Page 158 of Pride: The Rogue
Livian.
Finally, Latimer brought himself to look at her, not knowing what he expected needed to see: Fear. Shock. Annoyance. Disgust.
He cocked his head and stared blankly at the dark blonde woman who sat, her back pressed against the headboard, and a silk sheet drawn close to her ample chest.
The lady gawked at Latimer.
His muddled mind attempted to put together the facts he was seeing with his own eyes. Ones at odds with all the mental images and conclusions he’d reached on his way here; the young woman’s fine hair, too fine to possess even a hint of curl. Her hair, a shade of blonde, two or three hues darker.
His soul, his heart, so fucking relieved, so light, that a shake started in his chest and spread through his entire being.
It is not Livian.
Sinking onto his haunches, Latimer proceeded to laugh.
“It is not Livian,” he rasped. “Sheisn’t Livian.”
The other occupants in the room exchanged horrified and wary glances.
Crimson color splotched the earl’s cheeks. “Good God, no!” Wakefield denied with such force, Latimer’s laughter tripled.
“It is not Livian,” he said again, afraid if he didn’t keep reminding himself, the perplexed figure in Wakefield’s bed would shift and transform into the spirited, clever, witty woman he’d mistaken her for.
Wakefield said something to his servants, and those men immediately quit the room.
“If you’ll excuse us a moment, I’ll be right with you, my dear,” Wakefield said to his increasingly annoyed bedmate.
Latimer doubled over, sobbing this time with absolute hilarity and relief.
Muttering to himself, the earl grabbed Latimer by the arm and dragged him to his feet. “In my office now.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Latimer being several stones heavier and a couple of inches taller, could have easily overthrown Wakefield. Right now, his relief proved too profound.
When they reached the earl’s office, Wakefield propelled Latimer inside. That hard shove sent him stumbling a step, and also managed to clear Latimer’s head.
The minute Wakefield shut the door behind them, Latimer didn’t waste any time. “The Duchess of Argyll indicated Miss Lovelace left with you, Wakefield. Am I to take that to mean Her Grace lied?”
Any fabrication on the angry peeress’s part would have been far preferable than Livian having willingly gone with—
“She did not,” Wakefield said tersely. “I escorted Miss Lovelace from Her Grace’s house party.”
Fresh fury coursed through Latimer. He took an angry step toward the other man. “I’ll k—”
“Yes, yes. I know, you’ve said it before.” Wakefield scoffed. “You’ll kill me.”
The mocking derision sent a wave of heat climbing up Latimer’s neck.
“Please,” Wakefield said, sounding positively bored. “Spare me your outrage and show of anger, Latimer. You have the audacity to storm my household like some raged lunatic when you made itquite clear,”the earl’s voice climbed, “your intentions for the lady were anything but honorable.”
“As if yours were,” Latimer exploded. “I saw the way you could not take her eyes from her.”
Wakefield snorted. “Of course, I couldn’t.”
A low growl started again in Latimer’s chest.
“You bloody fool,” the earl snapped. “Miss Lovelace is mysister.”
Latimer rocked back on his heels. He opened and closed his mouth several times to say something—all to no avail.
