The Art of Ruining a Rake Read Online Free PDF

tortured himself with uncomfortable, expensive carriage rides just to savor the agony of rejection!
    His heart pounded in time with his breakneck pace. And if he had looked forward to their repartee with excruciating anticipation, must he feel ashamed ? Calf love was wonderfully distracting. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a good bout of suffering. Miss Lancester made it sound like a bad thing.
    He batted at the air. Bah! She could think what she wanted. So what if he expressed himself? Feelings were to be conveyed with grand demonstrations. If Miss Lancester didn’t appreciate his intense emotion, if she thought him insincere for wearing his heart on his sleeve, well, then, he had only himself to blame. He’d known her from birth. Miss Lancester wasn’t one of the colorful birds of paradise he surrounded himself with, but a proper lady. A true up-and-upper. Genteel women didn’t follow their hearts.
    Had he really told her she didn’t have a heart?
    He knew better. She’d seduced him with her intelligent brown eyes, infuriatingly drab dress and enviable sense of place. Why, he felt like the greatest buffoon in her company. And her office! It reeked of her. Every book on every shelf ordered by height and color. Her desk polished to a shine his valet would envy—and she’d been using it. Papers spread about and her inkwell standing open. Not like his desk, hidden under a layer of dust.
    Miss Lancester made him feel like an idiot.
    His feet carried him into the shopping district. He passed two haberdashers and entered the third because it was the best shop in Bath, and he wanted only the best.  
    Miss Lancester’s riposte stung his ears. Your coat likely cost what your home farm turns over in a year, yet you purchased it anyway. You’re charming, gifted with a silver tongue, and spoiled.
    He rolled his eyes heavenward. One of the many facets he loved about her was that she didn’t quibble on her point.
    He tossed his hat onto a table and selected two buff leather gloves from another display. Absently, he ran his thumb over the supple calfskin.
    Find a woman who appreciates your many fine qualities, Miss Lancester had said. She didn’t know how easily that could be done. His company was much in demand these days. So much so, women were willing to compensate him for his time. What were a few shillings when his lady friends would happily advance him the blunt?
    The shopkeeper, a distinguished-looking man with a dash of elegance himself, strode over. “My lord, it’s good to have you in our city again. Those are exquisite, are they not? But I have another pair I think you’ll find you cannot live without.”
    Roman held the gloves casually at his waist. It wouldn’t do to let the man know how fine he thought these were, especially if he was to be encouraged toward a more expensive pair. “You may only show them to me, Mr. Banks, if you also tell me how your son is doing at Trinity. What is this, his third year?”
    Mr. Banks beamed. “It is, my lord. How good of you to remember.”
    Roman laid down the buff gloves and followed Mr. Banks to the counter. The shopkeep disappeared into a storeroom and Roman amused himself by looking at the fobs exhibited in a nearby cedar case. Even these pretty baubles weren’t enough to distract him from what had just transpired with the prickliest, most passionate woman of his acquaintance, however.
    Dash it all. When Ashlin found out Roman had compromised his sister a second time…
    Roman scowled into the box of fobs. At least she’d spared him the shackle—again. It should have relieved him to escape unscathed, but all he felt was rejected. Again.
    The first tryst with her had been a horrific case of devil’s luck. A mistake for him— she’d done it a-purpose, for some unknown reason. She’d drawn him along for the better part of her Season, flashing those tip-tilted brown eyes at him, teasing him with her clever wit, making him think he ought to kiss her before he