly gossip and scandal. Now she was a hussy and a by-blow. As if that weren’t bad enough, her disgrace had been publicized by a gossip rag.

Last month, a vile publication called The Prattler had featured a poem entitled The Plucked Rose:



With hair as bright as sunlight,

And eyes so fair and bucolic,

Who’d have thought a miss like that,

Would in dark gardens frolic



With Lords H., M., N., and S.,

And, lest one forgets, Misters R. and P.?

Will this improper alphabet reach an end,

Or stretch into perpetuity?



Wordsworth it was not, but that didn’t seem to matter. The poem caused a minor sensation: even though no names were named, everyone knew who it was about. Outraged, Papa had gone to The Prattler’s office to demand a retraction, only to find that the press had abruptly closed down (good riddance). Nonetheless, the damage had been done: her reputation now hung by a gossamer thread.

Never mind the past. You can still fix this, she told herself fiercely.

Desperation cemented her resolve. George Henry Theale, the sixth and newest Earl of Daltry, was the solution to her problems. Tonight, she had to convince him to propose.

Arriving at the appointed meeting place, she cast a swift glance around before slipping inside the room and closing the door behind her. The space was intimate, the light of a candelabrum gleaming off the Broadwood piano that took center stage. There was a grander music room downstairs, but Aunt Helena’s husband had had this private atelier installed for his lady’s pleasure. Rosie had spent many a happy hour here, listening to her aunt play and singing to the other’s accompaniment.

At the thought of desecrating this place with an assignation, shame and guilt bubbled up. But she’d had no other choice. It hadn’t been easy evading her chaperones, and this was the most convenient place to have a few private moments with the Earl of Daltry. Speaking of which… where was the blasted man?

She’d had a footman deliver a note to Daltry a quarter-hour ago, inviting him to meet her here. She’d been confident the earl would come. Not only had he paid marked attention to her in recent weeks, but he was in the market for a wife. In his early fifties, he’d recently and unexpectedly come into a distinguished earldom. Rich, titled, and never married, he was now faced with the duty of getting an heir.

Which made him perfect for Rosie’s purposes. He needed a young wife; she needed a title with enough clout to restore her reputation. Given that it was January and the height of winter, London had a dearth of both, which meant that she and Daltry were the solutions to one another’s problems. She had to clinch this deal whilst she had the advantage; when the Season started, fresh marriage-minded misses would flood Town, giving Daltry far too many options.

The door opened, a swell of sound invading the room. Despite her resolution, Rosie’s heart thumped beneath her feather-trimmed bodice as the dark outline of a man appeared, the door sealing shut behind him. He stood outside the circle of the candelabrum’s light, and she couldn’t ascertain his identity.

She cleared her throat. “Is that you, Lord Daltry?” Although she’d intended to sound worldly, her voice came out as more of a squeak.

“I’m not Daltry.”

Her insides quivered at the deep masculine tone. Its faint rasp snagged in the far reaches of memory. Did she know this man? As he stepped out of the shadows, she didn’t recognize him. If it hadn’t been for the dimness, there was no way she would have mistaken him for the earl.

The stranger was far taller, for one thing, and his shoulders broader. Somewhere in his thirties, he was a male in his prime. He wore his thick, tawny hair a bit longer than the fashion; it brushed his collar at the back, giving him a leonine air. The rest of him exuded predatory grace as well. He wore no costume, and, like a lion’s skin, his stark evening wear emphasized the virile power of what lay beneath. A black demi-mask hid the upper half of his face.

She couldn’t discern the precise color of his dark and heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze seduced not with effort but with a lazy, just-out-of-bed sensuality. The lower half of his face was chiseled, his jaw strong and firm, an intriguing contrast to the fullness of his lips...

Why in heaven’s name are you thinking about his lips? Or how recently he vacated a bed?

She shook off her daze. Even in his masked state, this male was undeniably striking—and definitely not a lord. Having memorized Debrett’s Peerage and being an avid title watcher, she would have recognized him.

Botheration. She needed to be alone in a room with an attractive, untitled rake as much as she needed a run in her new silk stockings. She had to get rid of him.

“Who are you, sir?” she demanded.

“A friend.”

“That would be impossible as we are not acquainted.”

Something flitted through his eyes. It was gone in the next instant, chased away by a sardonic gleam. “Nonetheless, I have your interests at heart, Miss Kent.”

She frowned. “How do you know who I am?”

“Your brightness is difficult to conceal.”

Oh, please. One more meaningless compliment to add to the heap. Stifling the urge to roll her eyes, she focused on getting him out of here before the earl arrived.