Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake

by Sarah MacLean

  She swallowed, refusing to look at him—not trusting herself to do so. “No, my lord. We are not.” They were, quite possibly, the most difficult words she had ever said. “Not that I do not appreciate the offer,” she added politely.

  He looked thoroughly nonplussed. “Why not?”

  “My lord?”

  “Why won’t you marry me?”

  “Well, for one thing, you haven’t asked. You announced.”

  He looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience. “Fine. Will you marry me?”

  The words sent a sad thrill through Callie. Forced into it or no, the Marquess of Ralston proposing to her was definitely high on her list of most wonderful moments in her lifetime. Tops on the list.

  “No. But, thank you very much for asking.”

  “Of all the damn fool—” he checked himself. “Do you want me on one knee, then?”

  “No!” Callie didn’t think she would be able to bear him on bended knee, asking her to marry him. That would be a cruel trick of the universe.

  “What the devil is the problem?”

  The problem is that you don’t really want me. “I simply see no reason for us to marry.”

  “No reason,” he repeated, testing the words for himself. “I would venture to guess that I could name one or two very good reasons.”

  She met his eyes finally, unsettled by the conviction in their rich blue depths. “Surely you haven’t attempted to marry every woman you’ve compromised. Why begin with me?”

  His eyes widened in shock at her bold words. The emotion was soon replaced by irritation. “Let us resolve this once and for all. You evidently think me far more profligate than I have been. Contrary to what you might believe, I have indeed proposed to every unmarried virgin I’ve deflowered. All one of them.”

  Callie flushed at his frank words and looked away, nibbling at her lower lip. He was obviously upset by the situation, and she was sorry for that. But, truthfully, he couldn’t possibly be more upset than she was. She’d spent a glorious evening in the arms of the only man she’d ever wanted, and he’d promptly proposed to her—out of some newfound sense of duty—with all the romance of a side of beef.

  And she was supposed to collapse in gratitude for the overwhelmingly generous Marquess of Ralston? No, thank you. She would live out the rest of her days with the wonderful memory of the night before and be happy with that.

  She hoped.

  “Your honorable actions are duly noted, my lord—”

  “For God’s sake, Callie—stop ‘my lording’ me.” Irritation laced his tone, giving her pause. “You realize you could be with child.”

  One of Callie’s hands went immediately to her waist at the words. She quelled the intense longing that shot through her at the idea of carrying Ralston’s child. She hadn’t considered the possibility, but how likely could it really be? “I doubt very much that that is the case.”

  “Nevertheless, there is a possibility. I won’t have a child of mine born a bastard.”

  Callie’s eyes flashed. “Neither would I. But this conversation is rather premature, don’t you think? After all, the risk of such a thing is rather minimal.”

  “Any risk is too much of a risk. I want you to marry me. I will give you everything you could ever want.”

  You’ll never love me. You never could. I am too plain. Too boring. Nothing like what you deserve. The words whispered through her mind, but she remained silent, instead shaking her head.

  He sighed, frustrated. “If you won’t hear reason, I shall have no choice but to have this conversation with Benedick.”

  Callie gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “You have evidently mistaken me for a different man. I shall marry you, and I am not above having your brother force you down the aisle to do it.”

  “Benedick would never force me to marry you,” Callie protested.

  “It appears we will discover the truth of that statement.” They stood, facing off, eyes sparkling with frustration, for several long moments before his tone softened, and he said, “Would it be that bad?”

  Raw emotion burst in Callie’s chest, and she could not immediately reply. Of course, marrying Ralston would not be bad. Marrying Ralston would be wonderful. She’d pined for him for years, watched him longingly from the edges of ballrooms, combed the gossip columns for news of him and his escapades. For a decade, when the doyennes of the ton speculated about the future Marchioness of Ralston, Callie had secretly imagined herself holding court alongside her coveted marquess.

  But in all those years, she’d imagined a love match. She’d dreamed that one day he would spy her from across a crowded ballroom or from inside a shop on Bond Street, or at a dinner party and fall madly in love with her. She’d imagined them living happily ever after.

  Marriages borne of regret and mistakes did not make for appropriately happy ever afters.

  At her age and station, she knew that her best chance of ever marrying and having a family was to accept a loveless marriage, but agreeing to such with Ralston was simply too much to bear.

  She’d longed for him for too long to accept less than love. Collecting herself, she said, “Of course it would not be bad. I’m sure you would make a fine husband. I am simply not in the market for one.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he scoffed. “Every unmarried female in London is in the market for a husband.” He paused, considering the situation. “Is it me?”

  “No.” You’re rather perfect, actually. He was going to push her until she gave him a reason. She gave a little shrug. “I simply don’t believe that we would suit.”

  He leveled her with a blank stare. “You don’t think we’d suit.”

  “No.” She met his eyes. “I don’t.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “Well, I am not exactly your preferred specimen of femininity.”

  Ralston paused at her phrasing, looking up to the ceiling as though asking for patience. “Which is?”

  Callie gave a frustrated little sigh. Did he have to push her constantly? “You’re really going to make me say it?”

  “I really am, Callie. Because, truly, I don’t understand.”

  She hated him in that moment. Hated him almost as much as she adored him. She waved her hand in irritation. “Beautiful. Sophisticated. Experienced. I am none of those things. I am the opposite of you and the women with whom you’ve surrounded yourself. I’d much rather read books than go to balls, I loathe society, and I am so lacking in experience in the romance department that I had to come to your house in the dead of night to secure my first kiss. The last thing I want is a marriage with someone who will regret such an arrangement from the moment we speak our vows.” The words came out fast and furious, and she was angry that he’d pressed her into laying bare her insecurities.

  She punctuated her diatribe with a muttered, “Thank you very much for forcing me to say it all.”

  He blinked at her, silent, taking in her words. And then he said, simply, “I shan’t regret it.”

  The words were her undoing. She’d had enough. Enough of his kindness and his passion. Enough of the way he made her mind and her heart and her body feel. Enough of punishing herself with moments alone with him. Enough of the events of the past few weeks somehow convincing her that she might, after all, have a chance with Ralston. “Really? In the same way you didn’t regret your actions in your study? In the same way you don’t regret the events of last evening?” She shook her head, sad. “You’ve been so quick to apologize after each of those moments, Ralston, it’s fairly obvious that a marriage to me is the very last thing you would choose freely.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with emotion. “Of course it’s true. And, frankly, I will not put you through a lifetime of regretting your being tied to someone as…plain and missish…as I.” She ignored his slight flinch at her description—the same words that he had used that afternoon in his study. “I couldn�
�t bear it. So, thank you very much, but I will not marry you.” I have loved you too long. And too much.

  “Callie, I should never have said—”

  She held up both hands to halt his speech. “Stop. Please.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and she could sense his frustration at her words. And then he spoke.

  “This is not over,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding.

  She met his unwavering blue gaze, and said, “Yes. It is.”

  He spun on his heel and stormed from the room.

  She watched him go, listening for the main door of Allendale House to slam closed before she allowed the tears to come.

  Twenty

  Ralston went straight to Brooks’s, which was a mistake. If it weren’t enough that she’d refused his suit and in the process made him feel like a royal ass, Callie had also ruined his club. Quite thoroughly.

  In the span of twelve hours, this place that had been designed specifically for men to find comfort and solace far from the struggles of the outside world had become a mahogany-and-marble reminder of Calpurnia Hartwell. As he stood in the great foyer, awash in the drone of male conversation, all Ralston could think of was her: Callie, dressed in men’s clothing, skulking down the darkened hallways of the club; Callie, peeping through open doorways to soak in the ambiance of her first—and, one would hope, only—men’s club; Callie, grinning at him over their private card table; Callie, naked, the heat of their passion casting a rosy glow over her lovely smooth skin.

  Casting a look down the long, shadowed path that he and Callie had taken the previous night, Ralston was struck with a perverse desire to return to the card room where they had spent the evening. For a fleeting moment, he considered ordering a pot of coffee brought to the room, where he could torture himself with memories of the night and all the many ways that he had said and done the wrong thing. He immediately decided against it, however, in the interest of preserving his own sanity.

  Truthfully, he was shocked by her negative response to his proposal. After all, it wasn’t every day that an attractive, young, wealthy marquess made an offer of marriage. He imagined that the days were even more rare when those marquesses were refused. How long had he been avoiding matchmaking mamas and desperate debutantes, all vying to secure the position of Marchioness of Ralston? And now, when he’d finally made the position available, the woman to whom he’d offered it had refused him.

  If she thought she could simply refuse him and walk away after last night, she was entirely wrong.

  Frustrated, he pulled off his greatcoat and tossed it to a footman nearby, but not without recognizing her scent on the fabric—a combination of almonds and lavender and…Callie. The thought brought a scowl to his face, and he admitted a modicum of pleasure at the way the footman scurried out of sight rather than be on the receiving end of Ralston’s foul mood.

  The emotion was fleeting, replaced by a new flare of indignation. What the devil is wrong with her?

  He couldn’t believe that she had turned him away. Surely she couldn’t honestly believe that they were incompatible. She might have been a virgin, but even she must have sensed that their interaction last night—and all the others, for that matter—was far from typical. Certainly their marriage would not suffer in the bedchamber. And, if the passion between them weren’t enough, there was also their well-matched intelligence, humor, and maturity. Aside from all that, she was quite lovely. Soft in all the right places. Ralston let his thoughts linger…a man could spend years lost in her lush curves.

  Yes, Lady Calpurnia Hartwell would make him a fine marchioness.

  If only she would realize it for herself.

  Ralston raked a hand through his hair. When they married, she’d have title, wealth, lands, and one of the most coveted bachelors in all of England. What the hell else did the woman want?

  A love match.

  The thought gave him pause. She’d confessed her belief in love matches ages ago, and he’d scoffed at her, showing her that attraction was equally as powerful as the love in which she placed such faith. She couldn’t honestly have refused him because she was holding out for love. He shook his head, frustrated at the very idea that she would risk her reputation and her future with a rejection of his proposal because of some childish fantasy she refused to release.

  The very idea was preposterous. He’d had enough of thinking about it.

  Ralston made his way to the large antechamber off the foyer, where one was always able to find a willing distraction. He entered in search of a political debate that would keep him occupied, only to discover the room virtually empty, with the exception of a small game of cards. Seated at the card table was Oxford, along with two others. They were disheveled enough for Ralston to know that the trio had likely been at the table all night.

  Disgusted by the sight of Oxford’s irresponsible gambling habits, and with no interest in being pulled into conversation by the group, Ralston made to exit the room as quickly and silently as he’d entered. Before he could, however, he was discovered.

  “Ralston, old chap. Come and play a trick with us,” Oxford called out jovially.

  Ralston paused, devising a plan to best ignore the invitation, when the baron added, “Now is the time for you to win against, me, Ralston, for soon your pockets will be considerably lighter.” The words, laden with meaning and followed by a round of amused noise from the table, brought Ralston around to face Oxford.

  Ralston’s expression steeled as he approached the table. From Oxford’s ruddy-cheeked and sunken-eyed look, it was clear that he was deep in his cups. Ralston spoke blandly, indicating the piles of winnings that sat in front of the baron’s companions. “It appears that my pockets are in no danger of being lightened today, Oxford.”

  Oxford scowled at Ralston before remembering why he’d called the baron over to begin with. “Yes, well, I shall have plenty of money to gamble away soon enough…” He paused, swallowing back a moment of indigestion. “You see, I’m planning to be engaged before week’s end.”

  Ignoring the overwhelming premonition that coursed through him, Ralston tried to appear casual when he said, “To whom?”

  Oxford pointed a long, pasty finger at Ralston and crowed triumphantly. “To Calpurnia Hartwell, of course! You had better count out that”—his body wavered in its seat—“thousand pounds.”

  The words sent a wave of heat through Ralston, which was followed quickly by a serious desire to put his fist into Oxford’s smug face. It was only by pure strength of character that Ralston remained calm, and said, “You think you’ve got her, eh?”

  Oxford flashed a toothy grin that made him look like an imbecile. “Oh, I’ve got her, all right. She was putty in my hands at the Royal Academy yesterday.” He winked at his friends baldly.

  Ralston stiffened at the words—so blatant a lie. His fists clenched at his sides, and energy pulsed through him, desperate for release, preferably in the form of tearing Oxford limb from limb.

  Oxford failed to sense the tension in Ralston’s corded muscles, instead pushing further. “I shall visit her tomorrow and get the proposal business out of the way. Then probably get the girl compromised by week’s end to make sure that Allendale will have no choice but to welcome me into the family—though he’ll likely thank me for taking on his dusty old sister with a substantial marriage settlement.”

  The idea of Oxford laying a finger upon Callie sent Ralston over the edge. In mere seconds, he had lifted the baron from his seat at the card table as though he weighed no more than a child. The motion startled Oxford’s friends from their chairs, which went flying backward as the men scrambled to distance themselves from a fight with Ralston.

  As Oxford dangled from his hands, Ralston could smell the fear on the weaker man, and the cowardice fed his disgust. When he spoke, the words were a growl. “Lady Calpurnia Hartwell is a thousand times better than you. You don’t deserve to breathe her air.”

  Releasing Oxford, Ralston felt an acute sense
of masculine satisfaction at the other man’s immediate and ungraceful collapse into his chair. With an arrogant look that rivaled that of any king, Ralston added, “I wagered a thousand pounds that she won’t have you, and I stand by it. In fact, I am so certain of it…I’ll double the bet here and now.”

  Ralston watched, noticing the slight tremble in the baron’s hands as Oxford adjusted the sleeves of his topcoat, and said, “After your boorish behavior, Ralston, I shall enjoy lightening your coffers even more.”

  Ralston spun on his heel and left the room, saying nothing, telling himself that his behavior had been in defense of a lady to whom he was greatly indebted.

  It was easier to convince himself of that reasoning than to consider the emotions that still roiled at the idea of Callie’s becoming a baroness.

  Callie pushed open the door to Madame Hebert’s shop on Bond Street later that afternoon, eager to be done with what was certain to be another excruciating part of her day. After Ralston had stormed from the house, Callie had cried for several long minutes before receiving word that the dressmaker had completed work on the gown that she had commissioned, as well as on several pieces of Juliana’s new wardrobe.

  Taking the message as a sign that she could not while away the day feeling sorry for herself, Callie had prepared for an afternoon at the dressmaker’s, an outing that held only slightly more appeal than a funeral. Nevertheless, she was in dire need of a distraction, and the French modiste was guaranteed to provide just the thing.

  She’d convinced Mariana to join her for the afternoon, and the younger Hartwell sister had left Allendale House ahead of Callie to retrieve Juliana, who would spend much of the afternoon in fittings for her own dresses. Callie would have ordinarily joined the other girls, but she simply couldn’t bear the thought of meeting Ralston again today—however unlikely an event that might be—and so, here she was, standing just inside the door to the dressmaker’s salon, waiting for someone to acknowledge her presence.