Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Page A

dictionary. Nor was marriage , Xanthia could have sworn.
    Suddenly, he set the bottle down. “You are having a child,” he said, bracing his hands wide on the sideboard. He looked not at her, but at the gilt mirror above it. “Nash’s heir, quite likely. And Pamela has done the same for Sharpe. Sometimes, Zee, a man—even one so steeped in depravity as I—begins to wonder at his legacy. One wonders if…if there will be anything left when one is gone.”
    At last he turned around. She watched him warily for a long moment. Legacy, her arse, thought Xanthia. She had suspected from the first, really, what this was about. Now she was almost sure. Sorry enough to marry her? Telling words, those.
    â€œNo,” she finally said. “No, you won’t cozen me with that one, either. You’ve never give a thought to your legacy and you aren’t now. Don’t forget, Kieran. I have seen her . Pamela has not.”
    Kieran looked at her strangely. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You just said you saw her with Pamela.”
    Slowly, Xanthia shook her head. “No, I am not speaking of Mademoiselle Marchand,” she said. “I am talking about Annemarie.”
    Her brother’s visage stiffened. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
    But he knew what she meant; Xanthia could see it in the taunt lines of his mouth, and in the faint twitch of his cheek where he had clamped his jaw together.
    â€œI mean our dearly departed sister-in-law,” she repeated, gentling her tone. “Yes, Mademoiselle Marchand bears more than a passing similarity to Luke’s dead wife. The dark hair and eyes. That lovely dark skin. The rich French accent. Perhaps she doesn’t look like Annemarie—not the way Annemarie’s daughter does, no—but there are some striking similarities.”
    Her brother stared at her, his gray eyes suddenly glittering like silver. “I will thank you to cease this line of conversation, Xanthia,” he gritted. “Get out. Go home now. I am tired, and I’ve no wish to listen to such nonsense.”
    Xanthia braced her hands to rise. “You cannot even admit it, can you?” she answered. “But you must, Kieran. That poor girl deserves to marry for love. Not because you pity her. Not because she reminds you of someone you once loved, but because—”
    â€œJust get out, damn you!” he exploded. Then, to her horror, he hurled his glass into the fireplace. Crystal crashed and splintered. “Just get out, Xanthia! The dead are simply dead, and they aren’t coming back. Do you think I don’t know that? Do you? ”
    His face was twisted with rage. The brandy had caught on the banked coals and was licking up the back of the hearth in delicate blue flames. Unsteadily, Xanthia rose. Dear God. She really had pushed him too hard this time. “Kieran, I never meant—”
    â€œJust get out!” he bellowed. “You did mean it, Xanthia. You always do. You just keep dredging it up.” He set the heel of one hand to his temple as if it hurt. “I swear to God, sometimes I think you’d needle at a bleeding wound. But Luke is still dead. His wife is still dead—and I have done all I could bring myself to do for her daughter. I have done my duty, damn you.”
    â€œAnd Martinique knows that you have always looked after her,” said Xanthia. “But you couldn’t look at her, Kieran. Good God, you sent her two thousand miles away from Barbados just because she reminded you of her dead mother. Of Annemarie. And now this poor girl—Camille—she deserves to marry someone who will love her for who she is. Not because she is another dark-eyed beauty who needs to be rescued.”
    Kieran stalked toward her. “But I did not rescue Annemarie, did I?” he snarled. “Luke had the pleasure—and the pain—of that task.”
    Xanthia laid a