Page 21 of Pride: The Rogue (Seven Deadly Sins #3)

L ivian hadn’t even attempted to muster the will to force herself to take part in the duchess’ evening parlor games.

How could she have?

How could she face Lachlan again?

No, not Lachlan. How could Livian bring herself to watch Lachlan and his future wife together?

Livian took in a shuddery, painful breath and hugged her arms about her middle.

The answer was—she couldn’t.

Standing in the same music room where she and Lachlan made love earlier that day, Livian stared out the floor-to-ceiling length crystal windows at the duchess’ exquisitely manicured gardens below.

Mother Nature, in another grand display of fury and displeasure, had ripped open the skies and let the rains fall violently from the heavens—this time, at the Duchess of Argyll’s country estate.

“You seem sad, Miss Lovelace,”

That quiet murmur startled Livian from her thoughts.

Gasping, she spun around. The ever charming , Viscount Forfar stood framed in the entryway.

Even as he kept his distance and stared patiently and kindly, his presence stirred the same unease that’d dogged her during and after every exchange she’d had the with the gentleman.

He expected a greeting.

And yet…

When Livian failed to respond, he quirked a golden eyebrow.

She found her voice. “My lord,” she said, dipping a curtsy.

“You were missed in the parlor.”

Her heart sped up. Lachlan—

The viscount quickly quashed any such delusion on her part. “By me , my dear.”

Her heart promptly fell.

What did you expect? He’d come here and speak about Lachlan looking about for you?

From the start, Lachlan made it clear, there couldn’t be anything between them. He was on the cusp of a formal announcement being made to declare his and the Duchess of Argyll’s impending wedding. When faced with a choice between a commoner like Livian and a regal lady born to the peerage, a man always chose the latter.

Tears pricked her eyes.

As a bastard, that truth flowed as a reminder in Livian’s veins.

Click.

That slight snap of the door quietly closing, reached within Livian’s anguished musings.

Lord Forfar rested his back against the door panel. Flashing a teasing smile, he reached behind him, and locked the door.

All the pain and regret over Latimer faded. As the same instincts of self-preservation that’d kept she and Verity alive, kicked in.

“Never say you are disappointed to find me for company, sweet?”

Sweet.

With the skills and warnings and lessons Livian’s brother-in-law instilled in her, she’d learned not to fear any man—and she hadn’t .

That was, she hadn’t until the night she’d awakened to discover a nighttime marauder, Lachlan Latimer, looming ominously over her.

From that meeting on, to what, Livian knew would be the remainder of her life, there’d never be a man stronger, more powerful, or more formidable than Lachlan.

This gentleman before Livian now, the affable, smiling Viscount Forfar, though, somehow stirred an even greater disquiet than Lachlan ever had as a menacing stranger.

“You are very quiet, Miss Lovelace,” Lord Forfar noted, and with the smile in his voice, one would think he’d found Livian’s silence of the utmost hilarity.

“Forgi—” Livian stopped herself from giving him an apology he didn’t deserve. “I sought some time to myself,” she said, pointed in her words and in the look she gave the door panel behind the viscount.

“Ahh, I see. I should have realized as much.”

Livian frowned. Despite her desire to not engage him, she found herself seeking clarification anyway. “My lord?”

“I’ve noticed you do enjoy time alone, Miss Lovelace,” he remarked ponderously.

He’d noticed that , but not that she wanted him gone. Not that she’d expected anything different.

“Did you?” she asked carefully.

“Oh, yes.” Lord Forfar began a slow, casual walk away from the panel. “I notice a great deal.” He paused. “ Especially where you are concerned, Miss Lovelace.”

Warily, Livian eyed the meandering path he took, keeping her gaze on his every move. “I…do not know what to say, my lord.”

Even with some four or five paces between them, Livian’s tension remained heightened.

At last, Lord Forfar stopped his almost predatorial stroll and dropped his hip on the curved edge of a camel-back sofa.

A warning bell tinkled somewhere in Livian’s brain.

“Here, you’ve been so very good at conversing, only to go silent, now,” the viscount teased, like a fat cat toying with his prey.

“It is hardly appropriate for us to have any discussion here, alone.” Livian gave him a cool once-over. “Though being as you pointed out, a gentleman, you require no reminder that it is inappropriate for a man to approach and speak to an unmarried lady.”

He chuckled; the emptiness of that laugh sent an icy tendril up the ridge of her erect spine.

“Given your upbringing, Miss Lovelace, it is a wonder you know any rules of propriety.”

She stiffened. The jeering emphasis in that single word conveyed, when it came to his earlier display of respect, the viscount was done with the pretense.

“You forget yourself, Lord Forfar.” She infused the iron-hard warning Bertha used to turn away creditors.

The viscount chuckled. “Here, I’d hoped you would be appropriately flattered by the close attention I’d paid you and your movements, Miss Lovelace.” The viscount’s lips, full and soft, and better suited a lady, curled into a teasing, smile. “Or, at the very least, curious as to what it is I noticed?”

She weighed her words. “It would be presumptuous of me to either assume, my lord, or ask, questions into your musings. As such, I must be left to merely ponder.”

Lord Forfar pressed a hand against his chest. “Why, Miss Lovelace, are you flirting with me?”

This time, the warning bells in Livian’s head blared.

“My lord,” she managed to say calmly, “I am no flirt.”

Carefully Livian eyed the distance between Forfar and the door.

“No, throughout the day you certainly have not been one. At least, not freely and fairly with all the gentleman.” He gave another sly grin. “But then, perhaps given your upbringing, you have different rules for men outside noble ranks.”

She went still.

“You see, Miss Lovelace…Livian, may I call you?”

“No, you may—”

“I also discovered, Livian, you like to sneak about.” He waggled thick, bushy eyebrows putting her in mind of caterpillars crawling over his face. “Imagine my surprise when I heard you,” Forfar jabbed his fingertip at the ground with each word to follow, “ in this very room .”

Livian’s stomach roiled.

Oh, God.

Knowing the viscount had been an invisible voyeur to that beautiful—and last—intimate moment she’d ever share with Lachlan, cheapened something that’d been so very special.

“Nothing to say?” he asked, with a merry smile. “You’d go all shy on me now, my dear?” He made a tsking sound. “I’d expected better from you. That is, given the way you panted and begged Mr. Latimer.”

A strangled sound became lodged in Livian’s throat.

“Worry not, I’ll not pass judgment on you. If you were a lady, perhaps, I’d feel differently. But given you and Latimer are animals from the streets, you can’t control your urges.”

His vulgarity against her sailed off Livian. She didn’t give a bloody damn what one such as Lord Forfar said about her. But what he’d said about Lachlan?

Blistering rage coursed through her.

“You aren’t fit to lick the soles of Mr. Latimer’s boots,” she spat.

“If that were true, we’d have something in common then, wouldn’t we? Given Latimer will only tup you but wed the duchess.”

Forfar’s blow found its intended mark right square in Livian’s solar plexus. She struggled to find herself, and by the derisive glee in his ice-blue eyes, he knew it, too.

“Given your low opinion of me and my upbringing, Lord Forfar,” she continued in harder tones, “why don’t you find some other, virtuous, respectable young lady to bestow your attentions upon? Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Livian took a purposeful, step toward the door.

The viscount slid into her path, effectively stealing her escape.

“Ah, but why would I do that, Livian, when I’ve already found the woman—albeit, not a lady—I wish to marry?”

He ogled Livian.

She stared at him. Then, it hit her.

“ Me ?” She laughed in his face. “Whyever, would you want to wed a woman you clearly despise?”

“On the contrary, I do not despise you, Miss Lovelace,” he declared.

“No?” she drawled.

“Certainly not!” His features conveyed his upset . “You are clever, spirited,” he gave her a suggestive look, “ passionate .”

Her skin crawled. Suddenly, for the first time since she’d been cornered, Livian found herself truly afraid of the gentleman and what he could do.

With a feral grin, the viscount made his way slowly, predatorily, in Livian’s direction. All the while, she sought to distract him, to keep him from what evil intentions he clearly had planned for her.

“The dowry,” she said coolly, recalling what Lachlan revealed earlier. “I trust it must have been a generous amount indeed if you’d consider lowering yourself to marry me.”

“Extremely generous,” the viscount confirmed. “The duchess settled a sum no man could turn his nose up at; and certainly not a fellow in debt like me, could afford to.”

As Lord Forfar approached, Livian inched towards the hearth, until the fireplace tools were within reach.

They stopped.

In a bid to distract the lech, Livian continued talking. “You do realize, nothing you do will compel me to marry you.”

Forfar smirked. “Oh, I believe I can think of something that might.”

“Rape,” she said bluntly, trying to throw him off.

So close. The George III, gilt-metal poker was nearly in reach.

“Come now, Miss Lovelace, I heard your lusty cries and pleas earlier. You might put up a show because you crave darker pleasures than a real lady, but you will enjoy my attention, immensely.” He smiled. “With the way Latimer and the duchess were pawing at one another in public for all to see before I came in search of you, you’re in need of a new lover.”

That vicious painting he’d made for Livian sent a jolt of misery throughout her body.

The viscount’s astute gaze went to Livian’s trembling fingers and the fire tools she was so close to.

Livian made a desperate grab.

In one swift lunge, he was upon Livian and caught her wrist in a large, punishing grip that pulled a pained gasp from her.

“Let me go, you bastard,” she hissed, wrenching her arms in a bid to escape his hold.

“Tsk. Tsk.” Amusement danced in his soulless blue eyes. “Only one of us is a bastard, and we both know it is not me.”

Livian dragged her knee up quick and caught the viscount square between the legs.

Pain ravaged his features.

A long gust of air hissed from between his teeth.

As she’d intended, Forfar lost the firm grip he had on her. Groaning, he pressed his spare hand over his injured ballocks.

This time, Livian managed to wrestle her arm free.

She punched him hard in the cheek with such force, Forfar’s head snapped back.

He stumbled and tripped, and just managed to catch himself.

Livian bolted.

The viscount shot his leg out, tripping Livian.

Crying, Livian stumbled and went flying.

Shoving his palm hard against her back, Forfar hastened Livian’s collision with the floor.

Flecks dotted her vision, and blackness pulled at the fringes of her eyes. Livian battled unconsciousness, knowing if she didn’t win, the viscount would use her in ways she’d only given herself freely and lovingly to Lachlan.

Lachlan, who’d never used violence against her and never would, not on any woman.

Forcing herself up onto her elbows, Livian dragged herself slowly backward, retreating like the cornered animal the viscount had turned her into.

Lord Forfar roared with sick, twisted amusement. “You are a bloodthirsty wench,” he praised. “Look at the fight in you. I’ve never had a baseborn bitch, but between your spirit, the dowry the duchess fixed on you, and the show you and Latimer put on earlier, I find myself looking forward to tupping you daily.”

“I will never marry you,” Livian spat, the cadence of her breathing harsh and uncontrollable.

Her back collided with the same window she’d been staring out before Forfar’s arrival.

Trapped.

The viscount stopped. Like Andromeda to his heinous, Cetus monster, Forfar towered over her.

Dread sent her throat closing up.

He flashed an even, white supercilious grin. “Oh, you are a delight,” he marveled.

His gaze and expression turned dark.

Lowering himself down, Forfar climbed astride her.

“No!” she screamed. “Please, stop! Please. Please.”

Sobbing, Livian put up one more desperate—but futile—fight. The kick she aimed at the viscount’s groin, glanced off his thigh.

As he lowered his mouth to force her kiss, Livian thrashed her head back and forth. “Please, don’t.”

“Bitch,” he hissed. Drawing his arm back, he made to slap her.

Closing her eyes, Livian recoiled onto the floor.

But the blow never came.

Suddenly, the viscount’s body was gone from Livian’s.

Stunned, her eyes flew open, and she followed Lord Forfar’s body as it sailed several feet through the air, and then came down on the pianoforte bench.

The mahogany wood shattered into a thousand broken pieces.

Livian’s savior brimmed with such a terrific rage and beyond-human lethality the corded muscles of his back, arms, chest, and tree trunk thick thighs, bulged; his hard lips twisted up in a cold, humorless smile.

Relief brought Livian scrambling up onto her elbows.

Lachlan stood as the twelve biblical angels of vengeance merged into one man, his sanguinary gaze on the wrongdoer moaning and whimpering at the base of the same pianoforte where Livian and Lachlan made love.

“Lachlan,” she whispered.

She is all right.

She is all right.

I got to her in time.

Or had he?

Crazed, his heart thundering, Latimer frantically moved wild eyes over the courageous, strong woman now curled up in the corner like some hurt, fragile animal.

The white lace hem of Livian’s pink, satin gown lay in a wispy tangle around her legs. Her lustrous golden hair hung in a sloppy tangle about her quaking shoulders.

Latimer, his tongue thick, his throat tight, tried to get out the question he didn’t want the answer to. “Did he…?”

But God help him, he couldn’t. His words failed. Just as Latimer, by not being here to protect and defend when Livian needed him most, had failed.

Livian, his iron-willed, glorious queen found strength enough for both of them to speak. “He did not, L-Lachlan.”

The heady weight of relief that filled him lasted only an instant.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a slight flash of movement.

With a feral grin, he turned his gaze on the prone man at his feet.

Lord Forfar swallowed loudly. “Please, L-Latimer.” Pain left the viscount’s voice strained and weak. “You know yourself, she’s a hot piece. She wanted i—”

With a thunderous roar of fury, Lachlan descended on the witless whoremonger. Wrapping a hand about the front of Forfar’s slender neck, Latimer hauled Livian’s attacker up. “You’ll die this day, Forfar,” he growled.

Latimer punched him square in the face—again and again, long after Forfar’s body went limp.

He didn’t relent.

Demented, his breath coming in short, violent spurts, Latimer continued battering the sod.

Blood gushed from the viscount’s nose like a spigot.

All the while, an uncontrollable, all-consuming, blinding rage consumed Latimer. Sweat dripped into his eyes. That burning hatred coursed hot in his veins and drove out all reason.

Through the crazed, unceasing drumming that filled his ears, that vulgarity Forfar hurled at Livian echoed over and over.

Bitch.

Bitch.

Bitch.

The heartbreaking sound of Livian’s weeping and pleas continued in Latimer’s mind. He’d never shake the memories of them.

Please, stop. Please. Please.

Latimer let Forfar go, and the bastard’s limp body collapsed against the floor.

There was a brief break in the agonizing re-echoing of Livian’s cries and entreaties. But the torturous remembrance of her prone with Forfar bent over her, haunted him.

Panting, Latimer ground his fist into Forfar’s flat belly.

Please, don’t. She’d begged.

His vision blank, Latimer delivered another solid jab to Forfar’s stomach.

He, who’d prided himself on being a master of restraint and self-control, thrummed with a savage energy.

He’d killed plenty of men in his life.

No one who hadn’t deserved it, and never anyone who hadn’t attacked first.

Regardless, the same way some fellows got off on murdering the way others did sex, Latimer had only ever ended another man out of necessity. That primitive instinct buried deep within all that whispered: kill or be killed. Even then, Latimer hadn’t relished having those thugs’ blood on his hands.

Until now.

Until Lord Forfar.

“Mr. Latimer!”

For until Latimer took his last dying breath, he’d recall the sigh of Forfar hovering over Livian, about to deliver a silencing strike.

Now, he understood the savage bloodlust that led a man to not only kill, but revel in his opponent’s fall.

“Mr. Latimer!”

Latimer, even panting and growling like the savage animal he’d been turned into, couldn’t erase the echo of Livian’s earlier pleas and weeping. Those plaintive wails of misery grew louder and fiercer in his mind.

“ Lachlan, please. Pleeeease .”

Wait. Latimer didn’t let up, but something through the mayhem reached across a black tunnel.

Lachlan, please.

Not Forfar.

Not Latimer.

Rather, his Christian name, and which had only ever been spoken by one person.

One woman, that was.

Latimer faltered.

“Livian,” he whispered.

Those anguished cries and pleas weren’t a hellish torture chamber echo.

“ Lachlan ?” she wept.

Livian’s touch, delicate as the fragile flutter of a butterfly’s wings, penetrated Latimer’s stark, raving madness.

“ Lachlan .”

Hands trembling, he looked at his slick, crimson-stained, bruised, and swollen hands. Dazed, he stared unblinkingly at Fofar’s bloodied, pulverized face.

Scrabbling with his sweat-slicked, messy hair, Latimer hung by mere threads of sanity and tried to free himself of the fog.

“Mr. Latimer!”

The call of his name continued to shift; between his given one and surname. Back and forth. One sharp and angry. The other doleful and imploring.

What is happening?

His gaze ultimately went first to the plaintive creature whose wails threatened to drag Latimer down in the sea of tears it shed and drown him completely in depths of its sorrow.

He froze.

Livian’s tear-streaked face and bloodshot red eyes met him.

The implications sent Latimer recoiling.

My God. She’s crying.

Because of me.

His body tautened; his arms spasmed.

“Livian,” he whispered raggedly.

He reached out for her, needing to know she was safe.

Before he could, strong, powerful fingers gripped Latimer about the arm and hauled him away.

“Good God, man!” someone commanded in a crisp, clear King’s English that Latimer recognized but couldn’t place. “It is enough.”

Some gentleman—the Earl of Wakefield—urged the Duchess of Argyll over. “…get her out of here, Duchess…”

Spent from the physical exertions of beating Forfar to a pulp and muddled by the sight of the Duchess of Argyll folding an arm about Livian’s waist and escorting her away.

The whole time he watched Livian pass by the world spun dizzyingly around Latimer.

I need her. I need to verify she’s safe. I need to assure her I’ll never let anything happen to her again.

Latimer jerked against Wakefield’s hold. “Livian!” Latimer’s voice emerged as nothing more than a croak.

I need to know she doesn’t hate me. That she isn’t afraid.

I need to see with my own eyes.

“Livian,” he thundered as she and the duchess reached the entrance.

Livian paused and looked back.

The sight of her stricken features sucked all the air from his lungs.

“Come, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess said firmly.

“Liv—”

Wakefield tightened the grip he had on Latimer. “Would you shut your fool mouth, Latimer,” he snapped. “Are you trying to bring the bloody household down?”

That warning along with the click of the door closing behind Livian and the duchess, managed to, at last, jolt Latimer fully back to his senses.

Wakefield released him and sank to his haunches next to the moaning, battered viscount.

While the earl evaluated the fallen man’s condition, Latimer scraped a hand through his mussed hair.

“Christ .

“Yes, well, I’d been doubtful about the Creator’s existence,” Wakefield prodded and poked the other nobleman, “but given Forfar lives after the vicious beating you handed out, there must be a God—at least, one looking out for you, Latimer.” He looked up. “He lives but will likely regret as much.” He lightly slapped Forfar’s face.

“I don’t care,” Latimer snarled, his fury climbing all over again.

“Under ordinary circumstances, I’d agree. I would not, however, see you hang for one such as this one.” Glaring blackly at the viscount, the earl slapped him firmly on the cheeks. “Wakey, wakey, you cockchafer.”

With a groan, Forfar struggled to open his eyes. “…I’m dead,” he moaned, his words garbled by his swollen mouth and broken teeth.

“Unfortunately, not,” Wakefield said, coming to his feet. “You live to sin another day.”

The pair of nobs forgotten, Latimer took several long strides to go find Livian.

“Don’t even bloody think of it, you shit-fire,” Wakefield hissed. “Or by God, I’ll beat you down myself.”

Stiffening, Latimer turned.

The same twisted rage that’d gripped Latimer now consumed the other man.

Because of Livian.

To believe he’d ever respected the prig and former patron. The sadistic green-eyed monster sank its fangs into Latimer.

“You really think you can stop me?” he sneered.

“No,” the earl said with more of that blunt honesty that, when he’d been a patron, earned Latimer’s appreciation. “I’d try and come damn close, but you’re not going after her because you know to do so would be calamitous for the lady’s reputation.”

Latimer wavered.

“Furthermore,” Wakefield said, hammering home his point. “The last thing she needs after having watched you nearly kill Forfar—setting aside the fact Forfar deserved it—is to clap eyes on your sorry, blood-covered self, Latimer.”

The earl looked pointedly his way.

Latimer followed the other man’s gaze.

Red pecks and streaks of Forfar’s blood marred Latimer’s white cravat; his black jacket contained even blacker stains left by the viscount’s blood.

I cannot see her like this…

“No, that’s right,” Wakefield agreed, confirming Latimer had spoken aloud. “Go. I’ll handle Forfar.”

Only half-hearing the other man’s assurance, Latimer made a beeline for the door.

“Oh, and Latimer?”

He glanced back.

“Take the servants’ entrance. It won’t be good if you are seen by anyone in your current state.”

No.

Livian.

She mattered more than anything.

And that was the absolute, sole reason Latimer found himself doing as the Earl of Wakefield ordered.