“Always the optimist. The way you look at the world is so rosy and hopeful, even when things are falling to rubble around your ears. It’s like you thinking that a few ghosts and some new paint will make Squalton Manor a sought-after attraction for travelers.”
“It will! Or how I believe that you could be good under that cynical, teasing exterior?”
“Yes, most of all that.”
“You think your birth was a mistake,” she said softly. “Whereas I think the world is a better place with you in it. I won’t stop trying to convince you of that.”
“And I won’t stop announcing our engagement because it’s a fait accompli. I’m afraid you’re stuck with cynical me.”
“The engagement hasn’t been settled yet. Besides the fact that you acted hastily and without consulting me, my mother said something after you left that I hadn’t even considered. You can’t marry me for the same reasons that Mr. Pilkington can’t marry me. As much as you don’t want to, you might become a duke, Dane. And then I would be the duchess with a scandalous grandmother, no fortune, no training in the artof duchessing, and a mother who will carry on about the iniquity of the sinful city of London at every social gathering.”
“You’d win everyone over. Don’t you know the effect you have on people?”
“Dane, there you are.” The Duke of Warburton rounded the corner of the clubhouse. “Miss Oliver.” He bowed to Sandrine. “Osborne’s found something,” he said in his usual gruff, direct way. “Or rather, someone. Your Mr.L-A, whose full name is Larken. He has him at Osborne Court for questioning.”
“How did he find him?”
“Followed the money trail from the prizefight. We’re to go and help question him.”
“Go,” Sandrine said, reading the question in his eyes. “Go and uncover the plot against your brother so that we can all sleep easier at night.”
“I’m still sending my carriage for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
“Fait accompli, my dear Miss Oliver,” he replied with a devastating smile and a wave as he walked away with Warburton.
Sandrine’s heart galloped. This was another line drawn in the sand. If she gave herself to him, there would be no going back. He desired her, that much was clear. But he’d never said that he loved her or even cared for her.
Would she be strong enough to resist him the next time he whispered wicked things to her? She must find the fortitude to fight this attraction.She had to know that it was love, and not merely lust, motivating him to claim her.
She must win the race for his heart as the Pink Ladies had instructed her to do. Make him fall to his knees. Make him grovel.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Indelicate topics must never be discussed by young ladies.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
Osborne had Larken trussed to a chair in his cellar with a handkerchief stuffed inside his mouth.
“Does your wife know about this?” Warburton asked him.
“She’s at her art gallery. I don’t interfere with her work, and she doesn’t interfere with mine.” He raised his huge fists. “Shall I get to work, then, now that you’re here to help?”
“This is where I leave you, gentlemen,” Patrick said. “As your lawyer, I don’t want to know what goes on in this cellar.”
Larken whimpered, eyeing them warily.
Dane had no intention of hurting the man, but with three large men surrounding him with their fists raised, he hoped to frighten him into talking.
He approached the chair, and Larken flinched. “I don’t like hitting a fellow who’s tied up. But when you accosted me in that alleyway, I asked you for a fair fight and you kept me blindfolded and restrained. Turn and turn about.”
“I’ll ask you one more time,” Osborne said. “Are you ready to start talking? Nod your headyes.”
Larken’s gaze darted from Warburton to Osborne to Dane. He swallowed. Then nodded.
“Good.” Osborne ripped the gag from his mouth. “Who hired you to threaten Lord Dane?”