Lucy burrowed deeper under her coverlet and wept anew. In the hours since she’d walked home from St. James’s Park, painfully stoic in her determination not to publicly embarrass herself over a man, she hadn’t been able to think of anything else. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her carriage dress. Simply climbed into bed and sobbed. She’d already wasted so many tears, yet she couldn’t stop. While she’d been agonizing over whether she could overlook Roman’s past and trust him with her heart, he’d been reverting to his old tricks. Or had he never stopped in the first place, though he’d told her he had? After what seemed ages of excruciating misery, it occurred to her that he might have gone to Lady Letitia’s to end things once and for all. Perhaps he’d decided to prove his devotion to Lucy by finalizing his separation from his benefactress. Lucy’s wretchedness lifted enough for a self-deprecating, hiccupped laugh to escape. Of course. She should have realized it sooner.
What do You think about The Art Of Ruining A Rake?
