Page 16 of King of Rogues
The letter from the Duchess of Redditch arrived at Monsale House early the following morning. An eager Monsale broke open the seal on the paper and unfolded it. He took one look at the names and swore. Naomi’s name wasn’t on the list.
“Bloody stubborn woman. All you had to do was offer up your name. After I had briefly met and then ruled out the other ladies, you would have been the last one standing. Then we could have started planning the wedding,” he muttered.
Deuce. I think I might have misjudged this whole list thing. Naomi has clearly taken this the wrong way, and not put her name up.
He stared at Kitty’s note for a time, in two minds as to what he should do next. The obvious would be to march straight over to Redditch House and ask Naomi to marry him. To confess that, he had made a mistake and that she was the only woman he had ever considered as being the right one.
And she will make me pay for it every day for the next fifty years.
What was he to do? The other and possibly riskier option was to call her bluff. Go ahead with the list and see how long it took until Naomi finally came to heel. She might have her pride, but he was certain that she wanted to be his wife.
Yes. That’s what I will do. Make her be the one who does the groveling.
He could just picture how that would look. She would be in tears, pleading her case. Begging him to marry her. Confessing her love. Giving him what he wanted.
Offering up those sweet rosy lips for my hungry kisses.
That was a much more attractive solution.
Monsale was a man who had lived his entire life managing threats and solving problems. There were few perils he hadn’t already faced and conquered. Getting Lady Naomi Steele in front of a priest shouldn’t be too difficult. And the wedding vows did include her having to promise to obey.
She just has to be made to see sense.
A sly grin crept across his lips. He still had one perfect weapon at his disposal.
Jealousy. He intended to fully exploit it.
Chapter Six
Twelve Days to go.
The hunt for a bride begins
* * *
Naomi smoothed the skirts of her ice blue silk gown and gave a slow glance around the ballroom. It might be August and the London social season well over, but there were still enough people in London ready to attend a hastily arranged ball or party.
Normally, the Steele family would be in the throes of closing up their London house and preparing to head north to the family estate, where they would spend most of the rest of the summer. But not this year. Kitty, having put the list together for Monsale had announced that they were going to remain in town until he had selected a bride. The next trip the duke and duchess would be taking would be to Monsale Castle in Kent for Andrew McNeal’s wedding.
Naomi had voiced the feeblest of protests about this arrangement, before promptly making an appointment with her modiste. Assisting Monsale in his search for a wife would require the purchase of new gowns. There was comfort to be had in shopping.
The Steele family had arrived early at the function this evening, Kitty was keen to make sure everything was ready for Monsale when he met with the first lady on the bridal list. Naomi didn’t know the owners of the mansion, and she didn’t particularly care to circulate and socialize. She was here on a mission.
As soon as she entered the gathering, she looked for the nearest servant bearing a tray of drinks and made a beeline for them. Two quickly downed glasses of champagne took the edge off her nerves.
She was watching the other guests mingle, and toying with the idea of whether it was wise to go and find a third glass of champagne, when her nose caught a familiar scent. The hint of a man’s cologne that she knew only too well.
He is here.
“Good evening, Lady Naomi.”
She composed herself, then turned to face him. The sight which met her eyes, had Naomi swallowing deep.
Monsale was always well turned out for these sorts of events, but the sharp cut of his evening jacket and the tight fit of his black trousers informed her that he too had purchased a new wardrobe for the occasion. His hair was neatly cut and there wasn’t a hint of his usual sexy, scruffy facial hair.
He is taking this bride choosing business far too seriously.
“Your grace. You look well,” she said, in a voice as calm as she could make it.
