The Virgin and the Viscount (Lords of Vice #4) - Robyn DeHart Page 0,1
mahogany. He smirked at her.
“What am I to say?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Your declaration wasn’t for me.” He clicked his tongue. “A pity that.”
Humiliation flamed her cheeks and nerves scattered through her body. She bent over to try to catch her breath. Of all the people to have witnessed this, why did it have to be him?
Sullivan was the most arrogant, irritating, frustrating gentleman of her acquaintance.
No. He did not even deserve the title of gentleman.
Yes, of course, as the second son of a viscount, he was a gentleman, but he didn’t behave like one.
He already teased her relentlessly on a regular basis, calling her Freckles. Such an original moniker based on the annoying marks that covered her entire body. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the thought. No, now would be a splendid time for her to simply drop dead, stop breathing, evaporate into thin air—anything that would bring this horrible moment to an end.
“Freckles, do you truly want to ruin their wedding?” His dark brown eyes met her gaze, and shame flooded her, and something else that made her skin prickle with warmth.
She swallowed, shook her head. What could she say to him? He could ruin her if he told anyone about this. What had she been thinking?
“Please,” she managed to say, but the rest of her words died on her tongue. Oh God, he was going to ruin her. Or at the very least lord this over her for his own entertainment.
One brow arched. “Please what?”
“This, this didn’t happen. No one can know. I beg of you, my lord.” God, she loathed that he’d have this power over her. If he were a true gentleman, he’d offer to forget all about this, ease her embarrassment. Instead, he stood there and watched her as if he could see inside to her very soul. She shifted on her feet and clasped her hands tightly in front of her, uncertain of where to put them, as a wave of pure hatred rose within her.
Finally he nodded. “Whatever you wish.”
“You won’t tell him?”
He lifted his broad shoulders into a shrug, a gesture at once both careless and arrogant. Dismissive and rude. “I have no reason to.”
She felt her jaw clenching.
Of course he wouldn’t promise not to tell for the right reasons. He wouldn’t promise because it was the honorable thing to do. The noble thing.
No, Sullivan had no such honor. No such nobility. Instead, he wouldn’t tell because he couldn’t be bothered to. And perhaps because it amused him to have a secret of hers.
No, Sullivan wasn’t a gentleman. He was an absolute and total ass. Of that she was certain.
He searched her face, his expression softening a tad. “I suspect you have no real reason to want to ruin their nuptials.”
“No, I do not.” She shook her head vehemently. “This was a gross display of misjudgment on my part.”
“Very well, Freckles, I shall keep your secret.” He winked then walked back around the desk to return to the chair.
She bolted from the room. He would keep her secret now, but what about the day when he no longer felt compelled to protect her? When he lost patience for keeping her secret? What then?
Her worst enemy knew her darkest secret. All she could do now was wait for the moment when he would wield that information against her.
Sullivan fell back onto the settee and blew out a breath. “Was it just me or did that ceremony last unusually long?”
His older brother, Roderick chuckled from his spot in the adjacent leather chair. “I’ve attended shorter weddings.”
Sullivan thought back to the night before, or rather earlier this morning when Matilda had sneaked into this very study. Her secret admission had surprised him. If he was honest with himself, it angered him as well.
He’d always anticipated being bested by his older brother. Roderick was two years his senior and was everything an older brother and heir should be—smart, clever, and quick-witted. He was a good man, so coming in second had never bothered Sullivan. But losing to Thomas… no, that had been unexpected, not to mention damned irritating.
Thomas had all the appearance of charm and honor, but none of the substance. He was a sniveling, conniving, manipulative bastard. Roderick knew it. Sullivan knew it.
He’d always assumed Matilda was clever enough that eventually she would see it, too.
It turned out the only thing Sullivan hated more than being bested by Thomas was being wrong about Matilda.