Free That Despicable Rogue by Virginia Heath Page A

if he was the one with loose morals when it was hers that were questionable? He had never done anything untoward to her, and he had always treated her with the utmost respect—sort of. Even though she did not deserve it much of the time. She was the liar.
    It had not occurred to her to ask him what he had been doing for the last few days. If she had, then she would have realised that he had spent most of it with lawyers, signing the final papers and transferring funds for the new ships he would soon take ownership of. He had barely had time to eat dinner, let alone partake in the sort of ‘debauchery’ that she had just accused him of.
    But she did read those blasted newspapers, so no doubt her opinions of him came from those sordid pages. Did she not realise that almost everything written in those scandal sheets was created specifically for the purpose of selling more newspapers? And nothing sold better than a bit of light titillation.
    But, then again, why was he so surprised by it? From the moment he had starting to make serious money certain people—usually dyed-in-the-wool aristocrats—had become offended by his success, and had justified their reaction by embellishing it with colourful stories about his weak character.
    To begin with he had tried to deny them, and then he had tried to win them over. He had been charming, generous and helpful—all to no avail. The harder he’d worked at making those people like him, the less disposed they’d been to do so—until he’d realised that the reasons they disliked him had nothing whatsoever to do with his character and everything to do with the circumstances of his birth.
    People born into the higher orders felt distinctly uncomfortable around men like him. It threatened their ingrained view of the world. If a man like him—an upstart from the docks—could go around making money, mixing freely with his betters and increasing his influence and power, then society was surely in grave danger. Whatever next? Interbreeding? Revolution? Anarchy?
    Ross smiled at the irony despite his headache. It was a good thing they did not realise that it had been the innate power of the aristocracy that had motivated him to seek his fortune in the first place. Not because he envied it, but because he feared it. The great and the good in society wielded so much power that they could do whatever they wanted to the people below them and get away with it. He knew that from bitter experience. So did his sister.
    Ross never, ever wanted to be that powerless underling again.
    So now he ignored all the criticism and lies levelled against him. Let them think exactly what they wanted. In his experience people always did anyway, and a bad reputation might actually work in his favour. It was good that some people feared him. If they had not he would never have been allowed to join White’s.
    One newspaper had got wind of his application for membership and written the most ridiculous story about how he intended to ruin anybody who obstructed his membership financially. For weeks he had wandered around town, giving certain people his ‘death glare’, and it had worked. His membership had been approved without a single black ball, and White’s had proved to be an excellent place for him to do business.
    Yet here he was again, trying to win Prim over when he had done nothing wrong. It was a pathetic character flaw that he could not seem to overcome. He apparently still needed people to like him. Why, he had no clear idea.
    His mother claimed that he did it to avoid being compared to his father. She had constructed an entire theory around it and convinced herself that Ross had made it an almost evangelical mission not to possess any of the man’s character traits. It was a ridiculous notion. Why would he even bother with such ludicrousness? The traits he shared with his unfortunate sire were physical. The dark hair, height and square chin were the only similarities he was prepared to concede. His