Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Page B

trembling hand on his arm. “Just wait a while, Kieran,” she whispered. “That is all I ask. Just wait until you and Mademoiselle Marchand come to know one another.”
    â€œWhy?” he gritted. “So she can refuse me? So that she can find a way out? That is what you mean, isn’t it?”
    Xanthia lifted her hand uncertainly. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to the rug beneath them. “You are quite right. This really isn’t my business, is it? I will go, Kieran. Just promise me…promise me you will get some rest?”
    When he did not snap back one of his angry retorts, Xanthia looked up. Her brother’s face had gone white. His silvery eyes were shut, his visage twisted—not with rage, but with pain.
    â€œKieran?” She returned her hand to his arm. “Kieran, what is it?”
    She felt a deep shudder run through him. “Aaahh, God!” he cried. Then he seemed to collapse beneath her like a house of cards, going down onto one knee, his fingers clawing desperately at the edge of the desk, the other hand clutching his lower ribs.
    She had run to the door and flung it open before she knew what she meant to do. “Trammel!” she cried. “Trammel! For God’s sake, come here!”
    The butler was there in an instant. Panic sketched across his face when he saw Kieran. He knelt beside him on the floor, and hooked one arm under her brother’s. “Can you get up, sir?” he asked. “I shall help you up to bed.”
    Xanthia stared down at their bent heads, Trammel’s tight gray curls contrasting sharply with Kieran’s dark mane. When Trammel lifted, her brother grunted, and tried to stand. Somehow, the butler got him up, then turned to look at her.
    â€œIt’s all right, Miss Zee,” he said. “He gets like this sometimes.”
    â€œAs of when?” Xanthia demanded.
    â€œA while now,” he said vaguely. “Your brother needs a warm meal and a rest, Miss Zee, that’s all. He’s not been to bed”—here, the butler flashed a faint smile—“not in this house, at any rate—for three days.”
    Xanthia surveyed him anxiously. Kieran must have had more to drink than she realized. But now he did indeed look steadier on his feet. The twisted agony had left his face to be replaced by a mere grimace. “Oh, go home, Zee, for God’s sake,” he managed. “Haven’t you a husband now to meddle with?”
    Xanthia watched them go, Trammel’s steps slow and dependable, Kieran’s heavier but steady now. She was worried. Very worried. This business with Mademoiselle Marchand made less sense the more she learned of it. Kieran’s was a logical and incisive mind, one which did not rationalize or cloud the truth, even when it brought him pain. He was a sinner, yes, but one who carried the burden of his own sin like a penance on his back. And his love for Annemarie—well, that he had worn like a heavy chain about his heart.
    So what had changed since Xanthia’s leaving this house? Kieran. He had changed. And she realized now, more than ever, how little she understood him—and what was worse—how little Kieran understood himself.

Chapter Four
A stroll in the Garden
    I n the end, Lord Rothewell did not return to his cousin’s house the following morning with a parson in tow. Lady Sharpe persuaded him that perhaps a fortnight’s delay in marrying would do little harm and, quite possibly, a vast deal of good. Camille could not find it in her heart to explain that she no longer cared what society thought of her; not when the countess herself so clearly did care. And so Camille embarked on a whirlwind tour of fashionable London—or what little there was of it, given the lateness of the year.
    On Tuesday there was an afternoon of shopping in Oxford Street with Lady Sharpe and her daughter Lady Louisa, who lived nearby. Friday