Her mother had been right. She couldn’t trust strange man, and certainly not a man like Lord Dane. He was exactly the man her mother had warned her about. A predatory London rake, roaming with his pack of howling wolves.
She’d been publicly humiliated by a man she’d thought was good. He was vile. He was horrid. He was a liar and a seducer, and she hated him. Loathed him with a passion so intense it was making her see red spots dance before her eyes.
Had she really been fantasizing about a life with him? This arrogant, mean-spirited nobleman, born to wealth and privilege. He’d laughed at her, made others laugh at her.
Why had she come to London? This had all been an enormous mistake.
“Sandrine!”
Francesca caught up with her outside the theater. “You can’t go tearing off like that. We must wait for my aunt. It’s not safe.”
Sandrine looked around them. Francesca was right. Several men loitering about the entrance were eyeing them with interest.
“I’m sorry,” Sandrine said and sniffed. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so very angry and humiliated.”
“Was he really the man you met in Squalton?”
“I thought he was an honorable man, bred in the country, and the entire time he was lying to me. He owns Squalton Manor, and that means that he holds the fate of the entire village in his hands. He must have been laughing at me the whole time. It was all a huge joke to him. Seduce a village maiden under an assumed name.”
“Did he?” Francesca asked, her gaze intense. “Did he ruin you?”
“No, nothing like that. He seduced me with words and gentle glances, and with his gentlemanly behavior and the way he listened to me and made me feel so special.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Lord Dane I know.”
“It was all lies. I never would have told him my innermost secrets and desires if I’d known he was a heartless nobleman and rake. How he must have laughed at my girlish fancies.”
“Listen to me, Sandrine.” Francesca gripped her wrists. “Men are beasts ruled by their basest instincts. Worse than beasts, really. They’re fleas on beasts.” She handed her a fresh handkerchief.
Sandrine wiped her eyes, smiling through her tears. “Thank you. My mother always told me the same thing, but I didn’t believe her. Now I do.”
Mrs. McGovern joined them outside. “What’s all this commotion? Miss Oliver, are you weeping?”
“It’s nothing, really. I...”
Miss Hodwell came rushing out. “What’s all this, then? Lady Roslyn told me there’d been a calamitous occurrence.”
“The man Sandrine met at the beach, the oneyou know as Mr. Danny Smith, is actually Lord Dane Walker,” Francesca explained. “His brother Roman, Duke of Rydell, recently passed away, and now Lord Dane is heir presumptive.”
Mrs. McGovern’s face grew stern. “Why did he lie about his name?”
“He discovered how much the townsfolk of Squalton hate the dukes of Rydell and gave a false name,” said Sandrine.
“The libertine!” Miss Hodwell jabbed her finger at the theater facade. “Courting you under false pretenses. I ought to go in there and teach him a lesson.”
“Now, Dodie, we’ve caused quite enough of a public spectacle for the evening,” said Mrs. McGovern.
“He’s a notorious, unprincipled rake,” Sandrine said. “And I’m the most foolish, gullible girl that was ever born.”
“He’s not worthy of you, my dear,” Miss Hodwell said forcefully. “You’re far too good and kind for the likes of him.”
“I agree,” said Mrs. McGovern. “You may have naively believed his lies, but that doesn’t mean you’re foolish. It only makes you innocent. And in my experience one’s innocence is something to be cherished and not relinquished lightly. Now then, my girl, hold your head high, and we will view the play we came to see.”
“I can’t go back in there. I threw a cup of punch in his face. I made a terrible scene.”
“You did? Good for you!” said Miss Hodwell.
“You should have seen him with punch dripping down his face,” Francesca said gleefully. “I don’t mind missing the play. Let’s go home, and Sandrine and I will get to know each other better. Any lady who douses Lord Dane Walker with punch is sure to be a fast friend of mine.”