Page 53 of Unmasking the Diamond
“It is,” Luca said. Then with a glance in Charlotte’s direction, he added, “But if worse comes to worst, I intend to do the honorable thing and marry Charlotte.”
Charlotte scoffed. “The honorable thing? Meaning you are stuck with me?”
“You are twisting my words,” Luca remarked. “I merely meant that if we must marry, I would not object.”
The audacity of him. Charlotte’s pulse thundered in her ears. Abruptly, she stood, seized her bowl of soup, and marched to the far side of the table. The porcelain clinked as she set it down with unnecessary force. She glared at him from across the expanse, every inch of her spine rigid. “Do not worry, my lord. I would rather chew on glass and die than marry you.”
“That is oddly specific,” Luca remarked.
Charlotte sat with a huff. “I daresay your voice grates on my nerves.”
Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Charlotte, be reasonable.”
“Me, reasonable?” The words spilled out, fierce and trembling with emotion. “I refuse to marry someone simply because it is the honorable thing to do. I want more. I deserve more. And I cannot believe you—of all people—would deny me that right.”
“I never said that,” Alistair said.
Charlotte lifted her chin, determined to regain composure. “Good. Then we are in agreement.”
The scrape of a chair drew her gaze back to Luca. He shoved it back and rose. “Perhaps I should go.”
“Perhaps you should,” Charlotte replied curtly.
He inclined his head stiffly, offered curt farewells, and departed. The echo of his boots in the corridor lingered long after the door shut.
Silence stretched until Alistair turned a pointed look at her. “That was poorly done on your part.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, her throat tight. She knew he was right. Her reaction had been rather excessive. But why should she have to endure such talk of honor-bound marriages? Why did the idea of Luca being forced—resigned—to marry her feel like a slap to the face?
She stared at the untouched soup, her hands clenched in her lap. She had meant her words—truly, she did not want to marry Luca. Not now, not ever.
Luca sat slouched in the shadowed corner of White’s, a half-empty glass of brandy clutched loosely in his hand. The club was loud with laughter, but none of it reached him. His mind kept replaying Charlotte’s earlier words and how her eyes flashed with hurt, her voice steady but brittle as she had declared she deserved more than a marriage of convenience.
The brandy burned down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the memory. He hadn’t meant to insult her. That had most definitely not been his intention. He had only wanted to shield her, to spare her theton’s scorn and the Duke of Brackenford’s looming menace. Yet in trying to protect her, he had wounded her instead.
The worst part was the truth he could no longer deny. Somewhere between their endless sparring, the stolen confidences, and her maddening defiance, he had fallen for her. Deeply. Irrevocably. Inconveniently. She might despise him, but he longed for her in a way he could not reason away.
He lifted his glass again, but paused halfway. He needed his wits, not the haze of spirits. He had work to do. A mystery to unravel.
“You look awful.”
The voice jarred him from his thoughts. He didn’t need to glance up to know who it belonged to. “Thank you,” he muttered.
Lord Rupert Milnes lowered himself into the armchair opposite, eyeing him with the shrewd gaze of a man who missed very little. “There is only one thing that can leave a fellow looking so wretched. A woman.”
“You would not be wrong,” Luca admitted, setting his glass aside. “I assume you received my message?”
“I did,” Rupert said. “But I confess I am at a loss as to why you require me.”
Luca leaned forward. “I am investigating The Chelmsford Asylum and the suspicious deaths of two of their patients.”
Rupert let out a low whistle. “Suspicious? It is an asylum. They are full of the mad and the frail. It is only natural that many die.”
“Yes, but there is a pattern,” Luca pressed. “The late Duchess of Brackenford was dead within five months of admittance and so was Lady Coldwyck.”
Rupert raised a brow. “Asylums are filthy places. Disease thrives?—”
“Do not dismiss this, just as so many people already have,” Luca interrupted. His tone was sharper than intended, but he could not quell the urgency coiling inside him. “The Ravenhurst Trading Company owns The Chelmsford Asylum, but no trueowner is listed. It is a company only on paper. I would stake my reputation on it.”
