What a Vulgar Viscount Needs (Romancing the Rake 5)

Suddenly Dashlane’s pine-fresh scent filled her nostrils and a hand pounded on her back. “We have to make sure she doesn’t vomit in her sleep,” he said.

“Enough,” she muttered through clenched teeth. He gentled his slaps, but she felt the settee sink under his weight, his hip pressing into her stomach. She drew in a sharp breath. Was he sitting against her under the guise of care? Her insides melted again.

Peeking through her lashes, she noted her father’s grimace. “I suppose vomiting would dull the chances of a match, now wouldn’t it?”

She clenched her fist at her side, which Dashlane artfully hid from her father’s view. But was her father honestly concerned that she couldn’t find a husband of her own? How insulting. Then again, perhaps her father was right.

“I wouldn’t worry, sir,” Dashlane said as his hand began to rub

tiny circles on her back. “She’s very attractive and extremely talented. I’m sure the right lord will—”

“Indeed,” her father answered. “Perhaps he has already.”

“Oh no, Mr. Moorish.” Dashlane’s hand stilled. “I am not in the market for a wife.”

“Of course you are.” Her father turned and crossed the room and for a moment, she wondered where he might be going. But he stopped at the cord near the door and pulled for a servant. “All men need to marry. Who better than the sister to your best friends’ wives? Terribly convenient, if you ask me.”

Her fist clenched against her side even as she sucked in a breath. They were back to her father attempting to auction her like cattle. Lovely.

The word nearly made her smile. And then sigh. Because she’d almost gotten a kiss, but the opportunity was dreadfully out of reach again. Would she ever have another chance? Doubtful. If anything, her father had scared Dashlane off for good. He’d likely never come near her again for fear of being marched to the altar.

“Most men do marry, but not me, sir.” She felt Dashlane stiffen against her.

Her father’s footfalls stopped. “Not you? But surely—”

Dashlane’s fingers squeezed her back. “I don’t know what I am saying? You’re right. Of course, I’ll marry someday, but not now. Not for a long time. You understand. Wild oats and all that.”

“Oats,” her father repeated. “You want to be a farmer?”

She snorted, unable to help herself and then realized perhaps she was still feeling the effects of the champagne. She bit the inside of her lips to keep from making any more noise even as Dashlane began patting her back again.

“Not precisely,” he answered.

Her father cleared his throat. “I know something of your current predicament. And farming would be an excellent solution, but you need seed money, so to speak. Actually, quite literally. And that’s where the right match would really benefit you.”

Dashlane went stone still against her. “I’m managing just fine,” he said so low and deep, he almost sounded dangerous. “And besides…are you certain your daughter is interested? I didn’t get the impression that she was.”

Her father let out a long breath. “I’m afraid you’re right there. I have to confess that I encouraged her to play. She’s so naturally talented. But lately she’s been dropping hints that she might want to pursue a career in music rather than marriage.”

“Ahh,” Dashlane answered. “Music is the passion that trumps all.”

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, wondering if she imagined the bit of sadness in his voice. Surely, she must. He didn’t even want to kiss her. And why would he? He had his pick of women to choose from.

Her father returned to the settee, she heard his feet shuffle across the hardwood floor. “If she were a man of course, she could have both.”

Dashlane shook his head. “If she were a man, she’d be expected to take over your business. It’s what all fathers want in the end.”

She’d been peeking through her lashes, but she longed to open her eyes and study his face. What was she hearing underneath his words? Regret? Anger? So many questions swirled in her thoughts.

Her father was silent for several seconds, the sounds from the party filtering in. “I suppose you’re right. I never had sons, so I haven’t thought much about it. Fathers do tend to have an opinion on how their children should live their lives.”

Obviously. Hadn’t this conversation been a shining example of this very idea? She fluttered open her eyes, tired of being a silent observer of this conversation. “Papa?”

Dashlane’s hand tightened and gave his head the tiniest jerk to show his disapproval. But she knew precisely how to handle her own father.

“Corde?” her father asked, bending down. “Are you awake?”

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I am. Was I asleep?”