Page 2 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)

Chapter

Two

C hristian strolled out onto the terrace and inwardly cursed himself for attending this absurd, childish affair.

He ought not to be here. At this very moment, he could have been enjoying a far more gratifying evening—buried in the warm, welcoming arms of his mistress—rather than enduring the dull parade of smiles and forced pleasantries that defined a coming-out ball.

And yet, here he was because he owed it to his friend.

Ravensmere. And perhaps his own restless curiosity about the late Duke of Ravensmere. The gentleman had been many things, but conservative and respectable were not among them. Society was abuzz with talk of Lady Cordelia Ravensmere, the latest sister to make her debut in London.

Christian had not expected much.

But Lady Cordelia Ravensmere was—he could not deny it—exceedingly beautiful.

The kind of beauty that could make a man forget his better judgment, if only for a moment.

Golden hair that gleamed under the chandeliers, eyes the color of a summer sky, and a stubborn tilt to her chin that hinted she knew her worth.

Perhaps she was even prettier than he had been led to believe.

A pity, then, that her manner upon their first meeting had been less than charming. She had struck him as sharp-tongued, given to gossip, and altogether too amused by her own opinions. Such qualities, he told himself, were not to his taste.

Marriage, of course, was the last thing on his mind.

He was six-and-twenty—an age when many men of his rank had already taken wives—but Christian had no inclination to join their number.

He preferred freedom to the burdensome weight of domesticity.

A wife meant responsibility. Compromise.

Children. And worst of all, relinquishing the life he enjoyed far too much with a mistress he did not wish to lose.

Women like Lady Cordelia were not meant for him.

The terrace doors opened and closed as guests sought the cool night air, their chatter drifting in waves from the ballroom. Christian leaned against the stone balustrade, savoring the quiet and enjoying his cheroot. He was about to retreat inside when a familiar voice reached him.

Lady Cordelia’s voice.

Christian turned his head just enough to glimpse her walking along the terrace with Lord Basing. They appeared to be engaged in animated conversation.

His eyes narrowed. Lord Basing, if Christian remembered correctly, hailed from Hampshire, the same county as Lady Cordelia.

Perhaps they were long-standing acquaintances.

Yet something about the way the young lord leaned toward her—smiling a little too widely, gesturing a little too boldly—made Christian uneasy.

When Lord Basing guided her around the far end of the terrace, away from the safety of the crowd, Christian’s jaw clenched. Lady Cordelia, wholly absorbed in her conversation, followed without hesitation.

Foolish girl.

She had no idea how vulnerable she was, her pale gown catching the light of the lanterns as she disappeared into the shadows like a lamb following the wolf.

Christian sighed. It would be easier—smarter—to ignore it.

To leave her to her own devices and let her suffer the fate of her stupid choices, but as a brother himself to a vulnerable sister, he could not do so.

And with Ravensmere his friend, he owed it to the man to ensure no scandal touched the family.

“Lord Basing, do remember yourself. Stop?—”

The alarm in Lady Cordelia’s voice sent Christian striding forward. He rounded the corner at speed and found precisely what he’d feared.

Lord Basing with Cordelia pinned against the wall, one arm like an iron bar about her waist holding her prisoner.

She struggled against him, her hands pushing at his chest, her voice tight with panic.

He was trying to kiss her, his lips puckered in a manner so absurd that Christian, under any other circumstances, might have laughed.

“Let her go,” Christian said, his voice like a whip crack that the man ought to heed.

Lord Basing jerked away, startled out of his manhandling. He stepped away from Cordelia at once, stumbling back with wide eyes that gleamed with guilt.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the young man stammered, “but this is a private conversation. I do not believe you were invited to it.”

Christian stared at him, astonished by his audacity. “The lady clearly asked you to stop. You owe her an apology, and then you will leave the ball. You are not welcome here.”

“You cannot disinvite me. I am Earl Basing?—”

“And I am the Duke of Walpole and a close friend of Ravensmere,” Christian cut in sharply. “You will do as I say, or I will ensure you are never invited to another event in London. Do I make myself clear?”

The young lord paled at the threat. Without another word, he turned and fled, his retreating figure swallowed by the night.

Christian exhaled slowly, turning his attention back to Lady Cordelia.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming in unsteady bursts. It should not have affected him, but the sight of her—vulnerable and fierce all at once—struck something deep within him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his tone softer now. “Shall I inform Ravensmere of what occurred? I can see to it that Lord Basing never sets foot near you again.”

She shook her head quickly. “No. Please, I… I just want to forget it happened.” A golden curl slipped loose from her coiffure, tumbling over her shoulder. Christian’s gaze caught on it—and lingered too long.

He dragged his attention back to her face, but her wide blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, he reached for her hand. “Come,” he said, leading her farther into the shadowed edge of the terrace. “You should not be seen like this.”

She resisted for a heartbeat, but then allowed him to guide her, her steps unsteady.

“Do not cry,” he said gruffly. Yet when she looked up at him with trembling lips, something inside him snapped. A fierce, unyielding need to protect her—to shield her from the ugliness of what had just happened—swept over him.

He pulled her into his arms.

She fit against him with startling perfection, her head resting just beneath his chin, her slender frame pressed against his chest. Her hands clutched at his coat, and the soft scent of roses and something warm—vanilla, perhaps—drifted up to him.

Christian’s heart gave a strange, unwelcome lurch.

He rubbed her back in slow, soothing strokes, murmuring nonsense he scarcely registered. “All will be well. No one saw what happened, save me. I will make certain he does not trouble you again.”

She sniffled, tilting her face slightly against him, and he was acutely aware of her warmth, the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Though I did not expect you to be the one to rescue me, I am glad it was you.”

The words hit him in a way he could not explain. Her trust unsettled him, as did the softness of her voice. “And I shall not speak of it,” he said firmly.

She looked up at him then, her lashes still damp but her gaze steady. Her mouth—rosy and full—caught his attention. He tried to drag his eyes away, but it was as though something had rooted him to the spot. Her lips were far too close. Far too tempting.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice low. “You show me far more grace than I gave you. I… I am sorry for speaking of your athleticism earlier. I should not have said such a thing, especially when it could have been overheard by anyone.”

Christian almost laughed at the absurdity of it, though the heat curling through him left no room for humor. Good God, the chit was scandalous.

“It is true that you should not speak of a man’s muscles so casually,” he said, his voice rougher than intended, “especially when that man overhears you.”

A blush bloomed across her cheeks.

“It was meant as a compliment,” she admitted. “But yes… I suppose I should not have been so bold.”

Christian stared at her. What sort of debutante admitted to such impropriety so frankly? She was not meek, not simpering like so many others. There was something refreshing—infuriating, but refreshing—about her honesty.

“So long as you refrain from such remarks in the future,” he said, “I think we can manage civility. Perhaps even…friendship.”

A tentative smile curved her lips. It was not dazzling, but it was warm, real—and it sent an odd flutter through his chest. He did not like that feeling one bit.

“I tend to be a little wicked,” she confessed, with a glimmer in her eyes. “A little rough about the edges. But I promise, I am trying to behave this Season.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I suspect London will not know what to do with you. Still…” He hesitated, meeting her gaze. “While I did not enjoy our first meeting, I find myself…reconsidering my opinion now.”

“Are you?” she asked, her voice curious but soft.

“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “All is not lost tonight.”

She lowered her gaze briefly, her lashes sweeping her cheeks. “I hope Lord Basing does not tell anyone of the…the kiss he tried to force upon me. I do not want to be made to marry him—or any man I do not desire.”

Christian’s pulse spiked. “So long as he did not kiss you?” His voice came out low, hard.

She shook her head. “He was not successful in his endeavors. But I could not bear the thought of anyone saying I encouraged him. I do not desire him. Not in the slightest.”

A hot, sharp anger flared in Christian’s chest. “Not a chance in hell,” he said, his voice a growl. “You will marry no man you do not wish to, not you or my sister. I swear it.”