Free Romancing the Rogue by Kim Bowman Page A

seemed to jolt out of a trance as she shrugged away. He couldn’t recall his words, only the pearlescent sheen of her skin and the gentle thrumming of her pulse in her neck. It must have been bad; her eyes had shuttered and her brows furrowed, a clear sign of disapproval. Perhaps even revulsion. A flash of confusion and fear.
    The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. If she believed the rumors floating around London, he had a long battle ahead. What, should he shake her by the shoulders and shout, “ Do I look like a sodomite to you? Do I kiss like one?” and then give her a demonstration to resolve any question on the matter…
    Patience, Wilhelm.
    If Aunt Louisa’s theory proved correct, if his investigation returned the same results, then patience would be the least of what Rosalie required of him.
    And the miserable feeling he would fail… Fail, fail, failure.
    How he hated that word.
     

Chapter Eight
    ’ Tis Simple Business To Ensnare A Husband… Or Not
    “Oh, the poor man.” Elise clucked, shaking her head. “It says here Lord Chauncey has searched for his lost daughter these past seven months. He seems so heartbroken. I can’t imagine — losing one’s only child to highwaymen.” She folded the paper and rested it on the table, narrowly avoiding toppling her teacup.
    Her father’s name rolled so nonchalantly from the girl’s mouth it startled Sophia, and instead of taking a sip, she gulped a mouthful of scalding hot tea. Coughing scattered the sparrows scavenging for crumbs on the patio.
    Mary nodded, shaking her mane of unruly chestnut ringlets. “Yes, I heard Brigitte talk about it. Lord Chauncey is quite the romantic hero, according to the upstairs staff at Beaufort. He went on a pilgrimage to find his daughter, running madcap all over Europe. But she disappeared without a trace. Anne-Sophronia Duncombe, that’s it. I heard she made the Comte d’Anjou’s wife jealous. Perhaps she was murdered .”
    “The Comte d’Anjou is an arse,” Sophia muttered sotto voce into her cup. When Elise begged her pardon, Sophia bluffed, “I said, perhaps Miss Duncombe ran away. If she were abducted, do you suppose her father should have found some trace of her by now? A ransom letter, a witness? With all those investigators working for Lord Chauncey, it makes no sense to find not a clue in the case.”
    Giggling wafted from the field, and everyone paused to watch Lord Devon batting a froth of petticoat ruffles in his arms, which proved to be Madeline upended. Presumably she’d fallen off her pony and was caught by Lord Devon, who placed her back in the saddle and straightened her hat.
    Mary said, “Mayhap she eloped with a handsome man of lowly station. Or ran away with the gypsies to live the bohemian life.”
    Sophia nearly laughed before she realized Mary was perfectly serious.
    “How wicked of her,” Elise complained. “And her poor father.”
    Hearing benevolence in the same sentence with her father made Sophia ill. “I am reluctant to believe everything I read in the society columns. Don’t you wonder why the daughter of a viscount would run away from a comfortable life? What if her father is no hero, but a villain? And Miss Duncombe’s departure was rather an escape?”
    “Ooh, yes. This story has the makings of a most salacious novel.” Mary rubbed her hands and settled in to give an exposition.
    Sophia interrupted, “Mary, dear, have you researched the meaning of that word — salacious?”
    “It means delicious,” Elise said.
    “You’re thinking of the word delectable ,” Sophia directed at Elise, then turned to Mary. “ Salacious means indulgent in a carnal sense.” Both girls wrinkled their noses, and Sophia amended, “Erotic indecency.”
    “Oh. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t write a salacious novel. At least not without a pseudonym.”
    “Mary, your writing career will be over before it starts unless you become better acquainted with a dictionary.” Sophia said to Elise,