Page 7 of Pride: The Rogue (Seven Deadly Sins #3)

T hat should send her fleeing.

Any polite, respectable, decent, lady—of which this one absolutely was—would hightail it away from Latimer as fast as her bluestockinged legs could carry her.

Hell, that’d been the whole point of his bluntness—to send her running.

The last thing he wanted in his life was a virgin.

The last thing he needed in his life was a tempting, spirited, vixenish virgin eyeing him with those big, innocent, desire-filled, eyes of hers.

He waited for her to go.

And waited.

Several minutes later, he found himself continuing to wait.

Instead, she sat peering at him, with a question in her revealing eyes; eyes that did an obvious and thorough search of Latimer.

Her lips twitched. “You’re just saying that to scare me.”

His profession was the least scary thing about Latimer or his past. “Does it ?”

“No.”

She spoke so quickly he almost believed her.

“Liar.”

The lady lifted her chin and continued to hold his stare. “Very well, tell me about your club, Lachlan.”

His club.

Forbidden Pleasures . It’d been his way out of hell. That club had been the only home he’d ever known, and had been built from money he saved as a street fighter. One chance meeting with Argyll who’d observed him at a fight club had changed the course of his existence.

With Argyll and DuMond’s recent betrayal, Latimer found himself trying to rebuild.

“Either you’re too much a gentleman to shock me with details, Lachlan,” she said, misinterpreting the reason for his silence, “or you aren’t, in fact, the owner of any such—”

“Forbidden Pleasures,” he cut her off.

She went big-eyed. “Oh.”

It was Latimer’s turn to smile. “By your breathless response, I take it you’ve heard of it.”

“I…have. Only as my sister has cover—” She closed her lips and cleared her throat. “Collected newspaper articles about your…establishment.”

“You mean gossip,” he said dryly.

Livian frowned. “My sister does not concern herself with gossip.” Her brow deepened further. “Nor, for that matter, do I . Rather, we have an interest in those who operate outside the constraints of Polite Society.”

“Operate outside…”

“Self-made men and women,” she clarified.

His fingers curled reflexively around the edge of the table; his nails left crescents upon the ancient wood.

“I’d hardly call Argyll, DuMond, and Craven self-made men,” he said, his tone biting.

“And you are?” Her question contained not a challenge but genuine curiosity.

“In every sense of the word,” he shared, and not with any small amount of pride. “I’m the only one of the group who put money into building the club that didn’t come from the fortunes of some pompous ancestors.”

They may have fronted the majority of the investment; Latimer, on the other hand, received an equal share based on his overall business plan and model for the club. The trio of depraved lords who’d sought a partnership with him knew vices, but they’d not known the level of sinning and games that existed outside their respectable world.

His skin prickled.

Latimer found Livian carefully watching him.

He grunted. “What?”

“By the look in your eyes and the tone of your voice, it does not appear as though you hold your partners in the highest regard, Lachlan.”

Christ. He’d let his guard down. Aside from his former partners, no one knew of Latimer’s split from Forbidden Pleasures.

But Dynevor knows…

He donned a droll grin. “I don’t have a look in my eyes, darlin’. I could, however,” he dropped his voice to a husky whisper, “muster one just by thinking about our meeting earlier.”

Livian gave him an impish smile. “But you acknowledge you do have a tone?” she rejoined in a whisper to rival his own.

He’d intended to throw her off, instead, the sultry quality of her reply, coupled with the remembrance of the feel of her barely clad body got him hard.

With a smug satisfaction, the triumphant chit gave another toss of her head. “I see.”

“What exactly is it you see?” he asked quietly.

“I’m correct on both scores.”

His desire flagged.

Latimer clenched the back of his teeth hard. “I don’t have a tone or look in my eyes.”

“In fairness, of the two of us,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe I’m better equipped to identify the state of your eyes, Lachlan.”

Livian must have seen something there, after all. For her playful air faded, and she grew solemn. “I’m sorry.”

He sharpened his gaze on her. “For?”

“I trust by your—” Latimer thinned his eyes into slits, and she shifted direction. “Something occurred between you and your partners.”

Christ. The innocent chit could have spearheaded and singlehandedly conducted the Inquisition. Entirely too late, his suspicion reared its head.

“Are you a goddamned reporter,” he asked frostily.

She choked. “N-No!”

“That seems like a pretty hasty, unconvincing denial.”

Color filled the lady’s cheeks. “I’m not!”

He peered more closely at her and an even more dark possibility slipped in. Had he revealed the imminent deal closing, it could have driven down the overall value of the club, and the amount his partners would be willing to pay for his ownership stake. They’d take a temporary hit, and Latimer would receive less money with which to rebuild his future.

“Did someone send you?” he whispered softly.

“Send me?” She wrinkled her brow. “Who would possibly send me to meet you and for what purpose?”

“Those seem like questions you’re more suited to answer,” he said coolly.

“May I remind you—”

“You were conveniently given my room.” It made so much sense—too much sense.

“Do all women expecting a man to enter their rooms respond by physically attacking said gentleman, Lachlan?”

Her pert question gave him only a brief pause.

“Then there’s been you here, drilling me with questions.”

“Because I’m curious,” she exclaimed, tossing her hands up in exasperation.

“Curious about a sex club?” he jeered.

Her blush deepened. “About you, Lachlan.”

“Forget about me for a moment. I want to know about you.” Nor did curiosity about his beautiful, spirited, table partner drive that need.

Bloody liar. Your desire to know more stems from far more than the place of self-preservation it should.

“Me?”

He nodded. “You?”

“Why?”

He sneered. “That’s a peculiar retort from a lady who, since I joined her, had nothing but questions for me.”

“Yes, but you’re interesting.”

He froze.

“There’s nothing interesting about me,” she said.

“How about you let me be the one to decide that, darlin’?”

All the while, she chewed at her lower lip, Latimer scrutinized the imp across from him and attempted to discern whether she could possibly be as innocent as she let on.

She sighed. “Very well. I have two sisters; one who is married to a nobleman and the other who was aboard the other carriage.”

“The other sister,” he pressed. “Who is she married to?” Lord knew Latimer acquired enough enemies through the years.

She scoffed. “Whyever would I divulge that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he shot back.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said dryly, sitting back in her chair. “Perhaps because I don’t make a habit of sharing details that can see me and my younger sister ruined and tarnish my family’s name.”

“You know my identity.”

“No, I knew about your club , Lachlan. I did in fact, share my name. You just didn’t happen to know it. As such, it’s not at all the same.”

Add barrister to the other potential work the lady would be deuced good at.

Latimer took his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Very well, darlin’. No titles then. What can you share about yourself Livian Lovelace?”

“As I said, there’s nothing really interesting—”

“And as I said, how about you let me be the one to determine that.”

Livian hesitated. “I’m not really a lady,” she confided on a hushed whisper.

He laughed.

“I’m not,” she retorted, bristling with an indignation that would have been better suited had he leveled such a charge at her. “My mother was not born to the peerage.”

Another laugh built in his chest, but then he caught the tense white lines at the corners of her mouth and the strain of her features. His amusement faded.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t a lady, darlin’,” he said gently. “I’ve seen the way you carry yourself and speak.”

“Just as I’ve seen the way you do, Mr. Latimer, and yet you are adamant that you’re not a gentleman.”

That brought him up quick. “It’s not the same.”

She arched a regal, blonde eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

“Who was your father?”

Livian sputtered. “I’m not—”

“I don’t need or want his name. I’m asking, do you know who your father was?”

She frowned.

“Given you mentioned your mother was born outside the peerage, and did not say as much about your father, indicates to me, the fellow was in fact, a peer.”

Those lines at the corner of her mouth deepened.

“I, on the other hand, Livian, don’t know who my father or mother were. I was just some bastard born to a whore, who spent much of my early life in a foundling house.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her eyes bleeding with sympathy.

Heat climbed his neck. “I’m neither wanting or looking for your pity, darlin’,” he said tersely. “I’m simply pointing out your origins are not the same as mine.” He looked her over. “Your mother was some mistress to a nobleman and you were a cherished daughter.”

Her mouth moved but no words emerged.

Livian picked up her tankard and took a sip.

“Nothing else to say, darlin’?”

“Given you’ve already so quickly and so neatly sorted out my past, it doesn’t really feel like you require much input on my behalf.”

He frowned. “That sounds pretty evasive to me, sweet—”

“You asked to know about me,” she interrupted with a stern calmness, “and then went on to fill yourself in on all the details of my life, Lachlan. As such, what else is left for me to say?”

She…was right. Humbled by that realization, he coughed into his hand. “I’m listening.” Now.

“Are you certain you aren’t content with the background you yourself invented about me?” Her lips turned up at the corners into a saucy grin.

The tension he’d carried since his suspicions had been roused, eased. “How about you tell me and we see how close they align?”

“Ah.” Her eyes widened with some kind of dawning understanding.

“Ah, ‘what’?”

“You can’t bring yourself to acknowledge you were wron—”

“I was wrong. Now, if you’ll continue on, Livian.”

She started.

“What? Didn’t take me as one who can acknowledge when I’m in the wrong?”

“Actually? No.” Livian shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

“I’m not too proud to do so…that is on the rare times when I’m, in fact, not in the right.” He winked.

His enchanting table partner laughed; the soft, exuberant, unrestrained expression of mirth devoid of artifice, and by God, if Latimer didn’t find himself joining in. As he did, Latimer felt like he was trapped outside himself, watching some other man converse with Livian Lovelace.

He’d lived the first ten or so years of his life alternately enraged, afraid, and suspicious. And the ensuing ones, confident, capable, undaunted, and content. Never once, had he allowed himself to sit and laugh with someone for the simple fact there’d not been a real reason to do so.

Not with his partners, equally hardened by their own existence to also be incapable of genuine feelings that were anything other than rage, cynicism, and at best, an ironic amusement.

The sound of Livian’s voice slashed through his unsettled thoughts.

“Very well,” she said, after they’d both regained control of their amusement. “I’ll continue, Lachlan, but only because you are a man who isn’t afraid to acknowledge when he’s in the wrong.

“My mother was hopelessly in love with my father.” Her expression darkened. “He was devoted and loving, but he was careless with his money. When our mother passed, there weren’t funds. He helped my eldest sister secure work.”

“Work?” he asked dumbly.

She nodded. “I was too young, and as such my sister alone, for a very long time, supported us.”

It was a familiar tale—bankrupt lords who made unwise investments or lost fortunes gambling and drinking. Latimer had been the greatest profiteer of that profligacy. He’d always found the greatest satisfaction in getting rich of those respectable nobs’ recklessness, until this moment.

“Fortunately, Bertha, the nursemaid who cared for Verity and I, remained with us and watched after me when Verity was able to work. She was twelve.”

Twelve.

Here, with Livian’s speech, grace, and elegance, he’d pegged her for a lady who’d never so much as, or in any way, sullied her hands. When in truth, she couldn’t be more different than the privileged ladies of the peerage.

“And your other sister?” he asked quietly.

“Billy. She is found family. As Bertha was.”

“Bertha passed then?”

Livian’s expression grew stricken.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. He’d inadvertently hurt her with that directness.

Livian shook her head, seeming to try and find her earlier train of thought. “It is…fine.”

“And what of your brother-in-law?” Did he need killing? “I take it he’s not interested in having his wife’s kin about?”

She cocked her head. “What would make you reach that conclusion?”

“What? The fact you and your younger sister are out here on your own, without proper protection and security.”

“My eldest sister recently had a new babe,” Livian explained.

The bloody sod. “I see.”

“What do you see this time, Lachlan?” Livian rejoined with her patent humor.

“He didn’t want his sisters-in-law underfoot.”

She stared at him, this time, with sadness. “You are determined to see the worst, and expect it, in people, are you not, Lachlan? Throughout history, people, time and time again, have given plenty of reasons for a person to be less than trusting and more suspicious of others.” She went on to explain. “My brother-in-law is as devoted and loving as Verity. He was the one who insisted I learn how to protect myself and personally instructed me on how to do so.”

He grunted. “Given your display earlier tonight, he did an admirable job.”

“Are you always this reluctant in your praise, Lachlan?”

“I generally don’t find many reasons to give people praise on account the majority of people don’t deserve it.”

Despite himself, and despite the strong urge to hate the bastard for having let Livian go gallivanting of on her own throughout England, he felt a begrudging respect for the gentleman’s discernment.

Livian gave him a long, pitying, look. “How sad.”

Latimer’s skepticism remained strong. “If your sister and brother-in-law are devoted and loving,” as she insisted, “then why did they let you go off?”

“ Let me?” Another laugh erupted from the lady’s, full, beguiling red lips. “Lachlan, do I strike you as a woman who requires anyone’s permission?”

No, he’d allow her that.

“Verity and Malcom would keep me about forever, if I let them. I didn’t want myself underfoot.”

“So you just left?”

“Yes.” Livian gave a somber nod. “With no destination in mind, no plan in my head, I left.”

He narrowed his eyes. Surely, she hadn’t been so careless—

Livian rolled her eyes. “ Of course , I’m not so careless.”

Latimer squirmed. “I didn’t say you were.”

She smirked. “You didn’t have to.”

For the thousandth time in less than a night, he found this slip of a beauty unnerving the hell out of him.

“Very well,” he pressed his palms flat upon the table and peered more closely at her, “where are you destined for, darlin’?”

His brave, direct, spirited, companion’s courage flagged for the first time. She studiously avoided his gaze.

It hadn’t been his entry into her bedchambers or the way he’d pinned her under him. It hadn’t been when he’d stalked over to her table and called her out. Or when she’d revealed there was no Mr. Lovelace.

But rather…this question.

Folding his arms, Latimer sat in patient wait.

He had all night.

Not that he’d need it. In a short time, he’d gathered enough about the chit to know her pride wouldn’t let her avoid him, forever.

Sure enough, after her thorough sweep of the empty taproom, Livian brought her shoulders back, and looked him in the eye.

“I’m going to meet my husband.”

Her husband?

His entire body jerked erect.

“Not meet my husband somewhere!” she was quick to clarify. “My future husband. I’m not married— yet .”

With that, Livian went back to sipping her milk.

Yet.

She’d tacked that on for what purpose? To remind herself? To assure Latimer. If the intended goal was the latter, it had the opposite effect. Her speaking about the journey to meet up with some priggish, lofty lord, sent dark fistfuls of rage through him. A nobleman didn’t deserve and wouldn’t appreciate Livian’s gumption, spirit, and boldness.

Just the opposite.

“Your future husband couldn’t be bothered to accompany you himself?” he snarled, knowing he sounded like a bloody brute, and unable to stop himself.

Livian brought her shoulders back. “It is complicated.”

“Complicated is hardly a promising start to a happy marriage, sweetheart,” he drawled. “I’m also noticing a pattern in how you’re treated by the men in your life.”

Livian slammed her tankard down. “You know nothing, Lachlan Latimer,” she snapped, all hot, breathless fury that sent his desire for her climbing.

He kicked back on the heels of his chair. “Give me a try.”

For an instant, he thought she’d not respond, and he’d be denied the answer to a question he, for some, unexplainable, reason, needed.

“It is an arranged marriage.”

It was a moment before he registered the brave beauty’s quiet admission.

Shock sent him and his chair tipping forward back onto all fours. Surely, he hadn’t heard her correctly.

An arranged marriage?

Livian’s hesitant, little nod confirmed he’d spoken his question aloud.

“You are entering into a marriage to some chap you haven’t even met,” he gritted out.

She gave another nod; this one came steadier.

A growl built within. “Never tell me, a nobleman your devoted brother-in-law has connections to?”

“No,” she spoke with a calm, he somehow, for some deranged reason, couldn’t manage.

Because of her? A goddamned stranger.

Even that sent his rage soaring.

“Suddenly garrulous Miss Livian Lovelace is all one-word answers and sentences,” he clipped out.

“Because again, you’re venturing guesses,” she hissed, sticking her face closer to his. “You aren’t asking actual questions. You’re just sitting there, inventing stories about me and my decisions and future, and then, as if that isn’t pompous enough, you’re judging me for them.”

“I’m not judging you.”

With mocking eyes, she gibed him. “You could have fooled me, Mr. I-Know-All-The-Answers-Latimer.”

He did know all the answers.

Perhaps, that was why he sat so bloody confounded before this woman. He didn’t have the answers for his maddening fascination with her .

Latimer gritted his teeth. “He’s not a nob, then?”

She flattened those beautiful lips he wanted to kiss, suck, and eat up. “He is a gentleman.”

There it was. He chuckled; this time, he forced out a jeering, cynical, expression of mirth.

The lady’s eyes flashed fury and fire. “You find that, amusing?”

He cut off his fake laughter. “I find it amusing you became so indignant and denied being set up with a nob, when you are in fact, marrying a gentleman.”

“I didn’t become indignant at that , you great big lummox.” She tossed her hands up. “I was annoyed you were continuing to make assumptions, the last one being that my brother-in-law is somehow behind my impending marital state when, in fact, it is no one, not my sisters, brother-in-law, or even God himself, behind my decision, Lachlan.” She pounded a fist against her chest. “Mine. Either way, what business is it of yours?” Livian’s breath came fast; her chest rose and fell hard.

Was it security? Was it the desire for respectability she seemed to believe herself without because the origins of her birth?

“Why do you care anyway ?”

“Why don’t you care more ?” he flung back.

She shrank in her seat.

For all the pain that glowed in Livian’s wide-open, mournful eyes he may as well have struck her across the face.

The lady’s wounded response lasted but a fleeting moment. “How presumptuous you are, Mr. Latimer.” An impressive frost glazed her blue eyes, and she speared him with a deservedly hard, distasteful glare.

Bloody hell.

Latimer scraped a hand through his hair. Since when had he become a fucking bully?

For that matter, what was it about this woman—a blasted stranger—that stirred this riot of emotions inside him?