Page 155 of Pride: The Rogue
Too emotionally drained to feign shared amusement for her sister’s behalf, Livian looked out the window instead.
“The duchess was…” she grimaced, “is,” she corrected herself, “hosting a house party.”
“Yes, yes. I was aware,” Verity said, nodding.
Like a makeshift mirror, the windowpane reflected back her sister’s visage, and Livian dipped her stare to the grounds below. In order to share, it was easier if Livian didn’t face her.
“What I didn’t mention,” Livian began quietly, “is the duchess did so on my behalf and at my request. I asked for her help in finding a husband.”
Livian felt her sister stiffen.
“You also know,” Livian continued, “on my travels to the Dutchess of Argyll’s, my carriage became stuck in the middle of a storm. And…” Livian closed her eyes and remembered back to that volatile night, “I met someone.”
And I will never be the same.
Before speaking, Verity sat with that information for what Livian recognized as a difficult amount of time for her sister, the investigative reporter.
“Someone?” her sister repeated back carefully.
Tears welled in Livian’s throat. She attempted to say Lachlan’s name. When she couldn’t get those four syllables out, Livian gave a juddering nod instead.
Then, after several false stops and starts, Livian at last found her voice. “His name is Lachlan.”
And when the words came, they continued coming. And coming. And coming.
She started with her decision to employ the duchess’ help and the fraught journey which led to Livian’s fateful meeting with Lachlan, and then she shared the special moments she’d spent with him. The bond they’d forged. The way he defended her. The way it had felt being with a man who hadn’t been born to the peerage and understood in every way what it was like to be born outside the noble ranks.
When she finished, the roles reversed once more, and Livian found herself sinking against her sister’s side.
Verity wrapped an arm about Livian, drew her close, and held her. As promised, her older sister didn’t attempt to fix the situation.
The irony wasn’t lost on Livian. Had Verity possessed a magic wand and could, with a flick of her hand, provide Livian with Lachlan’s love and a future with him, she would have happily tasked her with the assignment.
Sadly, there had never been any magic stronger than love or a broken heart.
Chapter 25
For as long as he’d been alive, Latimer despised the nobility.
Never had that aversion been stronger than now with Livian gone and the duchess having done everything in her power to keep Lachlan from her.
Gritting his teeth, Latimer pressed his knees against the mount he’d traded for at one of the coaching inns along the route to London and urged the chestnut stallion to a faster gallop.
Do not think of Wakefield. Do not think of him.
No matter how much he fought, tortured musings flashed in his mind.
The roguish Earl of Wakefield and the obsessive way in which he’d watched Livian. That same man, who’d preyed on her vulnerability, whisked her off and…
And, given Wakefield had been one of Forbidden Pleasures’ best patrons, Latimer’s knowledge of the bastard extended to the man’s lusty appetite in matters of sex.
And his preferences. And the way the Cyprians spoke freely of the earl’s prowess and generosity, what kind of lover he’d be to Livian—
A curtain of rage fell across his eyes, briefly blinding. The task of breathing so onerous his lungs ached.
It was too much.
An animalistic shout exploded from his chest. Underneath him, his horse whinnied with unease. In the dead of the London night, the sound of his jealous rage bounced off stucco and stone townhouses and echoed in Latimer’s mind, taunting him with his absolute hopelessness.
