Page 139 of Pride: The Rogue
Livian managed a nod.
Her sister grunted in approval.
“Let’s get you seated, Livvie.” Billy slipped an arm through hers and helped her over to the bed.
After Livian sank onto the edge of the mattress, Billy dashed to the armoire.
“…Not many of them,” the young woman said, snatching both pretty panels open. “You don’t need me to tell you that.” Billy flipped quickly and efficiently through the garments hanging there. “…but Lachlan Latimer,” Billy continued, directing her soliloquy into the corners of Livian’s closet. “He’s a good one, he is.”
“Yes,” Livian managed. Yes, Lachlan Latimer was just that: honorable, dependable, loyal, honest.
A short time ago, with her own eyes, she’d witnessed his transformation into the ruthless killer he’d once insisted to her that he was.
But he wasn’t. He was good and kind and gentle.
That same trembling that had started within earlier, returned. Livian hugged herself tight to keep herself from splintering apart.
With rage contorting Lachlan’s exquisite face into a macabre mask of death, he’d been prepared to kill for Livian. He would have.
Death by savage beating had been the fate Forfar would have met if Livian and Lord Wakefield hadn’t stopped him. Lachlan would have forfeited his life to defend her honor, and she didn’t want that of him, or for him.
Everything passed in a blur. A bath arrived, and Billy helped Livian through her ablutions. A short while later, after Livian was dressed and her hair lovingly brushed and plaited by her sister, a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” Livian called out over Billy’s protestations.
The duchess slipped inside. “If we might speak alone, Miss Lovelace?” she said without so much as a greeting for Billy.
Billy’s face hardened. “Miss Lovelace would benefit from rest.”
At that bold challenge, the duchess finally spared a look at Livian’s younger sister and frowned.
“That won’t be necessary, Billy,” Livian said on a rush. “I am fine.”
Billy hesitated.
“Aye, Miss Lovelace.” Dropping a curtsy, Billy hastened from the room.
After she’d gone, the duchess contemplated Livian’s white gown, trimmed in purple hibiscus, she’d just donned.
Livian fought to keep from squirming under the other woman’s eagle-eye scrutiny.
“Hmm.White,” she mused as if talking to herself. “I remember when I too wore white.”
Of anything she’d anticipated—an inquiry about Livian’s well-being, an update on Lord Forfar, a discussion about the potential scandal brewing—remarks about Livian’s gown had not been something she’d considered.
The Duchess of Argyll gave her head a little shake; she shifted an all-knowing gaze back to Livian’s.
“You’re an innocent, Miss Lovelace.”
Not anymore. Never, however, would Livian regret giving herself to Lachlan.
“Nothing to say?” the duchess said when Livian remained silent.
“There are many ways in which a young woman may be innocent.”Or not.
She’d never been. Not as this woman or even Livian’s own sister always thought. And now that she’d made love to Lachlan, not in so many ways.
“Ah, yes, that is very true.” The young widow took the liberty of venturing closer. “I know that from experience.”
