Fran Baker by Miss Roseand the Rakehell Page A

wish, sir, to practice the pretty things you intend to say to Helen, I would rather you do so upon Anne, for she would like them prodigiously. She is at that age, you know.”
    “Practice the . . .” he said, dumb-struck.
    “Perhaps you are not practicing,” she admitted, “for I dare say you have said such things so often, they now come naturally to you, whether or not there is the least cause. At any rate, you must see the effort is completely wasted upon me.”
    “Yes, I do see,” he agreed, warmth gracing his dark eyes.
    The leather volume again claimed Rose’s attention, but she had not read much beyond the next stanza when the viscount again cut in.
    “Why do you object to my betrothal to your sister?” he inquired, staring fixedly at her.
    His serious tone quite unnerved her, but she replied evenly enough, “I have already—”
    “You must be aware that many marriages not founded on love turn out well enough,” he said with a hint of impatience. “I fear your objections go beyond that. Tell me, why is my suit so repugnant to you?”
    “Well, there is your money,” she said slowly.
    “You object to my money ?” he queried, disbelieving.
    “It is not your money, my lord, but what you do with your money that is so distressing. Why just last year, the Henleys returned from London full of the tale of your having lost five thousand pounds at one sitting. Five thousand pounds! Gambling such a sum away seems sinful to me.”
    “I see,” he said, his full lips pressed firmly together. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”
    “I do not think this discussion should be continued. There is no point in making you angry—”
    “Come, Miss Lawrence. I’ve been the object of censure for years. Your plain speaking, as you put it, does not in the least disturb me.”
    As his face was at that instant filled with wrathful resentment, Rose wanted very much to laugh. The attractive young man was rapidly giving way to the disdainful peer. Perhaps a set-down to his esteem was called for, after all.
    “Very well, my lord,” she said. “Your style of living is not altogether pleasing—devoted as you are to the pursuit of pleasure. Besides your passion for all forms of gaming, your various escapades have set the ton on its ear for years! And, of course, one constantly hears tales of your many mistresses.”
    “And what,” he prodded crossly, “do you think I do wrong with my mistresses? Beat them?”
    “Why, no,” Rose replied. “I suppose you make very pretty love to them.”
    “What would you know of love, Miss Lawrence?” he snapped.
    If he had slapped her, the sting could not have been sharper. The book tumbled from her hands and her fringed shawl slid off her shoulders. Rose did not notice either one. A fierce flush spread over her cheeks as she struggled to find a response to his insult.
    Discovering that there was, after all, one blushing virgin very much to his taste, Stratford immediately lost all desire to further wound her. He jumped to his feet and came to her side. “Forgive me, Miss Lawrence. I should not have said that.”
    “There is no need to apologize, my lord,” she said, also rising. “It’s not your fault I’m a spinster and therefore unversed in the ways of love.”
    “Don’t! I deserve that frosty tone, but I’ll not have you place yourself in the ranks of the matrons—”
    “ You , my lord, have nothing to say to the matter. I’ve been placed among the matrons for years. And now, if you will excuse me—”
    But Stratford entrapped her wrist before she could move away and they stood, unspoken emotion exploding between them. He searched Rose’s face as if it held the secret to his own unexpected consuming need for her approval. The fading stain of embarrassment contrasted oddly with her defiant eyes. He had seen that same discordant mixture of chagrin and contempt before. Gazing at Rose, he suddenly saw a much younger girl in a gaudy gown whose scornful eyes had belied her