The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(79)

A month ago, the only detail of this day that would have commanded his focus and vitriol was the truth of Cleopatra’s identity.

I simply thought after all the time you’ve spent looking after the young woman that you should have an interest to see that she doesn’t end up with a rake.

End up with a rake . . . which conjured images of Cleopatra at the end of a church altar with another bloody man who wasn’t Adair . . .

Cursing roundly, he slid under the surface of the water, dunking his head. The water muffled his hearing, blotting out sound.

And the bloody rub of it was, despite his wish to forget about Cleopatra—and damn Penelope’s request of him to hell—he wanted to be outside that parlor. Needed to be there.

Adair broke the surface and gasped for breath. He shoved his long, sopping strands obscuring his vision back behind his ears. Fucking Mayfair. Goddamned Ryker for insisting I watch over her. It was a task that had become a study in self-torture. He hurried to scrub the scent of the London streets from his skin . . . before he took up a post outside the White Parlor where Cleopatra even now was courted by that damned rake, Lord Landon.



Given Broderick’s expectations for her, and the need to spare her sisters from sacrificing themselves for the good of the family, Cleopatra should be elated at Lord Landon’s visit.

She should be.

And yet, he’d been here in Penelope’s parlor for the better part of thirty minutes, and she couldn’t manage to drum up a jot of eagerness . . . not even the feigned, pretend sort.

To do so would require her to set aside a lifetime of loathing for people such as the marquess. She might need a fancy toff for a husband, but it didn’t mean it erased a history of hatred. As the flash of horror in Adair’s eyes had stood testament to.

But then . . . you also hated Adair Thorne and his family. Now you’ve fallen in love with him, come to call his sister-in-law friend, and learned to respect Adair’s siblings.

“You’re far quieter than I recall you at the club,” Lord Landon murmured. “In fact, I’d always taken you as one to speak freely.” He stretched his long legs out before him and hooked them at the ankles. It was a lazy, languid pose that would have shocked a lady. If he sought to elicit a reaction, he’d have to do far better than that.

“Oi speak freely,” she said, deliberately adopting her familiar Cockney, “that is, when Oi ’ave something to say and the person merits talking to.” Why do you want to horrify him? Because you don’t truly want to marry him . . . or anyone. Other than Adair Thorne. Her heart spasmed violently.

Lord Landon only grinned. Laying his arms along the sides of his chair, he tapped a distracted beat. “You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked with a bluntness she could appreciate.

Cleopatra lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t know you.”

He scoffed. “Come. I’d wager you know how much I’m in debt for, my drink preferences, the hours I keep, the wom—”

Apparently, for all his rakishness, he’d retained enough of society’s expected decorum that he’d let that go unfinished. She shot an eyebrow up. “The women you bed?”

Crimson color splashed upon the marquess’s cheeks, and he immediately jerked upright in his chair. Fancy toffs. The rogues, rakes, and scoundrels thought they were so much more dangerous than they were, failing to realize they could never reach the shade of darkness fitting a person born to the streets.

“You’re right,” she at last said. “I know those details about you. However, that doesn’t mean I know anything about you.” Not truly. At one time, she’d have believed the size of his purse and the vices he was slave to were all that defined him—or any person. Until Adair.

“And is that important to you?” He clasped his hands at his flat stomach. “Knowing . . . a suitor.”

With tousled golden curls, unmarred cheeks, and sapphire eyes, he’d a beauty that any lady would be enthralled by. How much more Cleopatra preferred Adair’s scarred features. “Is that what you are?” she asked instead, with a candidness that earned another grin. Only this smile he donned dimpled his cheek and met his eyes, showing hints of a man, and not an affected rake.

“That is what I am.” Lord Landon inclined his head. “I’m in need of a bride.”

“Because you’re in deep to my brother.” Adair would never be a man to sell himself for a fortune. Unlike you . . . The truth of that slammed into her. She sat here in blatant condemnation of the marquess for his willingness to do something Cleopatra herself intended.

He abandoned his casual pose. “Because I inherited a bankrupt marquessate.”

Another nob would likely have sputtered and quit the room at her insolence. Lord Landon’s speaking to her on an equal level raised her opinion of him mightily.

“The gaming tables did not prove the way to reverse your fortune.”

His mouth tightened. “They did not. Though I’m generally luckier than I’ve been this past year.”

Cleopatra dropped her elbows upon her knees and leaned closer. “Lord Landon, do you forget I’ve lived in a gaming hell? One that you frequent nearly nightly.”

“Indeed, not.” He either failed to note, hear, or care about her sarcastic statement more than anything. “It is, in fact, why I’m here.”