Page 26 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
“They’re not Gothic horrors!” Maria protested. “They’re wonderful books! And yes, I’ve read every single one, more than once.”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Oliver remarked. “I suppose I have my sister to thank for your turning a sword on me at the brothel.”
Lord Gabriel laughed. “You took aswordto old Oliver? Oh, God, that’s rich!”
Lord Jarret sipped some wine. “At least the mystery of the ‘weapons at her disposal’ is now solved.”
“He was misbehaving,” Maria said, with a warning glance for Oliver. Did hewantthem to know everything, for pity’s sake? “He left me no choice.”
“Oh, Maria’s always doing things like that,” Freddy said through a mouth full of eel. “That’s why we won’t teach her to shoot. She always goes off half-cocked.”
Maria thrust out her chin. “A woman has to stand up for herself.”
“Hear, hear!” Lady Celia raised her goblet of wine to Maria. “Don’t mind these clod-pates. What can you expect from a group of men? They would prefer we let them run roughshod over us.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Lord Gabriel protested. “I likea woman with a little fire. Of course, I can’t speak for Oliver—”
“I assure you, I rarely feel the need to run roughshod over a woman,” Oliver drawled. An arch smile touched his lips as his gaze locked with Maria’s. “I’ve kissed one or two when they weren’t prepared for it, but every man does that.”
Lady Minerva snorted. “Yes, and most of them get slapped, but not you, I expect. Even when you misbehave, you have a talent for turning ladies up sweet. How else would you go from having a sword thrust at you to gaining Miss Butterfield’s consent to be your bride—eh, Miss Butterfield?”
Maria didn’t answer. Something was nagging at the back of her brain—a vaguely familiar line from one of Lady Minerva’s books: “He had a talent for turning ladies up sweet, which both thrilled and alarmed her.”
“Heavens alive.” She stared at Oliver. “You’rethe Marquess of Rockton!”
She hardly realized she’d said it aloud until his brothers and sisters laughed.
A pained look crossed Oliver’s face. “Don’t remind me.” Sparing a glare for his sister, Oliver muttered, “You have no idea how my friends revel in the fact that my sister made me a villain in her novel.”
“They only revel because she madetheminto heroes,” Lord Jarret pointed out, eyes twinkling. “Foxmoor got quite a big head over it, and Kirkwood’s been strutting around ever since the last one came out. He loved that he got to trounce you.”
“That’s because he knows he couldn’t trounce me in real life,” Oliver remarked. “Though he keeps suggesting we should have a ‘rapier duel’ to prove whether he could.”
Maria stared at them agape. “Do you mean that the Viscount Churchgrove isreal? And Foxmoor . . . great heavens, that’s Wolfplain!”
“Yes.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Churchgrove is my friend, the Viscount Kirkwood, and Wolfplain is another friend, the Duke of Foxmoor. Apparently Minerva has trouble coming up with original characters.”
“You know perfectly well that I only used a version of their names,” Lady Minerva said smoothly. “The characters are my own.”
“Except for you, Oliver,” Lord Jarret remarked. “You’re clearly Rockton.”
Oh yes. Like Lord Rockton, he had a dry wit, shrewd intelligence, and a face like a prince, albeit an Italian one. His blithe unconcern for gentlemanly honor mirrored Lord Rockton’s, as did his ruthless determination to get whatever he wanted.
But she began to understand that he wasn’t entirely a villain. For one thing, he cared for his family. The way he’d spoken of his siblings and their right not to marry showed he was carrying on this masquerade on behalf of them all, not just himself.
And though he’d obviously intended from the first to present her as a whore to shock his grandmother, he’d changed his mind with surprisingly little persuasion when Maria had opposed the idea. Considering how she’d kickedhim—whereshe’d kicked him—he could have had them carted off in chains. Instead, he’d repeated his offer to find her fiancé. He’d given her an out, too, by saying that if she wished to leave tomorrow, he would accept her decision.
Of course, she wasn’t sure if she believed him. He was abominably arrogant and annoying, and he possessed an appalling cynicism. But sometimes, when he got that bleak look in his eyes, she felt almost . . . sorry for him.
Which was ridiculous. Clearly there was something wrong with her to feel such a thing for the scoundrel.
“Rockton is no more Oliver than Churchgrove is Lord Kirkwood,” Lady Minerva said stoutly.
“Then why did you steal my name for him?” Oliver asked.
“It’s not quite your name, old chap,” Lord Gabriel said. “And you know perfectly well that Minerva likes to tweak your nose from time to time.”
“Stop calling me ‘old,’ blast it,” Oliver grumbled. “I’m not some doddering fool.”
