Page 109 of Pride: The Rogue
Livian sat on a white-upholstered satin sofa beside the hearth. The seat next to her, along with the single matching armchairs, was occupied by cockswains hanging about Livian.
Latimer narrowed his eyes.
Then, there was The Earl of Wakefield, one of Forbidden Pleasures’ greatest clients. Obscenely rich and not ruled by vice, Wakefield, had proven to be so skilled and generous with the women he took to his bed, the Cyprians at Forbidden Pleasures vied for the handsome earl’s attentions.
Now, that grave gentleman stood like a possessive protector at Livian’s shoulder, glowering at the other lords.
He stilled and an equally contemptible possibility slithered forward about the handsome fellow’s relationship with Livian.
Livian and Wakefield—future husband and wife.
Now, that match made far more sense. Wakefield, handsome, intelligent, loyal brother and son; he could hold his liquor, and won too much at the gaming table.
Seething, he added Wakefield’s name to the growing list of noblemen he intended to end before this godforsaken house party reached its conclusion.
As if he’d sensed the threat, the earl looked about the room. His gaze alighted on Latimer.
He’d hand it to the earl, Wakefield didn’t so much as bat a lash at the lethal glare Latimer had fixed on him.
“You have been rather quiet on the whole matter, Mr. Latimer,” the duchess murmured.
Silently cursing, Latimer forced to end the stare-down, looked away first.
“I’m not one who partakes in gossip, Duchess.”
The woman to whom his marriage would secure Latimer’s next, great legacy regarded him curiously. “I hardly believe it constitutes as gossip, given you were, in fact, the one publicly shamed.”
“Shamed?” What the hell was she talking about?
“By Miss Lovelace,” she said, exasperatedly.
Latimer tensed and suddenly wished he’d paid closer attention.
Bloody hell. The last thing he’d ever do was center the powerful duchess’ wrath on Livian.
In a bid to diffuse the duchess’ ire, Latimer displayed a casual, half-grin.
“One would have to care about society’s opinion to be shamed, Duchess,” he drawled. “You should know by now, I, likeDynevor here, don’t give two shites.” He made no attempt to blunt his speech.
“Demned right.” The young earl, sporting a drink despite the hour and respectability of the affair, lifted his glass of brandy.
The duchess ignored the younger man. “Youmay not care, Mr. Latimer—”
Correction, “Idonot care, Duchess.”
“I, on the other hand, will not have anyone look down upon me or suffer unwanted attention,” she said stiffly. “And certainly not by a young woman reliant upon my generosity.”
Livian reliant upon the Duchess of Argyll’s generosity? A muscle rippled along Latimer’s jawline. His clever, gorgeous, queen would never find herself at anyone’s mercy and certainly not Argyll’s capricious mother-in-law.
“Generosity?” What of Livian’s family?
“I have affixed a dowry to the lady.”
A dowry.
He reeled. What the hell…?
“Furthermore, I am the one responsible for the pairing between Miss Lovelace and her future husband.”
