Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

game?”
    â€œWell, I won the right to marry her,” he qualified. “It isn’t quite the same thing, I daresay.”
    Xanthia opened her eyes, and somehow pulled herself erect in the chair. “You are perfectly, serious,” she said.
    â€œQuite so,” he said. “I was at Valigny’s last night.”
    â€œYes, I know,” said Xanthia dryly. “I pried that much out of Pamela. Who else witnessed this debacle?”
    â€œEnders and Calvert,” said her brother.
    â€œLord Enders! Horrors!” said Xanthia. “That vile man!—Oh, lud! Will either of them talk? If they do, you know, the girl will be quite ruined.”
    â€œI have been musing on that.” Kieran sounded perfectly detached. “Calvert is marginally a gentleman. Enders I shall have to threaten. Valigny, too, before it’s over, I daresay.”
    How could anyone contemplate marriage with such an utter lack of emotion, Xanthia wondered? Mademoiselle Marchand might be improving her situation—but only a tad. “Her own father!” she whispered. “And with Lord Enders! How could he?”
    Kieran lifted one shoulder, and tossed off the last of his brandy. “Valigny has no scruples— and he keeps low company. Myself, for example.”
    â€œWell, you are a rank amateur compared to Lord Enders.”
    â€œThank you,” he said, “for your unshakable faith in me.”
    Xanthia scowled at him. “So you really mean to go through with this?”
    Kieran opened the drawer again, extracted a piece of heavy foolscap, and tossed it onto the desk. Xanthia took it. A special license. It was written out in crisp, blue-black ink, properly signed and sealed.
    â€œHow?” Xanthia demanded, rattling the paper. “How did you get this so fast?”
    â€œYour old friend Lord de Vendenheim down in Whitehall,” said her brother. “He knows people who know people. And, as it happens, he owes me for a rather large favor, so this morning I went round to Whitehall and called in my debt.”
    â€œHe also owes me a thing or two, you will remember,” she said in an injured tone. “I very nearly got myself killed in that smuggling business of his.”
    â€œOh, no, my girl!” said Kieran, propping one hip against his desk. “What you got was married and pregnant —probably not in that order—neither of which was Vendenheim’s doing.”
    Xanthia lifted both hands as if she might tear her hair out. “This is not about me!”
    Her brother looked at her unblinkingly. “But I should far rather talk about you than myself, my dear. It feels so much less…what is the word? Intrusive, I think, will do nicely.”
    â€œWhy, Kieran?” she cried. “Just tell me why you are doing this! I have my suspicions, you see. I want—no, I need —for you to tell me I am wrong.”
    â€œCareful, my dear,” he said. “You are sounding just a little histrionic.”
    He was right, but she hated to admit it. “Just answer the question,” she snapped. “Expectant mothers are not quite sane at the best of times, and just now I am favoring that silver paper knife on your desk.”
    Rothewell cast a glance down at it, then shrugged. “You shall have to stab me in the back, then,” he said, going to the sideboard. “Because I need another brandy desperately enough to risk death. As to your question, I don’t suppose you would believe I felt sorry for the girl?”
    â€œSorry enough to marry her?” Xanthia scoffed. “Not in a million years.”
    She listened to the crystal stopper being pulled from the decanter. Her brother’s hand was perfectly steady as he poured. It always was. Only his temper seemed to suffer from his bad habits. Kieran did not sleep when he should, eat when he ought, or stop drinking when any reasonable man would have done. Moderation was not in his