Pride & Passion
Charlotte Featherstone
THEY EACH HAVE THEIR SECRETS… Lucy Ashton had long ago given up her quest for true love. In the rarified society of Victorian England, Lucy plays the game – flirting, dancing and dabbling in the newly fashionable spiritualism. Even marrying when – and who – she’s supposed to. If the stuffy Duke of Sussex cannot spark the passion she craves, he can at least give her a family and a home of her own.But when her polite marriage reveals a caring and sensual man, Lucy wonders if she can indeed have it all. But Sussex is not the man the London ton sees. And Lucy has some ghosts of her own, as well. Thus, when a blackmail scheme turns to threats of danger, the newfound peace of their marriage is ruined. Passion has a price, Lucy learns. And not all ghosts stay buried.
Praise for the work of Charlotte Featherstone
SEDUCTION & SCANDAL
“One can become addicted to Featherstone’s sexually charged romances. The quick pace and wonderfully dark and dangerous heroes are what readers dream about. Secrets, passions and conflicts abound as readers are led through a labyrinth of plot twists, séances, supernatural revelations, visions and love scenes that take their breath away and leave them panting for more.”
—Romantic Times
½
“The secret scandal in Isabella’s past, the deadly rumours that surround Black, the tale of secret societies with a dash of the paranormal, a delicious sense of sensuality, and an unseen outside force attempting to ruin all chances of happiness between the lovers, all combine to make this book an incredible read … I literally could not put this book down. A very solid 5/5 stars and highly recommended.”
—The Romanceaholic
LUST
“This was the first time I have read a Charlotte Featherstone book; I can safely say that it will not be the last …”
—Forbidden Reviews
SINFUL
“Sinful is decadence at its best. I had no choice but to read it cover to cover – the story is just that good. Charlotte Featherstone is now on my list of authors to watch!”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“Pairing a tortured hero and a strong-minded heroine creates a dynamic conflict and off-the-charts sexual tension. Throw in lots of witty dialogue and a non-traditional happy ending, and you’ve got a keeper.”
—RT Book Reviews TOP PICK!
½
Don’t miss The Brethren Guardians series!
Seduction & Scandal August 2012
Pride & Passion September 2012
Temptation & Twilight October 2012
Pride & Passion
Charlotte Featherstone
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all the readers who fell in love with Sussex—here’s your man! Hope his story doesn’t disappoint!
PROLOGUE
“BEYOND THE MIST, the darkness and shadow, he waits, reaching out through a veil of gossamer threads—’your future,’ he whispers, ‘your destiny.’”
Heart fluttering like a trapped bird, Lucy swallowed hard as she focused on the swaying piece of silver.
“He has been there all along, waiting for you. Now is the time to reach out to him, to pull him out of the depths and into the light.”
Slowly Lucy nodded, understanding the words, hoping with every beat of her heart and pulse of her blood that the mystic’s words were true.
Occultism, spiritualism, mysticism … whatever one chose to call it, one fact remained true—it was sweeping through Victorian England, a dark presence that resided over soirees and salons, spirit meetings and private clubs.
The dark arts were an invitation to evil. Or so many a mere mortal believed. But Lucy Ashton knew them to be a door to another world—a world of darkness and mystery, a realm where demons and angels—the fallen—roamed free, selling their secrets for the price of a soul in need.
As she sat surrounded by golden candelabra, coated with layers of dripping, drying wax, with nothing but the sound of the autumn wind howling and the crackling of a log being engulfed by flame, Lucy knew she was that soul. One who needed—deeply.
The woman who sat opposite her held a silver pendulum in her hand. She knew how to find what Lucy so desperately searched for.
“Your lover,” the woman said in a voice that seemed so far away the longer Lucy followed the swaying pendulum with unblinking eyes. “He will come—soon.’’
She dearly hoped so. Eight months it had been since she had last seen him—gone without a trace, taking with him any warmth, any feeling she possessed. The heady sensation of that warmth had been too brief—much too brief.
“You were right ‘ta come to me, m’ lady,” the woman whispered. “I can find ‘im. Bring ‘im to you. Keep watching,” she encouraged. “Follow the pendulum and let yer thoughts drift ‘ta him, the man who shall fix yer future.”
Lucy’s lids were heavy, and the flickering candlelight made shadows leap on the wall, a macabre dance. The mystic’s heavily wrinkled face grew shadowed, half of her cast in darkness, the other half yellowed in the candles’ glow.
“Yes, yes …” she murmured excitedly. “That’s the way, lass.”
The room narrowed and rippled; the absinthe Lucy had taken moments before the mystic produced the pendulum had found its way into her bloodstream, filling her veins with a strange sensation—one of heightened awareness meshed with a dreamy quality. Like floating on water, she thought as her body relaxed and sunk deep into the velvet chair. Watching that swaying pendulum, Lucy felt her spirit and inhibitions leave her.
“Where are ye now?”
As if in a trance, Lucy answered, “A room. It’s dark, with only bits of light filtering through gauze curtains.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I am not alone,” Lucy whispered. “I can sense another.”
“Close yer eyes, and see ‘im with yer mind, luv.”
Obeying, Lucy allowed her lids to close fully. Immediately she saw herself, masked, her back pressed against the filmy gauze that separated her from the other person. Sliding her hand out, she slid her palm along the curtain, feeling an answering slide from the other side.
“He is there,” the mystic whispered. “The premonition of yer future.”
Yes …
She sensed the heat, the passion. Her body remembered it—him.
At last she had found him. He had come to her. His touch was hot, warming her instantly. She pressed back, felt the hard, solid body of a man.
“Now tell me what ye see.”
Opening her eyes, Lucy jumped up from the chair she occupied, a suffocating scream lodged in her throat. The mystic followed her, snapping her fingers before Lucy’s eyes, breaking the spell that held her.
“M’ lady?”
Perplexed, Lucy stared at the woman who claimed she could show Lucy what awaited her future. The Scottish Witch, with her fading red hair and wild golden eyes stood before her.
“You, madam, are a fraud.”
Snatching her reticule, Lucy left the coins on the table she had given to the crone when they had begun. The woman’s expression was stricken, and Lucy curled her lip in disdain. “You may enjoy fleecing others, but I will not be fooled. This is the last time we will meet. You needn’t attend me next week.”
“But …” The woman, just Mrs. Fraser now, no longer the Scottish Witch, or the occult mystic Lucy had once believed her to be, followed anxiously behind her. “What did ye see, lass?”
Lucy whirled on her. “Not my future!”
Mrs. Fraser’s gaze narrowed, replaced by a knowing look. “Oh, aye, yer future indeed, lassie. Just no’ the one ye desire.”
“Good day, madam,” she answered in a clipped tone. Thrusting her hands into her soft leather gloves, Lucy left the drafty parlor and took the rickety steps down the three flights of stairs, out to the back of the building where her carriage awaited.
That is what she got for visiting a charlatan in the theater district, she thought mulishly. A first rate performance in fraudulence.
Future indeed, she scoffed as the carriage jolted forward, leaving Mrs. Fraser’s rental flats and her occult babblings far behind.
Gazing out the window, Lucy hardly saw the scenery passing her by, for the images of that trance would not leave her in peace.
Yes, the dark arts were an invitation to a mysterious and dark realm. One of secrets and danger, and forbidden yearnings. A world of sensual pleasure and hedonistic pastimes.
She had seen that world in the vision, felt the heaving pulse surrounding her. She heard the words, whispering to her, wrapping around her like a lover’s touch.
Why did you forsake me?
His answer had been soft, a mere whisper. Their palms had touched through the gauze, his heat singing her just as his words did. I have been here all along, waiting for you to see me beyond the veil that separates us.
She had turned then, breathless with anticipation. She saw her pale hand reach for the curtain, its trembling strength barely able to grasp the filmy material between her fingers. But with one tug, the fabric that separated them fell, pooling between them. She had looked up from the black mound, up along a body that hers recalled with such visceral pleasure. To a set of eyes that were so … wrong.
Gray eyes.
There was something about those eyes that pulled at her memory—a different time; a past that caused pain when it was recalled. No, the possessor of those eyes was definitely not her future!
CHAPTER ONE
“MY DEAR, YOU have been looking forlornly out that window for half an hour now. Why do you not go and call on Lady Black?”
Lucy tucked the bit of lace she held in her hand between the voluminous folds of her rose-colored silk and velvet skirts, as she gazed over her shoulder at her father. It was early November, and the day was gray with drizzle that promised to turn to sleet. She pulled the fur shawl a little tighter about her shoulders. The fire that had been laid was crackling, the amber flames flickering with warmth, filling the room with the comfort that only a roaring fire in late autumn could bring. But still Lucy was cold. She had been for months. Nothing seemed to warm her.
“It is early yet, Papa,” she answered. “Too early for calls.”
“Nonsense, the new Lady Black is your cousin—I daresay almost your sister. It’s never too early to call on family. Besides, I’ll be leaving now for my club, and I would like to know that you’re not at home, hanging about at loose ends.”
A wry smile escaped her as she cast her gaze once more out the window, to the mammoth black iron gates that stood across the street. How strange it was, that after all these years—decades, actually—her father cared about what she might—or might not—be doing. Her loneliness, and it had been substantial, had never mattered to him before.
The Marquis of Stonebrook was neither a heartless nor an intentionally cruel man. Lucy could not say that about her father. Only that he wasn’t mindful of others and their needs. He was emotionally absent—not mean or quarrelsome. Just … absent. There was no other word for what her father, and her mother, had been. Although, perhaps uninterested might be a close second. The long-held adage of “seen and not heard” did not pertain to her upbringing. For her parents had seen very little of her, and heard her? Not at all.
Her parents had been more concerned with their own lives than that of their child. She had been of little consequence to them, bringing to them little enjoyment. Her conception had been an obligation to further the title, and when she had turned out to be a girl, and no other children followed her, her parents had resigned themselves to the fact that their legacy would live on through the husband they would choose for her.
And Lucy knew without a doubt who her father wanted her to take for a husband. The passionless and priggish Duke of Sussex.
The duke was a sedate, dull and frightfully proper man—nothing like the man she dreamt of when she imagined a husband. Nothing like those dreams she had entertained when she was younger, when the butcher’s boy would come round with his master and keep her company in the kitchen while the butcher haggled with Mrs. Brown, their old housekeeper. Those had been silly, girlish fantasies of what it might be like to follow one’s heart and dreams; those fantasies had swiftly been dashed by her father, and she soon learned what being a marriageable woman in her world truly meant.
And such was the essence of her life. Until eight months ago when she had taken her future into her own hands, seeking out what she felt her life lacked in the arms of an artist. The warmth and acceptance she had found with him would not exist with the duke. Their union would be an alliance, not a relationship.
“Come, my dear, I’ve been watching you for a while now, sitting on that window box, lost in thought. Surely whatever it is you’re hiding there beneath your skirts isn’t so serious for one as young as you?”
A bit of Brussels lace, that’s what she had buried beneath the folds of her skirts. It was embroidered with her initials, and given to her lover on the night she had offered herself to him. And then he had died. Or at least, she had believed he’d died in the fire that had consumed his rented rooms.
She had grieved, wept and despaired over never feeling alive again, until a fortnight ago, when the lace had been resurrected and delivered to her hand. That it had been his grace, the Duke of Sussex, who had delivered the handkerchief to her never ceased to perturb her. Why he had been the one to return it to her was still something she mulled over during the long, lonely nights spent alone in her father’s town house. She did not care for the notion that Sussex knew of her dalliance with another man. She didn’t care what he thought of her, or what he made of the handkerchief—or if he thought her fast and immoral, and so far beneath him for indulging in base pleasures.
It did not matter what his grace made of it all, for Lucy cared about only one thing: Thomas was alive, she was sure of it. He had made her promises. He’d spoken to her of their future together. She had believed that future burned to ashes in the fire, but the lace that she rubbed between her fingers told her that everything she believed was about to change.
“You’re frowning. Your mama always said it would give you creases about your eyes.”
Lucy found herself smiling. “Yes, she did say that. But I haven’t gotten the wrinkles yet.”
It was her father’s turn to frown. “Dare I hope the reason for your deep rumination might be the subject of marriage, especially after you have witnessed the marital felicity between your cousin and her new husband?”
“I am afraid not, Papa.”
“I thought not, but one can hope, and I haven’t given up yet.”
Her father would never give up. It was his desire to see her wed to the duke, and nothing less would do.
“And that is all that you intend to say on the matter, is it? Well, then I shall let it rest for now. Come then, Lucy, I must be off. I shall escort you across the street.”
“Really, Papa, there is no need for concern. I am quite all right at home.”
“Alone?” he guffawed. “Absolutely not, you’re still recovering from your illness.”
There was no fighting him on this. A fortnight ago she had been gravely ill—her own stupidity, which she refused to think on—and ever since, her father made certain that she was never left alone, although it was not him who was a constant presence, but Isabella, whose task it now seemed was to hover about and mind Lucy’s activities.
Lucy thought back to those months ago, when, in an attempt to appease the loneliness left behind by the imagined loss of her lover, she had turned down many a dark and dangerous path, one of séances and scribing, and bargaining in her dreams if only she could find her lover once again. There had been that awful sense of incompleteness, having never had a chance to say goodbye. To see him one last time before he faded forever onto the other side, where breathing mortals could not follow.
Dabbling in the occult had been a way of idling her time away—and perhaps a somewhat foolish and desperate measure to find him in the ethers of the spiritual realm—it was then that she had come across the mysterious Brethren Guardians and their sacred relics—a relic she had stolen and used for her own purposes. The result had been disastrous, and nearly deadly.
It had terrified her father, and now he was hovering about, foisting her onto her cousin, and generally distrusting her, treating her like a child.
“Come, Lucy. I insist,” her father muttered in that voice that would brook no refusal. “There is no moving me on this. You will join Lady Black today and attend to those things that ladies do during morning calls.”
“I will just change,” Lucy sighed, quite resigned in the matter.
“Balderdash! You are quite appropriately attired. There is no need to waste time on changing your wardrobe.”
Her father wouldn’t hear of it. He was in something of a hurry to get to his club, and therefore, she was escorted out of the salon, and into the hall, where Jennings, their butler, assisted her with her cloak and umbrella.
“Damn this weather,” her father grumbled as he reached for her elbow and ushered her down the stone steps to the waiting carriage. “We’ll drive across the street, for there is no telling how long it will take Black’s footman to open the gates. I have no desire to wait in the rain for the gates to open. Don’t know why he needs them, anyway.” Because he was a Brethren Guardian. But she couldn’t very well inform her father of such a fact. She herself should know nothing of it. Lucy barely understood this strange Brethren that Sussex and Lord Black belonged to, but it didn’t matter. During her study of the occult, she had stumbled across it, discovering not only who the Brethren were, but the relics they kept hidden. She had sworn an oath of silence, promising never to speak of their little group to anyone. And in return, her own shocking secret would be kept from her father, and the microcosm that was their world—the ton.
She knew only bits and pieces of the Brethren Guardians’ secrets; it was an esoteric society made up of three influential peers: Black, Sussex and the Marquis of Alynwick.
Their business was mysterious and secretive, and dangerous. From what she knew of their secrets, there existed an onyx pendant, which was the very essence of evil, and some sort of chalice that they protected. But what they represented, she could not say, and could not find out.
Black, who had recently become the husband of Isabella, Lucy’s cousin, had been shot a fortnight ago during what was termed Guardian business. Well on the mend, Black pretended that naught had happened, and Isabella, a true and honorable wife, would not speak of it. Lucy had tried, but Isabella had remained stubbornly tight-lipped. And the pendant … it had belonged to Black and his family, and purportedly contained seeds with magical powers. Lucy had taken it, ingested a seed inside the pendant and wished with everything inside her in the hopes she might once more see her lover and say her tearful goodbyes.
Of course, the rash action had caused her days of vomiting, and a strange feeling of possession, not to mention the fact that her actions had both alarmed and angered not only Black but Sussex. But in the end, her goal had been achieved. Thomas was alive …
And the Brethren Guardians were not only looking for him, but watching her as well to see if Thomas would come to her. When Sussex had delivered the lace to her he had also informed her that the man who had dropped it was a man he and the Brethren were hunting. He was their enemy, Sussex had claimed, and that man, Lucy knew, was Thomas. Her lover from the past. And Lucy knew with every cell of her being that she must protect him from the duke and his two fellow Guardians, for they were powerful and influential men, while her lover was an artist, without influence of a title or the power that both peerage and money could wield.
Yes, those iron gates that surrounded his lordship’s home, standing sentry like a castle drawbridge against marauding knights, was a security measure—one Black would never abolish.
Her father cleared his throat several times, while glancing sidelong at her, all indications that something was weighing on him, something he felt compelled to speak of. “I’m afraid I cannot allow our previous conservation to lay fallow. I must speak plainly, Lucy. I’ve noticed, my dear, that Sussex hasn’t been by for some time. Two weeks, at least, I believe.”
Lucy refused to take her gaze from the rain-streaked carriage window. She would not talk of his grace, and she would not have this conversation with her father.
“I hope you have not had a falling-out.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had a falling-in.”
That quip made her father glare at her. “You don’t make it easy on the poor fellow. You hold him at arm’s length. He’s trying to court you, but you’re too obstinate to see it.”
“I am well aware of the fact, Father. You have made it too blatant for me to misunderstand. You wish me to marry the duke.”
“You say it with such disdain, as though he were a common laborer, when he is the furthest thing from it.”
She thought back to her young friend Gabriel, the butcher’s boy, and realized that they had shared something remarkable—the same sadness, the same loneliness, despite their stations being so opposite. “I am not at all opposed to a common man, if he were to feel a genuine sense of affection for me.”
“Affection!” Her father’s thick mutton chops twitched in irritation. “Good God, child, are we back to that? Those fairy-tale thoughts were amusing when you were twelve, now they are downright mortifying. Marriage is an institution—”
“Rather like one of those asylums for lunatics,” she mumbled, unable to help herself. She didn’t want an institution. She wanted a marriage. A friendship. A loving partner.
Her father sighed deeply, but did not bother to address her thoughts and instead began to talk to her as he had so many years ago, as she lay on her bed, sobbing into her pillow after he had turned away the only friend she had ever had—Gabriel. Depriving her of that friendship had destroyed her, frozen part of her heart and soul. How wretched her father had been—how horrid it was to see her friend leave, and never, ever return. Internally she had railed against the injustice of it all, but she had been powerless then to take charge of her life, and her future. And now, here she was years later, still just as powerless, still enduring the same lectures on duty and the responsibilities of a female of her class.
“Now, Lucy, must I remind you that every station in life has its obligations, and the daughter of a marquis’s obligation is to marry well, furthering their nobility, and riches. You were put on this earth, girl, to marry a duke.”
How many times had she heard that particular lecture? Her entire existence in the world was based on matrimony and breeding. A harrowing thought, one that made her feel pity for all the other unborn daughters of the peerage.
“You won’t find a better man than Sussex. His reputation is impeccable. His bloodlines impeccable. He is well-respected, connected, titled and as rich as Croesus—”
“And as cold as the Arctic.”
“The man is conscious of propriety is all. As all gentlemen should be,” he reminded her.
“He only looks at me to pick me apart and draw attention to my flaws.”
“The man is a paragon, he can’t help it.”
“No, he cannot, but I don’t have to marry him. After all, I would not suit his ideas of an ideal wife.”
“Of course you would. You come with an enormous dowry, from a long and noble title. Your son will inherit not only a dukedom, but my title as well. Not to mention the fact you are a very lovely young woman. What more can a man want in the way of a recommendation for marriage?”
Finally she forced herself to meet her father’s eye. “Is there anything other than commodities to recommend our union, Papa?”
Stonebrook flustered and gripped the head of his walking stick with his gloved hand. “Come now, it’s time you gave a serious thought to marriage, Lucy. I won’t live forever, you know, and I would like to meet my maker knowing you’ve been set up in a proper home.”
“With someone to love me? Someone who will give me solace when you are gone?” she asked quietly, which made her father grumble and shift his weight on the seat.
“With someone who will keep you safe and fed, and well in hand,” he growled.
Of course. Well in hand. Someone to control her, to make her live in the confines of polite society, just like her parents had done all her life—like her father continued to do. To Stonebrook Sussex was the ideal candidate for her husband. It didn’t matter that they had not a flicker of attraction, or affection for one another. Why, Lucy still recalled the night Sussex had informed her of the fact that once they were married, there would be no more séances or anything of the like. Then he had kissed her, and she had felt nothing but his firm lips pinched into a straight line as they mashed up against hers. It had not been the stuff of dreams. In fact, his grace had been stiff and rigid as he held her, leading Lucy to believe that he had felt the same thing she had—distaste.
“I’ll have Sussex and his sister to dinner, and you shall see, my dear. His grace will make you a fine husband.”
“And am I to have any say?” she asked.
“No,” her father answered, “after that debacle two weeks ago we cannot trust your judgment. You will marry Sussex just as I wish. And you’ll be happy. You’ll see, my dear. Ah, here we are,” her father said with a great air of relief. “I see the footman is already opening the gates. Good,” her father muttered as he pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped the lid open with his thumb.
“Father, we are not done with this conversation, and I am perfectly capable of walking up the drive,” she said, annoyed by the fact her father kept glancing at his watch.
“Nonsense. Won’t be but a minute and I’ll be on my way.”
“I am not a child,” she mumbled as she watched the rivers of drizzle snake down the carriage window. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father turn his head. He was watching her from beneath his bushy white brows, and the thick mutton chops he was so fond of twitched with aggravation. While watching her, his lips thinned, and she could almost hear his thoughts. Yes, you are, or you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into trouble a fortnight ago.
Trouble, Lucy mentally snorted, wasn’t the beginning of what she’d gotten herself into. She’d been impulsive and headstrong, and yes … childish.
“My dear, I worry for your health is all,” Stonebrook said as the horses pulled the carriage up the sloped drive of Black’s town house. “You’ve not been yourself for months now, and while I know you would wish to have your mama here for these sorts of discussions, surely you must know that Lady Black would listen and help you with anything that might be troubling you. If it is Sussex, then may I suggest you talk with your cousin about it? Isabella will affirm what I’ve always believed, that you and the duke will get on well.”
Lucy hid her grimace. Her father had no idea what had happened all those months ago with Thomas, and she prayed he never would. He would never understand, never credit the notion of love and unbridled passions. That he was fobbing her off onto Isabella was very typical of the sort of parent he had always been.
“Ah, look, there she is now, waiting for us.”
Sitting forward, she saw Isabella standing just inside the covered alcove of her new home. She was looking radiant, and carried the expression of a woman well-loved—and loved passionately. A bitter tang of envy resonated through Lucy’s soul. She wanted the very same thing. And she would have it.
“Uncle. Lucy,” Isabella called as the footman opened door. “Come in.”
“I daresay I cannot, Lady Black,” her father returned as he ushered Lucy through the door, and out into the chilly drizzle. “But Lady Lucy is more than eager to take up your generous offer.”
Seconds later, Lucy found herself ushered up the steps, and into the warm entrance hall. Billings, the butler, was taking her bonnet and cloak, and Isabella was tugging her along, into the private salon she used to entertain Elizabeth and herself.
“When was it arranged that you would child-mind me for the day?”
Isabella’s lovely eyes widened with feigned shock. “Oh, Lucy, how can you say that?”
“Very easily, you’ve been my companion—I daresay my governess—for the past two weeks. And no doubt my father’s coconspirator in arranging my marriage to the Duke of Sussex.”
Flopping down onto the settee, Isabella began toying with the thick fringe of tassels that decorated a pillow. “Your father wants only the very best for you, and after you … well, after you were poisoned he became consumed with worry. He knows something is wrong, Lucy.”
“I don’t know how. He’s never home, and when he is, he spends hardly any time engaged in conversation. He’s perpetually buried in his study.”
“Do not be cross with his lordship, Lucy, for he is not the only one who is worried about you. I am, as well.”
Isabella reached for her hand; her smile was kind and filled with sympathy and it made Lucy want to run away and hide. She didn’t want to be pitied. “Is there anything I might do for you, Lucy?”
“Well, you might start talking some sense into my father.”
“About?”
“His dimwitted idea to thrust me onto Sussex as his duchess.”
“Dimwitted? I think it brilliant.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you were the one that was being forced to marry him.”
Isabella glanced at her slyly. “The duke is very handsome, I dare say.”
Lucy glowered. “Handsome is only enticing when you are eighteen and a naive ninny.” Or twelve, and experiencing the pleasures of your first crush, and yes, absolute adoration if she must be honest with herself. She’d never forgotten Gabriel, and the sad, haunted look in his lovely gray eyes that were always a little too sunken from hunger.
“Lucy, handsome is an attribute appealing to any female, of any age.”
“I am afraid my requirements in a husband are rather more lengthy than just being handsome.”
“But you do agree he is handsome?”
“Among other things,” she muttered.
“Like?”
“Boring, staid, proper, passionless—”
Laughing Isabella held up her hand in defeat. “Lucy, you are unfair! How can you surmise the duke passionless? You aren’t even betrothed—well, not formally—ergo you cannot reasonably believe Sussex devoid of … well, the more amorous emotions.”
“Oh, and the lack of a formal betrothal stopped Black from acquainting you with his ‘amorous emotions’?”
“That’s different,” Issy sniffed. “And you know it.”
“No, Issy. That is touché.”
“We are not talking about myself and Black. We are talking about you.”
“Well, then, allow me to inform you of what I desire. I know that I want a man like Black, who looks at me with blistering heat, as your husband does you. I know I want a marriage based on love and trust, and a deep, abiding passion. Like yours. Would you so willingly deprive me of it, Issy, after tasting such bliss for yourself?”
Lowering her head, Lucy watched her cousin nibble her bottom lip. When she looked up, Issy’s eyes were bright. “I would never deny a woman what I have—it is what every young girl, young woman and spinster dreams of—and deserves. But,” Issy cautioned, “I cannot deny that I sense a very good match with Sussex. If you would but give it a chance,” Isabella said, raising her voice to be heard over Lucy’s grumbling.
“Are we finished with this discourse?” Lucy inquired. “I have already spent the better part of the morning with Father on this very topic. I am quite worn down by it, and any more time spent dwelling upon it shall put me in a mood most foul!”
“Very well. Our discourse on Sussex and his merits as a husband is tabled—for now.”
Lucy curtsied mockingly. “Why thank you, your ladyship. I am so grateful for the reprieve.”
“It will be short-lived, you know. Since having Black, I have become a shameless matchmaker, nearly rabid in my need to see all my loved ones as happy as I am.”
Lucy felt at once happy and envious for her cousin’s obvious adoration of her husband. An adoration that was all the more envious by the knowledge that her husband reciprocated Isabella’s feelings.
“Well, we were cooped up in here all day yesterday. I cannot stomach another day of listening to rain pattering against windowpanes. What shall we do?”
Isabella brightened, although Lucy saw the hesitation in her eyes. Her cousin wasn’t fooled but she was prepared to let it go—for now. “I had Billings send a missive to Elizabeth. We’re going to Sussex House for lunch—and gossip.”
Sussex House. The duke’s town house. The very place she did not wish to go. But then, she did wish to see Elizabeth again. The drizzle had turned to rain, which in fact sounded very much like icy pellets tinkling against the windows. The sound would drive her to bedlam, and the dreariness of the day would send her into even deeper melancholy. She did not want to be a morose little waif, taking to her bed consumed with grief and sadness. She wanted to be strong and tall, someone Thomas would come back to. Something different. She so desperately wanted to be rid of her old life, and become something—someone—else. A butterfly emerging from the chrysalis.
“What do you think, Luce?”
Standing, Lucy smiled—a genuine one. “I think it a sound plan. Lunch with Elizabeth is just the thing to bring some sunlight to this horribly dreary day. Besides, you will never believe the juicy tidbits I garnered at the Moorelands’ soiree last night. Positively shocking, and I know you will wish to hear all about it as you sip away on a hot cup of Darjeeling.”
“Oh, do tell,” Isabella said with a tiny pout. “Black hasn’t let me out of the house since our wedding. I’m in great need of a little bit of gossip.”
Lucy could well imagine what sort of activities kept the reclusive Earl of Black and his lady occupied. And while she was the tiniest bit envious that her cousin was married to a most passionate man, the feelings of happiness for Isabella far outweighed her jealousy.
One day she would have the same sort of passion.
“Well, you shall have to wait to learn of it,” she teased.
“Lucy!” Isabella chastised as she followed her out of the salon. “You cannot mean to make me wait until we reach Sussex House to hear the news! You fiend!”
“That is precisely what I mean to do! Thank you, Billings,” Lucy murmured as the butler helped her with her cloak.
“What shall I tell his lordship, your ladyship?”
Isabella slipped into a black velvet wrap, and reached for the bonnet Billings held out to her. “Tell Black that we shall be at Sussex House. We’re having lunch and indulging in gossip, Billings.”
Billings smiled ruefully before bowing. “Do enjoy, madam. Lady Lucy.”
Lucy shot Isabella a smile. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as miserable as she first thought. And maybe, during the course of lunch and gossip, she might find something useful that would aid her in finding Thomas—and keep him safe from Sussex’s hands.
CHAPTER TWO
SOMETIMES A SOUL was just born fortunate. Sometimes they weren’t. Adrian York, the Duke of Sussex, firmly believed that. Some men were lucky enough to bring themselves up and change their fortunes.
Himself, he was something of an enigma—and a fraud. He’d been born a damn unfortunate, and then something had happened. The stars and planets had aligned, and something in the cosmos had shone down on him, making him the most fortunate soul that had ever graced the ballrooms of London. He’d been gifted, not once, but twice. Something more than an enigma, he thought with a sardonic smile, but a downright lucky bastard.
He’d given thanks to his maker, had glanced up at the black velvety sky nearly every night and stared at the twinkling stars, wondering why it had been him they’d decided to favor with such fortune and luck. For him, it was always a question of why—the unanswered question leaving behind the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth, when there were so many unfortunate souls who would never experience such blessings. Fortune had shone down upon him, despite his being a fraud, despite knowing that he was wrongfully gifted by the Fates.
For the last twelve years he’d walked with Lady Fortune. Everything he had touched had turned to gold. The ton admired him, his peers tried to emulate him and the stars had never failed to shine down upon him. That was, until a fortnight ago, when he had trudged down the front steps of Lord Stonebrook’s London town house, utterly defeated and numb after returning a lace handkerchief belonging to Lucy that had been in the possession of a man whom he had witnessed kill another in cold blood.
The memories of that day still ate away at him. He had wanted Lucy to deny any knowledge of the man, to show outrage that the scrap of lace had found its way into the stranger’s possession. But she had not, and it only confirmed what he did not care to think about—that she was not only involved with the Brethren’s enemy, but also that she had an intimate connection with him.
“So cold-blooded,” she had murmured as she looked up from her lap and the piece of lace he had placed in her hands. He had made it clear then that the man was his enemy, and that he would find him—and destroy him. “There is not an ounce of warmth in you,” she said. “No heart. No passion.”
If she only knew how those words pierced him, haunted him during the darkest, coldest hours of the night. He could still see her, sitting on the window bench looking small and sad—and pale. How he had wanted to hold her, to show her that he had just as much passion—probably more so—than she could imagine. But she did not want him. She wanted someone else. His enemy. The enemy of the Brethren Guardians. It was his penance for the years of taking what Fortune had bestowed upon him, taking what he didn’t deserve.
She had vowed to stand between them, her lover and him. To protect Thomas, not him. He had warned her that any attempt to do so might, regretfully, make her an enemy of the Brethren as well, but she hadn’t flinched at that. In fact, she seemed to already know and understand what would happen if she chose to cast her lot in with this shadowy figure he and his two fellow Guardians hunted.
Nothing had ever distracted him from his duties as a Brethren Guardian. Theirs was an ancient order, handed down for generations. In his, Black’s and Alynwick’s blood surged the blood of crusaders, who had kept three sacred relics safe from the world. There was nothing that had ever persuaded him to abandon the cause he had sworn an oath to keep secret, and sacred—until now. Until Lucy.
Damn if he wouldn’t sell his soul—and the relics—to the Devil himself to have Lucy in his bed for just one night. Gone was his honor. His moral compass. She had tied him in knots, and still he allowed her to pull the strings tighter and tighter.
He should be repulsed by the thought of himself as a helpless marionette, moved and manipulated by her slight hands, but he could only smile in mocking amazement. He’d lived his life controlled and ordered, never once allowing the passionate nature that lurked within him to surface. For years he feared someone discovering his secret, and his controlled aura had been the only way to ensure it was kept safe. But now, after all these years of honing the skill, he’d let it all go down to the cesspool.
“Adrian, it is downright frigid in here. How can you bear it?”
His private thoughts shattered, he looked up from his desk, and the journal that lay open, in time to see his sister, Elizabeth, stroll carefully into the room.
“I hadn’t noticed the chill. I’ll stoke the fire.”
She fumbled over the turned leg of a table, her hands outstretched before her, searching for obstacles. Rosie, her liver and white springer spaniel pressed against her, her muzzle nudging Elizabeth’s wrist, steering her away from danger. Tamping down the impulse to go to her and help her, he rose from his chair and turned his back, his attention on the fire.
Elizabeth was a proud woman. And damn stubborn, too. Two traits they shared, inherited from their tyrannical father. Elizabeth was blind, and because of it her pride and stubbornness had grown twofold. Lizzy would not thank him for his help.
“There!” she said, letting out a loud sigh. “We’ve made it, Rosie.” The spaniel gave a little whimper as she struggled up onto the settee. “Poor love, you’re getting as big as a barn.”
Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but grin at the spectacle the spaniel made as her hind paws scratched and pawed for purchase against the leather. Rosie was having her first litter, and Adrian hoped to the devil her offspring would be as intelligent and trainable as she. It had been his very great desire to breed her and train her offspring to assist the blind, like Rosie assisted his sister.
Rosie finally made it onto the settee and set her head in Lizzy’s lap. Lizzy’s fingers brushed along the dog’s long ears and a deep sound of contentment—a little growl, really—filled the room. It was followed by the sounds of Rosie burying her head into Lizzy’s damask skirts, and the subtle snore of self-satisfaction.
Lizzy laughed and continued to stroke the dog’s fur. “Now, then, will you cease having the maids move that table, brother? I am forever banging into it.”
“My apologies, Lizzy. But it’s me moving it. I like to watch the moon at night, and the table seems to follow it.”
He turned in time to see his sister’s exasperated expression turn to one of longing. “Oh, the moon. Is it big and fat and hanging low in the sky? I just loved a November full moon.”
This was a side of Lizzy no one saw but him. In society she was put-together, so seemingly in control. She never let on that her sightlessness bothered her, but at home, when they were private, he saw her frustrations, and wiped away the tears of sadness. He, of all people, understood what it was like to live in a world full of cruelty and distaste when one was not, in polite society’s estimation—desirable. Neither he nor his sister had been what their father wanted, and Adrian had been forced to live with that knowledge, to suffer the harsh realities of life. Lizzy, too, had been forced to endure her lot in life, with the same cold, demanding father. Adrian’s childhood shaped him, had given him sympathy for those less fortunate, for those who were born to circumstances beyond their control. He cared for things that no other duke would concern himself with. For the lives of those left to struggle without help.
It was moments like this when he realized his role in society gave him power, power that he didn’t waste on flaunting his wealth, or using his name to gain admission to clubs, parties and liaisons with beautiful women. No, his power went to protect those who, unlike him, had never been blessed by anything but hard times. When he worked diligently with his cause to emancipate the poor in the East End from their daily suffering, he was not unworthy. Nor a fraud, nor an impostor in this world he had never understood and never wanted.
“Adrian,” Lizzy said, amusement ringing in her voice. “You’re brooding about something. I thought you had outgrown that particular pastime years ago.”
“My apologies, Lizzy. You were saying?”
“The moon. Is it full?”
“No, it is not,” he murmured as he came to sit beside her. “It is just a little crescent.”
“When it’s full, I expect you to invite me into your study and you can describe it to me—vividly,” she clarified. “I swear, Adrian, you have no gift for words.”
“No, I do not.”
Perhaps if he did, he could seduce Lucy with them. But words had never come easily. Twelve years ago, he had learned to guard well what words he used. Being too free with his words could cost him everything he loved, his position within the Brethren Guardians, his sister and Lucy.
“Ah, that feels nice,” his sister whispered as she lifted her feet up and toward the heat that was now blazing in the hearth. “I thought my toes might drop off.”
“Well, your tootsies shall be warm momentarily.”
“I wonder how you didn’t feel the chill?”
He was inured to the cold. Growing up, he had forever been cold, and he had strengthened his mind around it. He could not tolerate any weakness in himself. Just like his father could never tolerate any weakness in his son, or daughter.
“Your lack of skill with words aside, you’ve been inordinately quiet of late. Do you care to share your troubles? And don’t deny you have them,” she commanded. “I may not see your sullen expression, but I can sense it. Your melancholy shrouds every room you’ve been in.”
He laughed. “Damn frightening what you can sense.”
Smiling, she titled her head until she found his shoulder, and let her head rest against him while she continued to pet Rosie. “Is it this Brethren business, Adrian? I thought the investigation was getting somewhere.”
“It is getting somewhere—deeper and murkier. Thank God we found the chalice in Wendell Knighton’s office at the museum. How the bastard discovered its hiding place, and the importance of its existence, I would dearly love to know, but it’s unfortunately a secret he took to his grave.”
“Well, at least it’s back in your possession, and Black has the pendant. All three artifacts are safe and sound.”
“But who took them is still a mystery,” he muttered. “However, we have some leads. Black’s wound has healed and he’ll begin searching through the Masonic Lodge for more clues of this mysterious Orpheus, and Alynwick and I have taken over the investigation of the House of Orpheus. Although, being allowed admittance into the secret club is proving more difficult than either of us had anticipated. Still, Alynwick won’t let it rest.”
“Alynwick,” Lizzy snorted. “You’ll only find him of use if you can keep him out of the bedchambers.”
Frowning, he realized his sister was right. Iain, the Marquis of Alynwick, was a rake, and little induced him to be anything but.
“If Alynwick would put his head into it—and not the one he’s so fond of using—you might discover the identity of Orpheus much faster. Alas, the marquis is selfish and only interested in what amuses him. And it is not, I am afraid, Brethren business. Oh, if only I had been born a male, I would have kicked Alynwick in his rear end, and forced him to remember his oath.”
Smiling, he thought of Elizabeth as a boy—and a Brethren Guardian. She was brave, smart and so disciplined—not to mention she was the eldest child. She would have made an excellent Guardian—better than him—and she certainly would have given the marquis some much needed grief.
“Alas, I am only a poor helpless female, concerned only with fashion and fiction. Speaking of that—Lady Lucy and Lady Black are due here any moment. They’re bringing the new penny dreadfuls.”
Adrian hid his groan. Lucy in his house. He could hardly bear it. But he would, for Elizabeth’s sake. She had very few real friends, and he would never think to deprive her of Isabella and Lucy’s companionship.
“Now, you know that I don’t condone this … this snooping about, but should I question Lucy about anything?”
Elizabeth could not see the surprise on his face, but she sensed it.
“You didn’t think I knew, did you? Adrian, really, she’s my friend. And you’re my brother. I want to help you find the man responsible for stealing the pendant and murdering Mr. Knighton. I want also to keep Lucy out of danger, if indeed she is in danger.”
“She is,” he growled, “believe me, she is.” He thought of the murderer who had been carrying Lucy’s handkerchief. What the devil had she been about giving a man such as that any token of her affection? A strange sense of betrayal filtered through his blood but he shook it off, determined to try to think of other things.
“Why don’t you tell me what it is, so that I may aid both of you?”
He’d kept the secret well-guarded, deep in his heart. It haunted him at night, and he wanted to be purged of it, to forget he had ever discovered it. But was telling his sister the thing to do? Was it betraying Lucy?
“Adrian?” she asked. “There is no need to war with yourself over this. I just thought, well, sometimes secrets are a burden when one must shoulder them alone.”
Suddenly he was speaking, not thinking it through, only knowing he needed this, the ability to talk to another soul who might have some wisdom to impart to him.
“The man who shot Knighton,” he began, recalling the scene a few weeks ago when the pendant, one of the relics the Brethren Guardians were responsible for keeping, went missing, and Isabella’s—now Lady Black’s—former suitor, Knighton, had been found with it. “He was involved with Orpheus. Hell, he might even be Orpheus.”
Orpheus was a rogue Freemason. Adrian was certain. This Orpheus had an uncanny knowledge of the Brethren Guardians. Their existence was a secret. No one but the three of them and their families knew of it. No one knew that the relics they protected even existed. But Orpheus knew. And so had Wendell Knighton. The urge to find and unmask this Orpheus positively seethed and festered inside him. It should have been because of his oath—the liege he owed to the generations of his family who had successfully kept the chalice and the secret of the Brethren Guardians carefully hidden. But it was not. It was the knowledge that Lucy was intimately acquainted with the bastard that ate at him, made him want to discover Orpheus’s identity, and tear at him—destroy him. For what, he had asked himself? And the answer was always there, whispering in his mind. For taking the woman he loved, for turning her away so that she could not see him, or his need; for making her unable to accept anything he offered her.
“You’re woolgathering again, brother,” Lizzy murmured. The touch of her fingers pulled him out of his reverie and escalating anger, and helplessness that had been his constant companion these past weeks.
“This man who shot Knighton, he obviously didn’t want us to capture Knighton alive. Before he shot him, I spotted him on the roof of the lodge. I ran to the back of the building and gave chase, but he had quite a head start on me, and when he was out of sight, I stopped, deciding it prudent to return to Black who had been shot. And then I saw it. A lace handkerchief, with three initials.”
The memory made his stomach fall to his feet, just as it had when he’d picked up the lace and saw what he held.
“Lucy Ashton’s initials, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“I think I know the rest. She had given this man her favor—and he is the lover that she’s trying to connect with on the other side, via all the séances and soothsayers she’s been visiting.”
Adrian could no longer deny the truth to himself. “She loves him,” he said on a breath that he knew sounded pained. “She believed him dead, and when I gave her back the handkerchief, it told her that he was indeed very much alive and not killed in the fire as she had assumed. She doesn’t seem to give a damn that he’s a murderer, and my enemy, and also the enemy of her cousin’s husband. She’s obsessed with finding him,” he snapped. Lunging up from the settee, he paced the room like a caged lion.
“She’s determined to find him, even knowing that we search for him. She’s resolved to stand in our way, and if it makes her an enemy of us, so be it.”
“Then we must protect her for her own good.”
“How? She won’t do or say anything that might help us.”
Rising, Elizabeth held out her hand, and he grasped it, steadying her. “She won’t tell you, brother, but she’ll confide in a friend—I am sure of it. Now, I hear a carriage … that will be them. Take yourself off, Adrian. Your expression, I’m quite certain, is rather ferocious. It will hardly induce poor Lucy to share her confidences with me.”
He stood there, stunned. “You would do that?”
“Betray Lucy’s confidence?” She shrugged, and reached down to where Rosie, now off the settee, placed her head against Elizabeth. “Only so far as it might help you. Anything she says that is of no consequence to this case, or Orpheus, I will not share. I like her, Adrian. And I could not live with myself if she were to be hurt by this man.”
“Thank you, Lizzy.”
“There is no need to thank me, yet. I haven’t gotten her to confide in me—and I won’t if you’re standing around.”
“All right,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll head out to Blake’s. I’m meeting Black and Alynwick there.”
“A good idea. Be back for tea and I shall share what I learn.”
CHAPTER THREE
IF IT WASN’T for Elizabeth’s excellent conversation and friendship, Lucy wouldn’t dare step foot inside the huge town house. Despite its size, there was every possibility she might very well run into the duke—whom she was presently arduously avoiding.
“Ah, good day, ladies,” Elizabeth said as she breezed into the foyer with the help of a footman, her pet spaniel at her side. “You have brought the contraband, I hope?”
Isabella held up a stack of leaflets. “The penny dreadfuls. Hot off the press. I made Black run out early this morning to get them.”
“How fortunate for us that you have the ability to persuade your reclusive husband to leave his home, and at so early an hour.”
“There are some inducements his lordship is unable to resist,” Isabella murmured. Laughter filled the entry, and the footman struggled to hide a crooked smile.
“Well, my brother has gone to see Lord Black, so we have the house to ourselves. We may eat as many scones as we like, and drink pots of tea, without any tedious male intrusion.”
Lucy let out a sigh of relief. While she had been looking forward to visiting Elizabeth, she dreaded the thought of running into the duke. To know the house was devoid of him was something more than a sense of relief. It was gratitude.
“Come. I’ve decided to use the yellow salon in the hopes it might make the day brighter. I’ve been told it’s cold and dreary, and quite dull outside.”
It was. And Lucy despised it. Too many days and nights she passed by herself in weather such as this. Since Issy had married Black and moved out of the house they had once shared with Lucy’s father, Lucy had found herself at loose ends—and alone—again.
She had quite thought of Isabella as a sister, not a cousin, and was just getting used to having her about, when Lord Black had dashingly and passionately swept Issy off her unsuspecting feet.
It was rather uncharitable of her, but Lucy was resentful at times of Isabella leaving her. It wasn’t fair, of course. Issy deserved to have a life, and a loving husband. Lucy just wished she hadn’t had to leave her behind to have it.
They lived across the street from one another, and still it was not close enough for Lucy. The lonely nights, and the empty days seemed to be growing, and the sadness she had felt as a child and young woman seemed to be coming back—although darker and more ominous than before. Isabella claimed it was the effects of the occultism Lucy had begun studying, but Lucy knew it was something else entirely.
Refusing to sink further into her thoughts, Lucy shoved them aside, and followed Elizabeth and the footman down the long stately hall of Sussex House. Despite the gloom of the weather, the hall was bright and airy owing to the pale colored walls, and the enormous domed window that filled the ceiling. At the end of the hall was a glass conservatory that looked out onto the back gardens. Tall green palms and brilliantly colored hothouse flowers drew her eye, making her think of a warm summer day, although, behind the crimson petals were rain soaked windows and a bleak gunmetal-gray sky.
Still, what a lovely spot it would be in the spring, when the grass was green, and the trees newly leafed out. Hyacinths would be particularly pretty in that room, giving it a rich, feminine floral scent. Hyacinths always reminded her of a warm spring day. She gave the conservatory one last longing glance before turning the corner. She had always wanted a conservatory, but Papa had never been one to be pleased by gardening. He was even less pleased by the prospect of improving a house that was part of an entailment. Even though, that entailment might very well one day come to her own son, and his grandson.
“There now,” Elizabeth murmured as she allowed the spaniel to nudge her gently away from a chair that stood directly in her path. “Is this not nice? I can almost feel the sunshine.”
Indeed it was. The sitting room was bright and cheery; small, but warm, and with the fire that crackled in the marble hearth it was rather cozy. It was also very feminine and Lucy could easily get lost in the comfort of the room. Lemon-yellow walls with ornate white plaster cornices and mullions gave the room a light, but aristocratic flare. The curtains were a billowing concoction of white silk, edged with the palest of green fringe. The furniture was light and delicate, upholstered in shades of yellow and pink and pale green, with chintz pillows, and a thick carpet. Lucy could not help but imagine the imposing duke sitting down on the delicate rosewood settee that was patterned with big pink cabbage roses, sipping away at his tea. She could imagine what it must be like for a visitor to sit opposite him, to have those mysterious brooding eyes watching for faux pas, while he systematically stripped each layer away in his search for imperfections.
Those eyes … a woman could either be intimidated or besotted by those gray eyes. Thank heavens, Lucy was neither.
“Thank you, Maggie,” Elizabeth murmured as her companion, who seemed to come out of the ethers, took her by the hand and helped her to lower onto the very settee that only seconds ago Lucy had been imagining the duke sitting upon.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” the portly but kind companion inquired while Elizabeth settled herself and arranged her skirts. With a gentle pat on the cushion beside her, she called her dog up, and Lucy could not help but grin at the sight of the very pregnant Rosie struggling to get her hind legs up onto the settee. Once the spaniel was settled and curled up by Elizabeth, she and Isabella took the chairs opposite their host.
“Thank you, Maggie. I believe we shan’t stand on ceremony and all the little rules to tea today.” She smiled, and her gray eyes began to shine with mirth. “I am quite certain that my companions will see to it that I do not take it into my head to play hostess and pour.”
Maggie sent Elizabeth a scowl, while Lizzy patted the companion’s hand. “Truly, Maggie, I am fine. Take the afternoon with my blessing. Lady Lucy shall act as hostess today.”
Surprised, Lucy straightened her spine just a fraction. She expected Isabella to have been given the honors. After all, she was married now—to an earl—and was the only married lady at the table.
“Will that do, Lady Lucy?” Elizabeth asked.
“I would be honored, of course.”
“Well, if I might dispense a measure of advice, Lady Lucy, it would be to watch that one,” Maggie said while pointing to Elizabeth who sat grinning. “Far too stubborn for her own good. Right then, I shall be on my way, but I won’t leave the house. Call if you need me.”
“She’s right, you know.” Elizabeth sighed as the salon door clicked quietly closed behind Maggie. Settling back onto the cushions, Elizabeth allowed her hand to rest affectionately on Rosie’s pregnant side. “I am far too stubborn. But I shall not repeat my performance of yesterday. I nearly scalded poor Sussex. My brother—” Her words were whispered as she smiled fondly. “What he won’t do to make his blind sister happy. Even make her believe she could play hostess and pour tea.”
There was warmth and a true sense of affection in Isabella’s voice when she spoke. “His grace seems so very nice. I cannot tell you how welcoming he has been to me since marrying Black.”
“He wasn’t always so indulgent,” Lizzy said. “He was rather spoiled and selfish as a child—quite mean, as well. In truth, I didn’t really like him, and he was horrid to Mama. Like me, she was afflicted with dwindling sight, and I think Sussex feared it might happen to him … he hid that fear by belittling her—a trait he learned from my father.”
“How horrible, Lizzy. To see you both together, one would never know the troubles between you. The duke seems, well, quite the perfect model as a brother,” Isabella observed.
“No, I agree. Sussex is an ideal brother. I don’t know what caused his change—one day he was insufferable, and then he fell ill and was removed from London to an estate that Papa rarely frequented in Wales. It was above a year, I think, before I saw him again—Papa wouldn’t allow me, you see. I was kept away for fear of my own health. When we next saw each other I was completely blind, but I could tell he had changed. His voice was softer, his pattern of speech slower, more defined. In all, he was quiet. Composed … given to contemplation and silence—so unlike his prior proclivities.”
“I suppose he became a man in that time spent away from you,” Isabella offered. “Little brothers, I should think, have a terrible tendency to grow up into men.”
Lizzy smiled. “Indeed they do. And Sussex’s transformation was quite welcomed. My mother, you see, had just died before he took ill, and I think it might have had a lot to do with the change in him. I know from experience when one is confined to bed, one has a great many things to think about—to ask forgiveness for.” Lizzy straightened then shrugged a little. “Well, then, enough about my brother, let us have some tea.”
Lucy reached for the teapot. “It’s milk and sugar, isn’t it?” she asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, please. And one of Cook’s lemon scones, with extra lemon curd. There’s no unearthly reason why we should let her delicious lemon curd go to waste. Slather it on, if you will, Lucy, and I shall instruct my maid to tighten my corset laces.”
“Oh, how I loathe tight lacing,” Isabella said with a shudder. “How does one take a proper breath?”
“I’ve never found any assistance from it,” Lucy murmured as she tipped the teapot and watched the amber liquid spill into the delicate cups. “One needs something of a bosom for tight lacing to be effective.”
Elizabeth tutted. “Well, when one possesses a figure like mine, tight lacing only makes you look like a sausage casing filled with too much meat!”
“Scandalous!” Isabella laughed.
“But true,” Lizzy said with a smile. “I can have enough bosom showing without the aid of tight lacing, thank you very much.”
Smiling, Lucy watched Lizzy and marveled at how composed and at ease she was. She was a beautiful woman, with long shining black hair and the most lovely gray eyes she had ever seen. Lizzy was blessed with pale, smooth skin that reminded her of moonstone. And her figure … Well, Elizabeth York was rounded in all the right places, and possessed a bosom that Lucy felt quite envious of. Nothing ever spilled out of her own necklines, despite the fact she had taken to making her own clothes.
Once the tea was poured, and the scones cut and swathed in lemon curd and clotted cream, they sat back with a collective sigh and kicked off their shoes, while assuming positions of comfort that no lady of gentle breeding would dare consider during an afternoon call to tea.
“I adore it when the house is devoid of men,” Elizabeth said on a sigh as she bit into her scone. “One can eat as much as they desire without speculation, and sit in the most unseemly positions. Do put your feet up, ladies, if you’re so inclined.”
Isabella moaned as she bit into a pink iced cake that oozed custard from its flaky sides. “This is to die for, Lizzy, the little square cake with the pink icing. What do you call it?”
“I have no idea what its proper name is, but Cook likes to refer to it as ‘the bit of sweet his grace adores.’ It’s Sussex’s favorite. All almond paste and marzipan and thick custard. What I wouldn’t give to see him sitting here with a delicate pink square in his hand.”
Laughter erupted as Isabella agreed, while wondering aloud what her husband would look like indulging in the fancy pastries, and little thin sandwiches. Try as she might, Lucy attempted to picture the mysterious Earl of Black, but instead of his image, a set of haunting gray eyes appeared, and she blinked it away, and instead finished off her scone.
“So, what news is there to be had?” Elizabeth inquired.
“As you know, I haven’t been out of the house in a fortnight,” Isabella grumbled, “but I do know that Lucy has some gossip to share.”
Elizabeth sat up a bit straighter, jostling Rosie in the process, who gave a little grunt of displeasure then stretched out onto her back. “Gossip? Oh, do tell!”
“Well,” Lucy hedged, “I don’t know if I should be repeating this. Gossip, you know, such a nasty thing.”
“Oh, hang it,” Elizabeth said on a laugh. “Regale us with it, Lucy, because like Isabella, I’ve been cooped up here, and Maggie absolutely refuses to read the gossip rags to me—she thinks she’s keeping my mind from being poisoned, but I assure you it’s far too late for that.”
“All right, but I warn you, it’s positively indecent, and I only know about it because I happened to witness it when I came out of the ladies’ retiring room. So it’s not really gossip, more like an eyewitness account.”
“Oh, better and better!”
“As you will recall, I was forced out of the house last night.”
“Oh, that is right—you went to the Moorelands’ soiree last night. How was it?”
“Dreadfully dull, but Mooreland is one of Papa’s closest friends, so I was somewhat obligated to endure it. But it was made all the more delightful by what I saw.”
“And that was?” Isabella purred as she finished off the last of the pink square.
“The Marquis of Alynwick caught red-handed kissing Lord Larabie’s new wife. And his hands … Well, I can tell you, his hands were really quite busy—one was beneath the lady’s skirt, and the other was wandering quite wildly over the bodice of Lady Larabie’s pink frock.”
“No!” Isabella gasped. “I cannot believe it. The Marquis …” She swept a glance between Elizabeth and Lucy. “Why, I thought him a gentleman.”
The excitement that seemed to glow in Elizabeth’s gaze dimmed. She tried to hide it, Lucy saw, by sitting forward and gently reaching for her teacup.
“I’ve never known Alynwick to be anything but an egotistical rake,” Elizabeth answered. “I see his shocking way of living his life has not changed.”
Elizabeth’s face was pale, the pink of her lips all but drained away. Lucy had done it now. She had shocked poor Lizzy with the gossip. It was rather scandalous for a man to be caught with any woman in such a way at a ball, but a married woman—one who was not his wife. Well, it was rather unseemly and to repeat it at tea, really was very common. And Elizabeth was the daughter of a duke, after all, whose manners were quite above reproach.
“And Lord Larabie?” Isabella asked, cutting into Lucy’s worries.
“Oh, he came charging down the hall and they fought. Fists flying, tailcoats waving in the tussle. Lord Pickett and Mr. Downing had a devil of a time separating them, and Lady Larabie stood there screeching like a cat that had its tail caught in a mousetrap.”
“My word, I had no idea that Alynwick was such a rake!” Isabella gasped.
“Believe it,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice so soft, her gaze distant, and perhaps a touch unfocused. “He is a disreputable heartbreaker.”
There was pain and sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes, and even though she could not see, she raised her chin high and gazed straight ahead of her, right where Isabella and Lucy sat.
“If there is anyone who knows how much of a rake the Marquis of Alynwick is, it is me.”
“Tell us!” Lucy demanded as she set her teacup and saucer down onto the table. “All of it, Lizzy, every sordid detail!”
Elizabeth smiled, and Lucy could not help but feel that something strange had shifted between them. “The day is dull and dreary, so let us make the most of it by playing a game, hmm?”
“What kind of game?” Isabella inquired.
“Truth or dare, shall we? Now then, for the price of my story, I shall extract either truth or a dare from …” Elizabeth paused for a moment as her fingers raked through Rosie’s soft white fur. “Yes, I think I shall require that from … Lucy.”
Nothing good would come out of this game. Lucy could sense that much, and what was more, she was certain that Elizabeth knew she was hiding something. She didn’t want to play, but knew that to disagree to it would cast more speculations. Besides, she dearly wanted to know how the very proper Elizabeth knew the Marquis of Alynwick was a wicked rogue.
“Very well,” she agreed. “I will accept your truth or dare.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SUSSEX FOUND BLAKE’S CLUB to be, thankfully, empty at this time of the afternoon. Servants buzzed about, preparing tables in anticipation for the crowd that would shortly arrive and not leave until well into the early-morning hours. Soon, he and Black would depart before they could be observed by anyone who might know who they were, or might find interest in seeing them together.
Part of being a Guardian was not to let anyone know you were one, and that meant keeping a polite distance from one another. As far as anyone in the ton suspected, Sussex, Black and Alynwick were acquaintances through their Masonic Lodge, and through the nature of their peerage. Anything closer would not be assumed, for they took great pains to never be seen socializing outside of any tonnish or Freemasonry events. They especially did not meet at any of the fashionable clubs in Mayfair. For them, it was Blake’s in the remotest part of Bloomsbury. Mostly the clientele were poets and writers, and the odd actor. People whose thoughts were altruistic, not peers who were plagued by ennui and the constant stream of gossip that made the monotony of a title bearable.
“Where the hell could he be?” Sussex snarled before taking a sip of strong, bitter coffee which had grown cold in the half hour they had waited for the recalcitrant Marquis of Alynwick. The brew needed more sugar—he adored sugar. Having never been allowed it as a child he had developed something of a sweet tooth in adulthood. Dumping more spoonfuls into the mug, he stirred it, took a sip and slammed the cup down onto the table once more.
“Where is he?” he growled irritably.
The pressed news sheet across the table from him rolled down, and Black’s blue-green eyes peered out at him from beneath heavy brows. “He’s always tardy. Why are you surprised?”
“Because one would think that the matters we need to discuss would be a bit more important than his damned beauty sleep!”
Black had the nerve to grin before folding the paper and slapping it down onto his thigh.
“Damn him! Does Alynwick treat everything in his life with such indifference?”
“He informed me yesterday afternoon that he had planned to do a bit of reconnaissance work last night. Perhaps it was a late evening.”
Sussex snorted in indignation. “There can be nothing worth exploring at a ball that will aid us in our case to find Orpheus.”
“Oh, I would most certainly disagree with that.”
Sussex glanced up in time to watch the debauched and unshaven Marquis of Alynwick flop inelegantly into a leather club chair. “Coffee,” he groaned as the waiter approached the table. “God, yes. Nectar of the gods, isn’t it?” he said as the waiter poured his cup full of the black brew.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Just black, if you please.”
With a nod, the servant was on his way, leaving them alone.
“Devil of a headache, I take it, then?” Black asked as he raised his own cup to his lips.
“Devil? And a few more metaphors that aren’t fit for priggish ears.” He gave Sussex a meaningful glance. Apparently he was the prig. The thought bristled, especially when he thought of Lucy and her accusations that he was a cold, boring aristocrat with no fire in his soul. What did the bloody pair of them know, anyway? His breast was on fire for want of her, and his soul … it was filled with an unholy lust that would never be satiated. Lucy Ashton would never discover for herself the amount of passion he kept hidden beneath his proper facade.
“You’re late.” His coffee cup hit the table with more force than he intended, but damn it, he was in something of a mood today, and could not shake it. One would think that after being shut out of Lucy’s life for the past two weeks, one would be somewhat more civil. Yet as each day passed he was becoming increasingly more intolerable—and short-tempered.
Alynwick, he surmised, must be used to his outbursts, because he merely raised his dark eyebrow and made a grand show of leisurely sipping away at his coffee. “You have pent-up lust, Sussex. Get yourself a woman. You’ll be right as rain after it, I swear it.”
As usual, Alynwick’s answer to everything was sex.
“I have no need of your solicitation, Alynwick.”
“No?” the marquis said with a grin. “Come now, Sussex, you’re a healthy male, living like a monk. It can’t be healthy.”
He didn’t need any reminders that he hadn’t bedded in a woman in … good God, months! Almost a year, he reminded himself. When Lucy Ashton and her flamered hair had flitted past him, robbing him of breath, speech and rational thought. She’d been a compulsion to him ever since, and every woman he’d seen or met since paled against her.
“Well?” he asked irritably, when he could no longer stomach the marquis’s antics, or his pitiful one-sided longing for Lucy. “What did you find out on this supposed reconnaissance mission of yours?”
Alynwick shrugged and crossed his leg over his knee, while his fingers fiddled with a loose thread on his sleeve. “That the new Lady Larabie has the mouth of a pinched fish, and her bosom, which has been much touted, is nothing but the sham of a rather imaginative, yet very hardworking corset.”
Groaning in frustration, Sussex sent a pleading glance to Black in hopes the earl could knock some sense into Alynwick. Everything was such a damned jest with him. He cared for nothing but frivolities and women, and to hell with anything else.
“Really?” Black drawled. “A feigned bosom? Poor Larabie. To be drawn in and duped by an artfully arranged décolletage.”
“Hang Larabie, and bosoms,” Sussex snarled. Alynwick, with that devil’s twinkle in his eye, slunk deeper into his chair and stared at him.
“Bosoms, Sussex, are the sustenance of the world. How can you not be a devoted follower? I myself find I can be led quite merrily about by a fine pair of—”
“Alynwick …” he warned.
“Is this strange aversion of yours to the discussion of breasts in particular, or is it because the ravishing Lady Lucy has but a rather modest bosom?”
“You ass!” he hissed, and jumped up from his chair with his hand fisted, and his arm pulled back, ready to plant a facer on the marquis. Laughing, Alynwick held up his hands pleading with mock horror.
“My God, you’re like a baited bear. Sit, you oaf, before you spill my coffee. I swear you’ve lost your sense of humor. This girl has all but sucked it out of you—well, not sucked per se—”
“Watch your tongue,” Sussex growled in a deep voice, “or I’ll pull it out of your mouth for you.”
“My, such a strong reaction. I see you’re still moonfaced over the girl. Disgusting what love does to a perfectly healthy and virile man. And what are you smiling about over there?” Alynwick asked, making Black’s grin vanish. “You’re no better, the way you’ve been barricaded in your town house with your new wife.”
“Mmm, yes, and if you dare say anything about my wife’s bosom, I will flatten you right here. Understood?”
“Good Lord, I’m surrounded by prigs.”
“You’ll be surrounded by a pool of blood—your own—if you don’t get on with it, Alynwick,” Sussex growled. He was in no mood for this type of banter before, and he certainly wasn’t now. How dare Alynwick have sized up Lucy, and found her lacking? Damn the man, she had a perfectly lovely bosom, and he should know, he’d spent months staring at it, and wondering how perfect her breasts were beneath her tight-fitting bodices, and if her nipples were coral or pale pink, and how they might tighten with the graze of his thumb, the tip of his tongue …
God, he was unraveling. The sooner he could quit the conversation, the better. Alynwick had always been a terrible influence on him.
“Once more, Alynwick. What was it you discovered?”
With a sigh, the marquis shoved away his irreverence, and fortified himself with another large gulp of hot coffee. Wincing at the bitterness, he set it down. “False bosom aside, Lady Larabie has a surprisingly naughty nature. Between heated kisses in the hall, she invited me to join her at a special Wednesday nightclub. Any guesses what it might be?”
Black pressed forward. “The hell she did!”
Alynwick grinned. “I keep telling you, Black, it’s the sweet, innocent-looking ones that are really hellcats in the bedroom. Yes. It’s true. The new Lady Larabie slips out on Wednesday evenings when her husband is gambling with his cronies. She’s been going to the House of Orpheus for weeks, and she’s offered to drag me along.”
“In exchange for what?” Sussex demanded.
Alynwick looked at him as though he were sporting two heads. “Dear me, your grace, has it really been that long?”
Sussex felt his face flame. “You do not need to sell your soul for this, Alynwick—we can get information about Orpheus in other ways.”
“Kind of you to think of my soul, Sussex, but I assure you, I sold the thing years ago. It was of no use to me. I gave it to the devil in a two-for-one bargain, my soul and conscience for a tidy little abode in his realm when I expire.”
To hear him say such things in such a cavalier tone chilled him to the core. Was there nothing Alynwick held sacred?
“So, you will carry on an affair with Lady Larabie in order to gain entrance into this mysterious House of Orpheus?”
“A little more than just an entrée, my friends. I intend to be introduced to this shadowy Orpheus, thanks to the lady’s generosity.”
Black sat back and studied the marquis. “And if Larabie takes it into his head to pursue his wife’s activities?”
Alynwick shrugged. “He won’t. We’re going to settle it tonight in a duel. I’ll need a second, of course, and then it will be all over and done, and his lordship can have his peace of mind that he has fought for his lady’s virtue. His honor will be placated, and he’ll be too arrogant to believe that the lady would continue to carry on with me behind his back. And then, every Wednesday night thereafter we will meet and I will try my damnedest to find out what I can about Orpheus, and how the devil he discovered anything about the Brethren Guardians.”
“You’re insane. A duel with Larabie? You’ll get yourself shot—and most likely killed,” he snapped. “Especially since you cannot seem to pass away a night without getting roaring drunk.”
“I do not need a cataloguing of my sins, Sussex. Believe me, I’m well aware of them all. Trust me. I know what I’m doing, and this plan will work. Lady Larabie is entirely indiscreet. I’ll have her spilling what she knows about the club and about Orpheus himself within a week. There is nothing else to be done. Wendell Knighton did not act alone in his attempt to steal the artifacts—there was someone else pulling the strings, feeding him information. We cannot just let it rest now the relics are safe and Knighton is dead.”
“You’re right, of course. We need to follow the leads we have, and every single one of them return to this Orpheus fellow.”
“I trust neither one of you have a better plan to find him?”
“No,” Sussex grumbled.
Alynwick was many things, a dissolute roué, an amoral, unfeeling clod, but he was on their side, and he always, always kept his word. His oath to the Brethren Guardians would never be broken, Sussex knew that much. He also could not fathom a guess of what price this mad scheme was going to cost Alynwick.
“This is most dangerous,” Black murmured, “but the fact is, we really have no other recourse. Orpheus has withdrawn into the ethers of London since Knighton’s murder, and we can’t afford to have any more lost time. We need to find him. What really matters is, this Orpheus knows about us, and we can’t have that—we must ascertain how he discovered our existence, and those of the artifacts.”
True. Sussex hated to admit it, but at this moment Orpheus had the upper hand. There was no telling what he might do with the knowledge he had gained of their order, or when he might decide to strike again and attempt to steal the relics—or worse, expose them and what they hid to the world. Orpheus needed to be stopped, and they had no other way, or information.
“All right. It’s settled then. Tonight, you and Black will go to the Masonic meeting, I’ll get ripping drunk and meet you at Grantham Farm, where one of you will be my second. I’ll say that I ran into one of you, and that my usual set was too drunk to be of any assistance. It shouldn’t raise too many questions, especially with one of you doing the honors. Everyone knows you won’t gossip about it. Should be all right, I’d think.”
Black shook his head. “I don’t like this. Anything could happen, especially with Larabie. The man is a fool, and with a woman’s involvement, he’s likely to be even more foolhardy than usual.”
“We’re all fools in love, aren’t we?” Alynwick drawled, and Sussex glared at his friend as the marquis’s amused grin focused on him.
Yes, he was a fool in love. He’d already tried to wrangle his way out of it, but Lucy Ashton had an unholy grip on his heart. She would not let go, and he didn’t think he could let her, even knowing that she loved another. That was the damnable thing. If it were only lust he felt for her, this entire debacle would be behind him. But it wasn’t simply a case of desire, but love. Or at the very least the stirrings of a true and abiding love. How he wished he could get her alone and discover her, the true woman she was. Not the society miss she pretended to be, but the woman she hid from the world. But there was little chance for that now. She’d made it perfectly clear that she loathed the very sight of him.
“Well, then, I think I’ll be off. I need a new waistcoat. Something dashing and debonair, something befitting the field of honor.”
“Wait, I have news. We have a new ally.”
“Do we?” Alynwick drawled. “How did this come about?”
“Elizabeth.”
Alynwick frowned. “I don’t see how your sister can be of any use to us.”
“She is going to discover what Lucy knows about Orpheus and the club.”
“And how would Lady Lucy know anything about such matters?” Alynwick asked through narrowed eyes. “Damn it, Sussex, you’re a liability around that girl.”
“It’s a private matter, Alynwick. All you need know is that Lucy Ashton does indeed have some involvement that goes beyond her knowledge of the pendant. The particulars of which are of no concern to you.”
“Bah,” he grunted with a wave of his hand. “Elizabeth would never betray a friend. Whatever Lucy Ashton tells her will remain with Elizabeth until her dying day. I would not wait about with bated breath to discover what Elizabeth learns from Lucy.”
“Lizzy is concerned enough about Lucy to share what she discovers. Even now they are at Sussex House discussing matters. I have no doubt that Elizabeth will be able to discover what we need to know.”
“No doubt. Your sister has the unnatural ability to discover one’s most carefully hidden secret, doesn’t she? I wonder how she’ll accomplish it, making Lucy part with her secrets?”
“The way females always do,” he answered. “By telling her one of her own secrets.”
The loss of color in Alynwick’s face was comical, and puzzling. So was the way he jumped up from the chair and left as though the devil were on his heels.
“Secrets,” Black murmured as he reached for his hat. “Damnable things aren’t they?”
Black didn’t know the half of it, Sussex thought, or the secrets he harbored. God help him if the world was to learn his. It would ruin everything.
IN THE SHADOWS, Orpheus waited—and plotted his revenge—a retribution that would be beautiful and painful. Much like that of a spider’s web—an intricate, glittering thing of exquisite beauty, but treacherous, offering a slow, suffocating death to those caught in its silken tendrils.
His web was no less complex, or less beautiful, but it was infinitely more dangerous. And the Brethren Guardians … well, they were wrapping themselves into the delicate silken weaves, just as he had planned. Soon, they would be cocooned, and their little group and the ancient artifacts they hid from the world would be his.
There was no stopping him, not even death could, for he had seen death and had battled his way back from its grip. There was nothing left now but to succeed, to lure and entice and destroy the three men who had destroyed him and everything he might have been.
But a spider is a clever thing, and constructs his web in a most abstruse manner. And while he was busily lying in wait for his prey to draw to his web, he needed something else—a bait of sorts—to lay upon the silk to lure the Guardian he wanted most.
He watched this victim from the dark corners of his club—his house—the House of Orpheus. She was the adhesive his web needed to draw and hold his enemies. She was the one he could so easily entice into his silken world of mystery, beauty and forbidden passion. She was the next step in his plan.
He signaled his accomplice across the room, who moved through the crowd with predatory grace, compelled by the same soul-destroying need for vengeance that ruled him.
“It is time to be resurrected,” Orpheus murmured, and his minion’s breath stilled for a fraction of a second, then resumed with heat and excitement. Yes, this man had waited so long—so many months for this very moment. Now that it had arrived, Orpheus could sense the taut strength, the scent of bloodlust that suddenly rushed free from within the cold confines of his subordinate’s soul, which was consigned to hell—just as his was. “Do what you must, but bring her to me.”
“As you wish, Orpheus. It shall be done. But what of the pendant and the chalice?”
Anger seethed through him, and his body vibrated with the barely controlled shaking of that rage. Damn Wendell Knighton! The man had proved to be useless, and selfish. He had made a grave error by bringing Knighton into his fold. Weeks ago he had possessed one of the sacred three relics of the Brethren Guardian—the pendant—only to miscalculate the extent of Knighton’s own greed and thirst for power. Now it was gone, and so, too, the chalice—which Knighton, curse his rotting soul, had managed to find and steal. No doubt by now, Sussex and the other two Guardians had both relics back in their possession. Leaving him with none.
But he had the upper hand. He had something the Guardians wanted—or at least one of them did.
“My lord?”
Gnashing his teeth, he growled, “The girl, bring her to me, and I assure you, the rest will follow.”
Through darkness and shadows, Orpheus heard the retreat of his minion. The loss of both pendant and chalice was a momentary setback, one easily overcome. Soon, he consoled himself, soon he would have the woman in his web, and all too soon, the proud Duke of Sussex would follow the lovely bait, and thereby meet his greatest weakness—and his ultimate demise. And in the end he, Orpheus, would take his rightful place in the world. No longer would he be a footnote in time, but the leader he was born to be. And the world would bow at his feet.
CHAPTER FIVE
ANTICIPATION AND NERVOUSNESS coursed through Lucy as she watched Elizabeth elegantly sip her tea. What would Lizzy ask her in return for the secret she was about to shed? Perhaps she should take a dare instead? After all, there were some secrets she wanted to fiercely guard—like the one about Thomas.
Silly game, she thought. She should not have allowed herself to be drawn in so easily. It was a game for children, not grown women who needed to keep their secrets protected and buried.
Except the lure Elizabeth had dangled so temptingly before them had made her weak. Not that she desired to know anything more about the Marquis of Alynwick, but because she dearly wanted to know Elizabeth better. On the outside, the duke’s sister was a vision of loveliness. Despite her blindness, Elizabeth carried herself with pride and confidence, and a cool, sophisticated elegance that Lucy would never be able to achieve. Lizzy was refined, demure and proper. Lucy couldn’t imagine her stepping one toe out of place. But upon occasion, Lucy saw something more complex in Elizabeth’s gray eyes. A shadow of sadness, a flicker of deep pain. She had seen the same in her brother’s eyes. What did they share? What trauma from the past did they try to hide from the world?
Elizabeth cleared her throat, and Lucy saw how her pale fingers trembled slightly as they raked through Rosie’s silky fur. Whatever she was about to share with them, it was meaningful and, Lucy sensed, painful. In truth, there was nothing like the shedding of secrets to bring females together.
“Twelve years ago—No,” Lizzy said with a small smile that conveyed only sadness, “I must go farther back than that. Almost from the moment I became aware of the male species, I have fancied myself in love with Alynwick.”
Lucy found herself biting her lip as she watched Elizabeth gather her self-control. What she wouldn’t give to take back her words. She had hurt Lizzy with the gossip of Alynwick and Lady Larabie.
“Twelve years ago, I gathered the courage to tell him. He confessed that he reciprocated that love, and we …” She swallowed hard, and her grays eyes began to well with tears, tears she held back with a ruthless determination. “We began an affair. It was the summer my father took my brother to the continent for his grand tour after convalescing, and I was left home alone with only the servants to keep an eye on me. Alynwick’s ancestral estate abutted ours, and we spent the entire summer together. I was already losing my sight by then, but he claimed he didn’t care. He persuaded me that it didn’t matter, and I believed him. I …” She lowered her head, her eyes closed. “I gave him my virginity, and the next day—Sunday—his wedding banns were read at church.”
Lucy and Isabella both gasped, and a small sound like a strangled sob was wrenched from Lizzy. “It appeared that his marriage had been arranged for years—yet I had never heard of it. Of course, I behaved like a simpering chit, I was barely eighteen and he was only nineteen. Oh, when I think of how I clung to him, crying and sobbing. But to no avail. While I pleaded and begged him, and spoke of my love, he was … remote. He claimed he thought me amusing, and in truth, my impending blindness disturbed him. It took some time for me to reconcile it all, but I finally came to the conclusion that I had been a fool. I was nothing to him but a diverting interlude to while away the summer days.”
“Black and I shall cut him dead!” Isabella announced with outrage.
“You cannot, what would you say? What grounds would you give? No one but us knows what happened, and until today, I’ve never told a soul what transpired that summer.”
“Lizzy,” Lucy murmured as she reached out to grasp her friend’s hand. “I had no idea. Had I, I would never have told you about what I saw last night.”
“If it had not been you, Lucy, I would have heard it from another source. The marquis does attract gossip, and there are no ends to the females who are willing to create it with him.”
“How you must have suffered,” Issy murmured as she reached forward and rested her palm on Lizzy’s arm.
“Endless nights of wailing into my pillow,” Lizzy said with a deprecating smile, “only to be followed by hours of humiliation whenever I thought on my actions after. I vowed then never to make a spectacle of myself ever again. And especially over a man.”
“If only we had known each other then, Lucy and I would have boxed his ears!”
Elizabeth’s laugh was soft and genuine. “Time heals all wounds. However, I do upon occasion allow myself to reflect upon that summer, and remember those days when he had been everything to me.”
“He’s not worth it,” Isabella sniffed. “To be so careless with you, Lizzy, he doesn’t deserve you, or your love.”
“Oh, I haven’t loved him in years. But tell me,” she asked quietly, “what does he look like? I haven’t dared ask another soul that, for fear of how it might be taken. But I would be a fool if I did not admit that there are some nights, when I lie awake in bed, and wonder about him. Is his hair still dark?”
Lucy felt her own eyes well with tears, and she glanced to her right, to discover that Isabella was discreetly blotting the corner of her eyes with her napkin.
“Yes,” she answered Lizzy. “His hair is dark, like coal—”
“And when the light hits it, does it have the blue of a raven’s wing?”
“Yes, I think it must, for it is black as jet, and given to curl. He wears it unfashionably long, to his shoulders, and when he talks with Black and your brother, he occasionally brushes it behind his ears.”
Elizabeth’s eyes closed, as if she were savoring the images of the marquis. “And his eyes? Are they still dark blue? I always thought the color reminded me of the sky at twilight.”
“I … I don’t know, Lizzy. I thought his eyes dark. There is a hardness to them, and when he looks directly at you, well … one cannot help but to think that he is looking directly past you. There’s coldness there, nothing soft or comforting.”
“Eyes consumed by sin,” her friend whispered. “How sad, for the man I thought I knew that summer was not hard or cold, just … lost and hurting. But then, I didn’t really know him, did I?”
“Sometimes, our hearts won’t allow our eyes to see what is really there, Lizzy.”
Where those words had sprung from, Lucy had no idea. She only knew how right they felt. For it was true, the eye was blind when love and desire was involved. Or was it only blinded by lust? Did the eye truly see love, or was it just for the heart to feel it? Thomas had claimed to love her, had made the same sort of promises to her that Alynwick had made to Lizzy. Only Lucy was certain that but for the fire, Thomas would not have left her the way the marquis had left her friend.
The bit of lace in her pocket reminded her that Thomas was indeed alive. There could be no other explanation for the reappearance of the handkerchief, and for the identical description of Thomas that the duke had given her of the man who had dropped it.
He was alive, and because of those very promises he had given to her, Lucy knew without a doubt he would find a way to come for her.
Squeezing Lucy’s hand, Lizzy replied, “Yes, one can be blind, can’t they, even when they possess the gift of sight. I was young and naive and I learned a difficult lesson.”
“What happened to the woman he was supposed to marry?” Isabella asked. “I hope she made him utterly miserable. He deserved no less after what he did to you.”
Lizzy shrugged. “I do not know the particulars. Only that the marriage did not come into being, and after their broken engagement, he went to the East with Black. Upon his return home, he was changed, much as he is now, irreverent and uncaring, consumed with pleasure and gain. There is nothing left of the man I had given myself to.”
“He didn’t deserve you,” Lucy said, truly meaning it. “One day, you will meet with the perfect gentleman.”
“I have given up on that. Besides, I believe that once given, the heart does not easily love again. Especially when it’s been betrayed.”
For some reason, Lizzy’s words struck fear inside her. Gray eyes flashed before her, and she startled, not understanding where the image had sprung from. Only knowing she had no wish to see them, or to be drawn in by the ghosts that looked out at her. She thought of her young friend and her father’s cruel treatment of him. She had been betrayed then, and she was quite certain that although she had been very young, her friend had quite captured her idealistic heart. It had not been easy to allow someone in, after that. She had mourned his loss for quite a while, and still did.
“Oh, love, what a burden it can be. How can something so heady and perfect cause such deep-rooted despair?” Isabella asked.
How indeed? She had only ever known that love led to despair. The two were synonymous to her. “I suppose,” she answered, “it is because there is such a fine line between passion and despair.”
Elizabeth looked up, and in that brief second, Lucy could have sworn her friend glimpsed inside her soul. “You have felt despair while in love?”
Glancing quickly at Isabella, Lucy struggled for an answer. Isabella knew her secret—most of it at any rate. She would know if she lied to Lizzy.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, Elizabeth inched forward and reached out her hand, which Lucy took in hers. “Tell me, Lucy, have you ever given up everything you are, everything you believed in, for one moment of passion?”
Truth or dare … at last, the dreaded moment had arrived.
SAVED BY HIS GRACE!
Never in her life had Lucy been more delighted to see the large-bodied presence of Sussex lurking in the doorway. With typical cool indifference and ducal autocracy he strolled into the salon, his high glossed boots ringing against the marble floor. His gaze swept over her as he prowled closer to them, and Lucy fought the urge to give in to a tremble. The last time she had seen him he had been handing her the lace handkerchief, and warning her away from her lover. She had refused to listen, and now … now she suspected they were enemies.
There was no denying that his grace would make a formidable one. What he lacked in passion, he more than made up for with a determined tenacity, something Lucy knew he would use to discover Thomas. She could almost find herself admiring that trait in him, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was now her—and Thomas’s—enemy.
With an elegant arch of his dark brow he stood before them. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Of course you are, brother. Off with you!” Elizabeth drawled as she shooed him away with a wave of her hand. “You have the most inopportune timing.”
“Don’t be silly, your grace, do come in,” Lucy said a little breathlessly as she avoided Isabella’s astonished gaze. “The tea is still hot, and there are plenty of sandwiches left.”
She saw the way Elizabeth frowned and the speculation in Isabella’s eyes. Even though the duke really was the last person she wanted to see, at the present he was the lesser of two evils, the greater evil being the question Elizabeth had asked her.
Truth or dare … well, she dared not give the truth, and if suffering through tea with Sussex was to be the reprieve from having to answer, then so be it.
Taking the vacant cushion between Elizabeth and Rosie, the duke slouched deeply onto the soft settee and reached for a plate. With a glance, he peered up at them from a veil of thick lashes. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Swallowing hard, Lucy bit her lower lip and thought back to that evening when she had visited the Fraser Witch and the feelings she had experienced. They were the same ones she felt now—in the duke’s presence. And it was damned inconvenient, she thought churlishly, especially since she sought to dislike everything about his grace.
She couldn’t understand it, this new reaction in her body whenever Sussex’s cool gray eyes locked with hers. Every nerve ending seemed overly sensitized and raw; her spine tingled with warning and a sense of foreboding she had never once experienced in the presence of another man. Sussex had a way of looking at her that made her think he was peeling back her carefully placed layers and peeking into the core of her. It was disconcerting, his way, and no less now, when his gaze briefly flickered along her face. For Lucy knew that despite that deft sweep of his eyes, the duke missed nothing.
For all his propriety, his grace never let on that they had drawn their respective lines in the sand. Lucy found herself wondering if the duke ever thought of that afternoon, and what he had discovered of her past. No doubt it riled his sense of propriety and surely he now found her lacking and utterly unsuitable in the role of his duchess.
There was relief in that thought. Now if only her father would accept the fact that his grace would no longer be calling upon them.
“For heaven’s sake, Sussex. Take your sweets and go along with you,” Elizabeth muttered, which made Sussex grin. And that grin … what it did to his normally somber face. Lucy found herself blinking in surprise, and … no, not wonder. She would never admire his grace in that fashion. Yes, he was tall, dark and very handsome. But there wasn’t anything about the duke that tempted her. He was rigid and controlled, stuffy and proper. Aloof and cool, which only made her realize how very much like her father he was. And that sort of man was the furthest kind she desired. She craved warmth, and emotional intimacy. Never would she marry the sort of a man her father was. Her mother may have chosen her cold, polite matrimonial bed, but Lucy would not endure the same in her marriage.
From across the tea table, the duke studied her, and Lucy suffered beneath that heavy, watchful stare. How he looked at her … there was something vaguely familiar about that stare, but of course she was being fanciful. His were not the eyes she had seen in her vision when she visited the Scottish Witch. She was sure of it.
“Are you quite finished pillaging our tea tray, Adrian?” Lizzy demanded. “We have a pressing matter of business yet to discuss.”
“Dear me, Lizzy, your mood has turned sour since I left. What has transpired to make you so irritable?”
“How can you be so obtuse, brother? Your arrival has put a damper on our conversation.”
His dark brows rose in question, causing a scar that bisected the left one to be more noticeable. “What then were you discussing when I arrived that I might not listen to now?”
“Nothing that need concern you,” Elizabeth muttered.
“Ah, gossip, then,” he said then focused his attention on Lucy. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy what, your grace?”
He didn’t blink, but kept his cool, steady gaze upon her. His mouth was set in a grim, disapproving line. “Gossip, Lady Lucy. Do you enjoy indulging in such pastimes as spreading tales about others?”
The censure with which he had asked his question did not dissuade her from answering. “You would be hard-pressed to find a tea table devoid of gossip.”
“But it is not others I am inquiring about. I am asking about you. Do you, Lady Lucy, enjoy gossip?”
She met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated by his blatant reproof. Obviously he held himself above the lesser mortals who found tittle-tattle a tempting sin. Such a virtue he was! Lucy could not admit that she was of a like mind. She had found gossip much too helpful to disregard it altogether.
“Well?” he asked again.
“I, like so many people, find it vastly amusing, your grace.”
Cocking his head, he studied her through narrowed eyes as though she were a new species of beetle stuck to a felt board by a stickpin. “I don’t think you do. You merely partake of it because it is an expected requirement at such gatherings, as well of your station. Your heart, I think, is never fully in it.”
She flushed, but forced herself to stay steady and still. “I wonder why you asked then, in the first place?”
“I am merely trying to make out your personality, Lady Lucy. There are so many sides to it, one wonders who you truly are. Or indeed, if you know who you are.”
“Your grace, you are too bold.”
“Insufferable, isn’t he?” Elizabeth said as she glared to where Sussex sat next to her on the settee. “Very bad manners, Sussex.”
“Apologies. It is just that I cannot imagine that you take joy in laughing at another’s expense. To be amused by someone else’s misfortune or folly? You are too softhearted for that.”
She sniffed, despising him for making her feel things she did not care to admit to, for seeing that beneath her aloof facade to the soft core she had tried to harden through the years. She didn’t want him to know she was soft and kind and so easily hurt. She would rather he think her a lofty, snobbish woman who had fallen low for the sins of the flesh. Far better to be considered a cold woman than a weak one. One could not be timid and easily damaged when one moved about the ton. It was as deadly as a three-legged gazelle amidst a pride of lions. With such an obvious weakness, they would run her to ground and devour her whole. Far better to possess the hide and horn of the rhino.
The facade of the uncaring society lady was her favorite and most often employed shield, and to have his grace take it from her, really was rather harrowing. Having him peek deep inside her was downright frightening. She had not shared herself with another since she was twelve—not even Thomas had been given a look into her soul.
“I am right, aren’t I?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky purr. He spoke as though they were alone, as if his sister and Isabella were not present. He was far too familiar, and she didn’t like it. How he seemed able to command the room, the conversation, and even more frightening, her emotions.
Gathering her courage, and stiffening her spine, Lucy prepared to meet his challenge. “I suppose you think you’re always correct in your assumptions and estimations, your grace. But in this matter, I must strike a blow to your vanity, for you are indeed wrong.”
His smile temporarily disarmed her. “No, I don’t believe I am. You talk of gossip because it is expected. Not because you enjoy it, and the pain it causes others.”
She was right. The duke did see far too much—she could not run from the truth now. “Well, it is vastly more entertaining, and I suppose ego sparing to talk of another than our own follies, wouldn’t you agree, your grace? It at least allows one a moment of reprieve from the prying eyes of others,” she snapped, while shooting him a meaningful glare.
“You use gossip as a shield, then?”
Lucy was conscious of the way Isabella’s head seemed to volley back and forth between their increasingly heated banter. If she were thinking clearly, Lucy would back down, but there was something about Sussex that riled her. She would never bow to him, never let him needle her. Therefore, she would continue this strange, far too familiar conversation. “Who does not use gossip as a weapon, or defense, your grace?”
“And what secrets have you to hide that you would not wish others to pry into?”
“Adrian, you beast!” Elizabeth scolded. “I vow you are merely toying with my guests, much like a cat with a mouse. Pay him no heed, Lucy. He enjoys these little debates, you see, and has quite forgotten that he is in polite company, and not the men of his club.”
Sussex blatantly ignored Elizabeth, and kept his gaze trained on her. “Or do you use it to keep others at bay, Lady Lucy? From straying too close to what you do not wish them to discover, which would be you, and who you truly are?”
How had he guessed? she wondered. Everyone who looked at her believed her to be a spoiled, shallow society miss who cared for nothing but fashion and parties. Certainly no one had ever thought she might have a heart and conscience. Yet with one sweep of his storm-gray eyes, Sussex had seen to the core of her, and what she kept hidden.
“Sussex, stop this at once,” Elizabeth demanded. “You cannot come in here and start such a bold discussion without first at least inquiring as to our company’s health and spirits.”
“Absolutely. It was unpardonable of me. Forgive me. Now then, how are you ladies today?” he inquired politely as he placed four of the pink custard squares on his plate, but not before his gaze flickered to hers and he grinned. Such a cheeky grin, she thought as the hair on her arms stood straight on end.
CHAPTER SIX
“OH, WE ARE very well, your grace,” Isabella replied as she stole a perplexed glance at Lucy. “Now, if only the weather would cooperate and allow the sun to shine, if only for a few hours, we would be much better off.”
Sussex glanced over his shoulder and out the tall window that was behind the settee. “Mmm, yes, it is gloomy. Makes one long for the comforts of bed.”
Isabella flushed delicately, and Lucy struggled to swallow the mouthful of hot tea she had just taken. The word bed was one she would have preferred not to hear coming from Sussex’s mouth. It was far too familiar, and she could not put aside her fears that when he said it, he was recalling the moment between them when he had returned the bit of lace to her, and discovered her most carefully guarded secret.
How she wanted to quit this house, to leave Sussex and his strange conversation behind. She was on tenterhooks, she realized. Disconcerted by every glance, and word. She could not endure this, not while trying to stay polite and removed.
Studying Lizzy, Lucy looked for any signs from their host that the tea was over, and they should take their leave. Unfortunately Lizzy had only managed to appear more comfortable on the settee, as if she were settling in for a much longer conversation. Even Isabella, who had looked extremely uncomfortable during their discussion of gossip now looked at ease, and was even in the process of pouring herself more tea.
Traitor, Lucy wanted to shout at her friend. Did no one understand how horrid it was to sit across from his grace and suffer through his stare? Of course they did not. Because neither Lizzy nor Isabella knew what had transpired between them. Only Sussex knew, and Lucy could not help but imagine what thoughts were running rampant in the proper duke’s mind. “Oh, yes, I adore afternoon naps,” Elizabeth said on a sigh, “especially in the rain. Just lying there, listening to the raindrops rattle against the windowpane is so soothing. Don’t you think, Lady Lucy?”
Determined to ignore Sussex, she focused her attention on answering Elizabeth. “I am afraid I am not a fan of rain, but I am rather fond of the feel of cool grass beneath my feet on a warm spring day. I like to hear the chirping of birds, and see the swelling of flower buds. I like the wind not to be cool and bracing, but warm and scented with the aromas of the sun and earth.”
Sussex met her gaze, allowed it to linger, then slowly he slid it away, down to his plate where he picked up a custard slice, and popped it into his mouth.
“Oh, I enjoy that too,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “When I was younger I could lie in the grass for hours and stare at the sky and imagine the clouds were all kinds of fanciful shapes, and animals.”
Lucy knew her expression was not one of rapture at Elizabeth’s description, and the duke noticed and said, “Do you not approve of the pastime, Lady Lucy?”
She was forced to raise her gaze from the teacup and saucer that was balanced on her lap and look at him. That stare … it made her tremble once again, and she despised how easily he could disconcert her. No one had ever had that ability, she’d made certain of it, but when the duke came into her life, he had torn down those safe walls she had erected.
Now here she was, feeling vulnerable and cornered, held hostage by eyes that bored deeply into hers as he patiently awaited her answers. And he would wait. She had learned that about Sussex, he was the most patient man on Earth—maddenly so—and she knew he would sit there all afternoon, his plate of pink sweets balanced in his palm while he watched her with his eyes that saw too much. Nothing dissuaded him when he wanted something; she had learned that much about him.
“Stonebrook wouldn’t have allowed it,” he replied for her, his gaze unwavering. “Your father is a difficult man to please, not given to gaiety or lenience.”
Yer papa will tan my hide if he finds ye getting yer ‘ands dirty wit the likes o’ me. I’m yer lesser, or so Mr. Beecher says. No lady of Gov’ner Square will look at a little street urchin the likes o’ me.
Lucy recalled that day in the kitchen, as she and Gabriel sat at the table and talked. She had made it her business to be in the kitchen on Tuesdays when the butcher made his deliveries. It had been curiosity at first—the quiet, sullen boy who had accompanied Mr. Beecher had captured her interest. But after a few visits, and some shared stories, it became something more than curiosity, but infatuation. They had become friends, borne out of common circumstances, their differences ignored as they shared whatever treat Cook had left at the table for them.
“I don’t care about such trivial things such as stations in life,” she had boldly stated. “Are we not all created equal?”
“No, Miss Lucy, we ain’t. Ye were made better ‘n me. And that’s why I’m to leave ye be and not look at ye. I’m beneath ye.”
She had glared in the direction of the butcher, then. “Never mind him,” she’d ordered. “We’re friends, are we not?”
“I ain’t never ‘ad a friend.”
“I ain’t never, either.”
They had dissolved into a fit of laughter, which had died as suddenly as it sprung up when a dark shadow emerged in the kitchen …
“He would have had you kept inside the schoolroom,” his grace continued on, pulling her from her memories, making her confront a reality she had no wish to contemplate. “A young lady meant to remain pale and unmarred, her mind filled with useful information, her days occupied with learning tasks that would set up her future. He would have frowned upon frivolous pursuits such as daydreaming and cloud watching.”
She swallowed, and he followed the action of her throat, his long, dark lashes shielding the expression in his eyes and the thoughts behind them. How Lucy wanted to rail at him for it.
“Is my brother right?” Elizabeth asked sympathetically. “He paints a rather bleak picture of your childhood.”
“Yer just as lonely as me,” her friend had once told her. “I guess it don’t make no difference if you live on a pallet of straw before a fire, or in a great big palace like this one. I’m a prisoner of St. Giles parish, and yer a prisoner of this world. We are what we are, so different because ye have money, I have nothin’ … but that’s just the outside. Inside I think we’re more alike than any two people could be.”
That was when their connection had been made, when she realized there was someone else like her, who felt the same way, who was trapped in a world they did not want, and did not choose.
“Promise me, then,” she had pleaded with him, “that you’ll always think this way of me. That when we’re grown you’ll come back and rescue me from this life.”
“All right, then, after I own me own butchery and get meself set up. I’ll come back for ye, and ye can be me wife.”
In her innocence she had believed it possible. That was, until her father had shown her just how impossible it truly was. How futile it was for her to believe a world where young girls’ dreams might one day become reality—where the world and everything was treated equally.
Bristling, Lucy set her cup and saucer aside, struggling to shield the emotion she knew would be brimming in her eyes. She loathed talking of her past, and especially her parents. She especially despised speaking of it knowing it was the privileged Duke of Sussex who had brought it up.
“Well?” Elizabeth gently prodded. “Is Sussex correct in his estimation?”
“My parents held particular views when it came to child rearing,” she said carefully. “Neither of them was possessed of a frivolous personality.”
“In other words,” Sussex drawled as he finished another custard square, “they were all work and duty, and no play.”
Lucy felt herself sneering, the memories of her lonely, isolated childhood tasting like acid in her mouth. “Succinctly put, your grace. Indeed, my parents found not much in life amusing. My mother lived to advance my father’s goals, and to uphold his hallowed title. My father existed, and still does, in the sanctity of his very male domain. As an only child, and a female at that, my parents’ goal for me was simple—to marry well, and to manage my husband’s home with dignity, decorum and efficiency, while providing him with the requisite heir. An heir that would not only inherit his father’s title, but my father’s as well. I was always very conscious of my role, and the inferiority—and disappointment—of my sex.”
“And that did not sit well with you,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I can see the truth in your eyes. You can hide nothing beyond those emerald depths, Lady Lucy.”
Nervously she glanced over and noticed how Isabella was trying her best to study the painted flowers on the delicate china cup. The air was quite thick with a new intimacy that was completely inappropriate. Such intimate discussions were not to be borne at tea, and Lucy tried her best to deflect the conversation to a more tactful and less revealing place.
Casting a gaze about the room, she sought an appropriately benign topic, and remembered that she had wanted to invite Elizabeth to an evening out.
“Before your untimely arrival, your grace, I was about to ask Elizabeth if she was interested in accompanying me to the Sumners’ musicale this evening.”
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he sat back against the settee, his plate in his lap, his long fingers wrapped around the rim of the teacup. He thought her a coward, she knew, but she didn’t care. He touched too close to the truth, and she would run from it. No one came to know her so intimately. Isabella was possibly the only person in the world who had ever come close, but even still, her cousin did not know all.
Even Thomas, through their shared encounter of passion had never known her so well. She shared her body with him, but nothing else.
“Oh, I would love to,” Elizabeth said. “I haven’t been to a musicale in years. Adrian despises them.”
“You mistake me, Lizzy,” he said silkily as he rested his cup on the arm of the settee. He met Lucy’s gaze, and she noticed the coolness was back in his eyes. “I am inclined to enjoy them, if the company is agreeable. I would be delighted to escort you ladies.”
Like a fish out of water, Lucy floundered for a way to deny the duke. She did not want him with her this evening, did not want to sit in a carriage, or make conversation with him. She didn’t want him looking at her, and seeing her, seeing the things she tried so hard to hide.
Thankfully she hit on something that Sussex would not be able to refute. “But what of your lodge meeting tonight?” she inquired. Thank heavens her father had thought to remind her of his Freemasonry meeting. As part of the Grand Lodge, Sussex would be obliged to attend, thereby forcing him to forgo his attendance to the musicale.
Lucy gave a small smile of triumph, which faded as the duke perused her slowly.
“I think your friend would like it if I were not to attend,” he drawled, making Lucy’s face flame.
“Oh, Adrian, do not tease. Lady Lucy means nothing of the sort … she only seeks to remind you of the obvious. Tonight is lodge night.”
“Ah, yes, but one only has these special opportunities arise so infrequently. The lodge can wait, I believe. Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully as he watched her. “I think I shall send word around to Mrs. Sumner that the three of us shall be attending. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.”
And that was the end of it. Of course, Mrs. Sumner would be ecstatic to receive the Duke of Sussex. The man was a paragon in society, and every matron swooned at the thought of having the duke attend their gathering. There was no possible hope for it now. She was committed to an evening out with Sussex. And she knew very well what everyone in the ton would be speculating come the morning—that she and Sussex had an understanding.
Blast him for so easily commanding the upper hand!
“You are in for it now,” Isabella whispered into her ear. “Here is the end of your avoidance of his grace.”
Refusing to acknowledge Isabella’s outrageous, but truthful, claim, Lucy stared out the window, wondering what dreadful illness she might concoct to relieve her of the night’s invitation.
“I cannot say how excited I am,” Lizzy said with a smile that was beaming. “I adore music. One doesn’t need the gift of sight to enjoy it. And it’s been such an age since I left the house to do more than shop, or visit Isabella. Thank you, Lucy, for inviting me. What wonderful friends you and Isabella have become.”
How could she do this, deny Elizabeth an outing? Lizzy was a good friend, and Lucy was being a poor one, thinking of nothing else but her own discomfort. No, she could not do this, hurt Elizabeth. One insufferable night with his grace. She could tolerate it, if for nothing else but the enjoyment of her friend.
“Lucy and I feel very much the same, Lizzy,” Isabella added.
“Well, then,” she said, while checking the door. His grace had left for his study, and Lucy wanted to be far, far away if he decided to return to the salon. “Shall we go upstairs and choose your gown for the evening?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. You and Isabella have such a way with descriptions. I can almost see when you two are around.”
Lucy dearly wished her knack with descriptions worked with words of denial. Because she truly wished she would have found the right words to say to make the duke leave before their conversation had even started.
“But first, Lucy, I think you must take a few minutes to peruse the conservatory. We had planned on it during your last visit, and time got away from us, if I recall.”
The idea of a few stolen moments of silence and solitude lured her to agree. That was what she needed, a moment or two to gather her spiraling thoughts, and set herself to rights.
“If that would be agreeable, I would love to. There was a beautiful, bright pink flower that needs further investigation, I believe.”
“Oh, the lily. Yes, yes.” Lizzy nodded. “And wait till you smell them. Gorgeous scent—heady and exotic. I’ve asked Sussex for an accurate description, but I shan’t bore you with what he told me.”
“Well, then I am convinced that I shall give you a better description, Lizzy. I won’t be long, however.”
Together they rose, and Lucy watched as her cousin escorted Lizzy from the room, grateful for a few minutes of peace to gather her thoughts.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SILENTLY, LUCY ALL but tiptoed past the duke’s study and entered the room that was designed in the shape of an octagon. With its glass walls and ceiling, Lucy could see the gardens outside from every angle. Inside, the room was filled with a dizzying array of colors and scents, from miniature orange trees, to exotic palms. A water fountain, with its gentle cascade of water upon stones lured her, and she sat down on a rock as she trailed her fingers through the cool water, while capturing a delicate pink water lily in her palm.
Despite the gentle patter of rain against the glass ceiling, and the melancholy sky, the room was bright and uplifting—and smelled like a warm, sunny spring day. With a little sigh, Lucy allowed the quiet to blanket her, and soothe her jangled nerves.
It was the perfect place for contemplation, and she decided that if she were ever fortunate enough to be mistress of her own place, she would build such a room as this.
“You look like a woodland nymph sitting beside an enchanted pool.”
The lily dropped with a little splash, and Lucy found herself gasping in surprise, and jumping up all at once.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Sussex stood against the wall, his legs crossed as he studied her with his disconcerting gaze.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s because I was already here when you arrived.”
Glancing away, she watched the cascade of water stream over the stones, and into the fountain base. “You should have said, should have announced your presence. I … I would have left you to your privacy.”
Shrugging, he glanced away and plucked a brilliant pink lily from its stem. “It is not an unwelcome presence.”
Their gazes met across the room, through the display of flowers and shrubs and gently waving palm fronds.
Waving his hand, he indicated the room. “What do you think? A labor of love that was the pride of the previous duchess.”
“I think it lovely,” she answered truthfully. “If I had a room such as this, very little would tempt me from it.”
He smiled, and Lucy found herself momentarily disarmed by the beauty of that smile—of him.
“Perhaps one shouldn’t be tempted from this room, but tempted in it.”
This did not sound like the duke. It did not look like the duke, either. His cravat was loosened, and his hair was rumpled, as if he had been running his fingers through it. He was still wearing his dark jacket, and silver waistcoat, but she could see the wrinkles in the fine wool, the way it hung not quite as immaculately as it had when she had first seen him.
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