Free Leslie Lafoy by The Rogues Bride Page A

clarified, taking up his place on the arm of the chair again. “But given my inclinations and the realities of limited time and no French letter…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile. “At the moment, distance is the better part of discretion.”
    But if they had time and a French letter … The mental image was breathtaking in its detail. “True,” she allowed, tamping down the swirl of heated desire. “But rather than waste this time we have alone…” She quietly cleared her throat. “I want you to know that I’m not engaged in a campaign to find myself a husband. My interest in you is purely physical and most definitely temporary.”
    He tilted his head to consider her. “Do you have any idea of how utterly refreshing you are?”
    Laughing, she propped her head in her hand and countered, “I believe the more commonly used term is ‘outrageous.’ Are you looking for a wife?”
    “I’m supposed to be. Producing an heir and a spare with all due speed and all that. It’s vitally important, you know. The queen lies awake nights worrying that I might croak off before there’s another generation of male Townsends to inherit the title.”
    “I’m sure you won’t have any problems finding a suitable mate. Marquises are considered quite the catch, you know. Add in that you’re handsome and dashing … They’ll line up to submit their pedigrees for your consideration.”
    “And all of them terribly perfect and cold and boring,” he pointed out. “Why aren’t you interested in marrying?”
    “It’s much more fun coming and going as I please, wreaking havoc hither and yon. I have no interest in keeping a household or in committing my life to any of the other things in which women are supposed to take great pride. I hate to embroider. My cooking could kill. And I positively loathe having to dress up and play at being a lady. I’d make a terrible wife.”
    “But you’ve come out for a Season,” he posed.
    “Only because I was offered a horse if I would.”
    He laughed, the sound rippling over her and warming her senses yet another degree.
    “What are you going to do if someone makes an offer for you?” he asked. “Daughters of dukes are considered quite the catch, you know. Add in ‘beautiful’ and ‘spirited’…”
    “This daughter isn’t considered a catch by anyone,” she assured him. “They’d have to be truly desperate to ask for me.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Found one!” Emmy exclaimed from the doorway. With a gasp, she froze two feet into the conservatory. “Oh, Simone, you’re stunning. Don’t move at all. Not so much as a twitch.”
    “She’s right,” Tristan said, his gaze sweeping her up and down. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, keep thinking it.”
    What had she been thinking? she wondered as the brother and sister stepped behind the easel and conversed in low tones. Oh yes. Tristan had asked why someone would have to be desperate to want to marry her. And she’d instantly felt the familiar pang of anger and the twist of resentment. But there had been a new emotion in the mixture, too, a potent wave of regret, of wishing that her past were different. Simone stared at the far wall of plants and wondered why, after all the years of her life, being the daughter of a whore was suddenly something she would undo if she could.
    It wasn’t as though she really wanted to marry and her mother’s choices stood in the way. No, she really and truly believed that marriage was for women who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives. Well, except for her sister Caroline. Carrie seemed to approach her marriage to Drayton the same way she did her decorating and fashioning of wardrobes; it was a creative endeavor that delighted her. But Carrie was Carrie and unique.
    Simone sighed quietly and looked over at the easel. Tristan had stepped slightly to the side and was instructing Emmaline on the proper placement of her sketching lines. What was it about the