Page 118 of Pride: The Rogue
He grunted. “Details haven’t been worked out.”
Drowning in anguish and fiery jealousy that’d gripped her from the moment she’d seen Lachlan with the possessive duchess, Livian instead, fed her anger, otherwise she’d fall apart.
“You didn’t atanytime believe that to be an important detail to share with me?” she whispered furiously.
Fire flashed in his eyes.
Latimer closed the gap between them so quickly, she gasped.
He took her firmly by the wrist and drew her close; his strong fingers scorched, his touch a brand he’d imprint all over her. “Ihaveto marry the duchess.”
He had to?
She shook her head. “Why?” She hated the frantic plea.
Latimer frowned. “I’m forging a partnership with Dynevor; our business relationship will be cemented by my marriage to the duchess.”
“The Duke of Argyll’s stepmother,” she said numbly, beginning to understand. “You’ll have a new club and revenge.”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
“What more could you want?” she spat bitterly.
There was no way Livian could compete with either.
Lachlan’s eyes formed thin, razor slits. “What with this holier than thou judgment from you, Livian?”
She gasped. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.” He sneered. “You wear your emotions on your sleeve, love.”
“How dare y—?”
His cynical laugh drowned out the rest of her charge.
“You find this amusing?” Livian gritted out.
She made another attempt to free herself of his touch.
Lachlan gripped her more tightly. “Oh, I find it utterly hilarious, sweetheart.” Snarling, he drew her so close their bodies touched. “Here you are, angry with me for not telling you about my arrangement with the duchess, as if you don’t actually haveyourbetrothed here, waiting.”
Lachlan speaking of his impending marriage made it all the more real, and had he not held her, she’d have crumpled into a ball at his feet.
“At least I told you,” she whispered.
Color splotched his cheeks. Guilt?
Lachlan gave her a slight, but still gentle, shake. “What of you?” he ordered.
“What of me?” she cried softly.
“What of your betrothed, Livian? Forfar, is it?”
Forfar? That pompous, uncharitable gentleman who’d been all too comfortable besmirching Lachlan’s name—until Livian had put him in his place. “You truly believe I would marry a man like Forfar?” she asked, cut up by that assumption.
His thick lashes dipped. “No,” he said, his baritone all silky steel. “I believe you’re too intelligent to ever give yourself to one like Forfar. Who is he, then?”
She furrowed her brow.
