Free A Game of Persuasion: Extended Prologue for the Art of Ruining a Rake (The Naughty Girls Book 3) by Emma Locke

her frustration soar to an irrational level. Was she just supposed to stand here and hope he condescended to talk to her?
    Unlikely, that. Where was that Mr. Harbottle? Perhaps she would like to dance. She craned her neck to look over her shoulder, searching for the pasty-faced man her brother had pushed in her direction earlier.
    “Miss Lancester.” Roman caught her hand before she could use it to cover her gasp of surprise.
    Her gaze darted to her brother, but he wasn’t watching her. It seemed Roman might have had a change of mind, and not spoken to Trestin after all.
    Her heart leapt. Had he come to speak to her ?
    She gripped Roman’s hand harder than she meant to do. Realizing it, she tried to release him, but he covered her knuckles with his left hand. “And so we meet again, just as I predicted. It would serve me right if your dance card is already full.”
    A nervous laugh escaped her. “You’re in luck. It seems I have no partner for this waltz.”
    He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and pulled her around so she could see the dancers forming a line. “Then, like a couple of wallflowers, we shall both be able to watch.”  
    Hope died in her breast. It was not what she’d expected him to say at all. Not that she’d been saving the waltz for him, mind. In perfect truth, no one had asked. But he was here and unpartnered—and so was she. Shouldn’t he suggest they dance?
    He calmly watched the men bow politely to the women. Every so often, he sipped from a wineglass that must have been procured just for him. Very well. She, too, could be unmoved.  
    Outwardly, at least. Inside, her foot itched to prod him onto the parquet floor with a solid kick to the back of his breeches.
    It was more difficult to stand beside him than it would have been to waltz. The dance would have distracted from her sizzling awareness of his lean form beside her, as would have the firm pressure of his hand on the small of her back—no, upon further thought, that wasn’t likely to calm her. But certainly, standing here breathing in the tantalizing lemon fragrance of his soap wasn’t helping settle the matter of her frazzled nerves.
    Idly, Roman swirled the wine in his glass. If only—if only he’d give any indication he was even the slightest bit unnerved by her nearness. But his attention traveled smoothly over the room.
    From the corner of her eye, she saw his brow crease in consternation. She followed the direction of his gaze.
    Trestin.
    “Have you and my brother had a falling out?” she asked, thinking it best to address it directly. It was becoming tiresome to pretend she didn’t know he and Trestin were at odds.
    A footman brought a freshly filled wineglass and Roman traded his empty goblet without remarking on the special favor he was receiving. “As it happens,” he answered her, “I didn’t like the cut of his coat. He insists it is his favorite, however, and refuses to stop wearing it. In turn, I refuse to be seen with him.”  
    Roman’s now-full wineglass was lifted in the direction of her brother’s sullen form. “What do you think, Lucy-love? Does the old coat flatter him?”
    Heat flushed across her cheeks. What a flirt he was! He’d called her Lucy- love. In public.
    She forced herself not to grin.
    Then she realized what he’d asked. Indeed, Trestin’s coat wasn’t cut in the latest style, but her brother’s outdated attire certainly wasn’t the cause of Roman’s irritation. She knew better. The “coat” Trestin refused to stop “wearing” was Celeste Gray.
    “Trestin has always been too buttoned-up for my taste,” Lucy replied, thinking herself clever. “I like his more modern dress of late, if you must know. But if I may be so bold, my lord, I think it’s not the cut of his coat you object to, but the number of times it has been worn. Funny, as the issue never seems to present itself in reverse. The question is never the number of coats a man has worn.”
    Roman turned to