by Anna Bradley
No question at all.
That elusive smile of his twitched at the corners of his lips at her unexpected outburst, and a peculiar, fluttering weakness rose from her knees to her belly—
No, no. This wouldn’t do. Her feelings for him were sisterly. No question about that, and it was delightful, really, because hadn’t she always wanted a brother?
His hands tightened on her shoulders. “You didn’t answer my question. Where did you go? I know you weren’t in the ladies’ retiring room, because I sent Isla to look for you there.”
He had? That was…surprising. He took his role as protective brother more seriously than she’d thought. “Yes, all right. It’s nothing so awful. I went and rested in Lady Bagshot’s library for a little while.”
It was a trick she’d learned from Violet, who’d spent a good part of her own season hiding in one library or another. Even now, Violet insisted one could discover a great deal about a person from snooping through their books.
Hyacinth expected this information to soothe Lachlan, but he was frowning down at her, looking anything but soothed. “You went to the library alone? That’s not safe.”
“Not safe? That’s absurd. What place could be safer than a library?”
“You can’t be as naïve as that. Do you think there wasn’t a single rake among all those fine English peers at the ball tonight? What if one of them had followed you? No one knew where you were, and no one would have heard you if you cried out.”
Rakes, stalking young ladies, then leaping upon them in dusty libraries? It sounded a bit far-fetched to Hyacinth. “My grandmother knew where I was—”
“But I didn’t know. I had no idea where you were, and Lady Chase had gone off to the supper room by the time I missed you. Anything could have happened to you in that amount of time.”
Hyacinth stared at him in shock. He’d released her shoulders and was pacing from one end of the entryway to the other, his hand gripping his hair in agitation. “I—I’m sorry. I n-never meant to worry you. I suppose I wasn’t th-thinking.”
He stopped in front of her and grasped her shoulders again. “I told you I’d watch over you this season. Did you think I didn’t mean it?”
“No, of course not. I just didn’t think…” she trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
I didn’t think you’d notice if I was gone.
That he had noticed felt strange, and not in a way she’d ever experienced before. She couldn’t say what the fluttery feeling in her chest meant, but it didn’t feel sisterly.
“Before Lady Huntington left for Buckinghamshire, I promised her I’d take care of you. I made you the same promise. Do you think I’m not a man of my word?”
Hyacinth laid a hand on his arm, appalled to see he looked offended, or worse, hurt. “No, of course I don’t think that. I’m sorry, Lachlan. Truly. I won’t disappear again.”
After a pause he nodded, and then they stood for an endless moment in an awkward silence, until Lachlan released a heavy sigh. “That business with Lady Joanna—what was that about? I could tell you weren’t prepared for her attack.”
She was quiet for a moment, then, “No, but perhaps I should have been. I knew the ton would punish someone for the scandal. Now I think on it, it makes sense it would be me, as I was the one who made the false accusation. If Lady Joanna hadn’t tormented me, someone else would have.”
“Is Lady Joanna that spiteful with everyone?”
“I won’t quite say that, but she’s not precisely delightful company, either. She dislikes all the Somersets, but her particular grudge is with Iris.”
“For what?”
Hyacinth sighed. “Iris was the undisputed belle of her season, and many young ladies felt eclipsed by her, Lady Joanna among them. Then Iris had the temerity to go on to become the Marchioness of Huntington. Unforgivable, especially for a lady new to London, and one without a title.”
“Is that all?” Lachlan’s lip curled. “Lady Joanna nearly took your head off because Iris was a belle, and married a marquess?”
“No, there was something else to it, as well—something to do with Finn thrashing Lady Joanna’s brother.”
“Finn thrashed her brother?” Lachlan’s eyebrows shot up. “Two English noblemen, rolling about in the dust? I wish I’d seen that. Why did he thrash him?”
Hyacinth tapped her lip, thinking. “I’m not entirely sure. I was in Brighton with my grandmother at the time, so I didn’t see it, but it was something to do with Iris and a horse race. Lord Claire nearly unseated Iris, and Finn fell into a fury and thrashed Lord Claire. Now I think on it, no one ever explained to me what happened.”
That was a common enough occurrence. Her sisters and grandmother tended to avoid telling her any news they thought would distress her. She didn’t recall it ever bothering her before, but for pity’s sake, marquesses didn’t thrash earls every day, did they? How was it she hadn’t demanded more details?
“But why should Lady Joanna punish you for something to do with Iris?” Lachlan asked. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, she has to punish someone, and Iris would never allow…”
Iris would never allow Lady Joanna to belittle her.
But Hyacinth would. She had.
Lady Joanna would never have dared to be as vicious to Iris as she’d been to Hyacinth tonight, and yet Hyacinth hadn’t said a word to defend herself.
“Iris would never have allowed what?”
Lachlan was so close now she had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes, and she could see by the intent way he held her gaze he already knew the answer. “You know what.”
“I want you to say it.”
She pushed out a sigh so deep it burned as it left her chest. “Iris would never allow anyone to speak to her in such a way, and Lady Joanna knows very well how to choose her victim.”
He looked down at her for a long moment, then gave a slow shake of his head. “She can’t make you her victim unless you let her, Hyacinth.”
There it was again, written plainly across his face.
Disappointment.
“I kept waiting for you to stand up for yourself, but you never did.”
“I don’t remember how, or…perhaps I never knew.” Hyacinth’s gaze dropped to the floor, her cheeks burning with shame. Her struggle tonight hadn’t really been against Lady Joanna. It had been against herself. She’d lost similar battles before, but somehow this failure cut more deeply than the others, because for the first time in as long as she could remember, someone had expected more from her, and she’d disappointed him.
He tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. “Lady Huntington told me you were shy even as a child, but it’s more than shyness now, isn’t it?”
Hyacinth stared up into those knowing hazel eyes, and wondered why Lachlan Ramsey, of all people, should be the only person to understand this about her. Her sisters, her grandmother, her own family—none of them ever questioned her failings. They simply worked around them, and she’d learned to do the same. She no longer knew anymore whether she’d taught them to expect so little of her, or if they’d taught her to expect so little of herself.
But it hardly mattered, did it? Either way, the result was the same.
Two inches of space. No more than that, and it was growing narrower every day. Her life was being whittled down to a sliver while she was ducking behind columns and hiding in libraries.
“Yes, it’s more than shyness. I don’t know how it happened, or why, or even when, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like two people. There’s the timid Hyacinth everyone knows, and then the other, braver Hyacinth.”
His lips quirked. “I know her. She’s the one who called me an ass.”
Hyacinth’s cheeks heated. “Yes, she did. She’s…a trifle unruly, I’m afraid.”
That Hyacinth had ideas. She had opinions. That Hyacinth had a quick temper, and a wicked sense of humor, and she had mouthfuls of words. But it had always been so difficult to say them—such a struggle to get her words past her stammer, at some point she’d simply stopped trying, until that Hyacinth had been reduced to nothing more than a voice in her head.
How long would it be, before she disappeared entirely?
“But then that’s the way of things, isn’t it?” She whispered the words aloud, but she was talking to herself more than Lachlan. “We lose ourselves along the way. At first it’s just a small thing—a tiny wager, a single coin. But then it becomes another, and then another, and it happens so slowly—just one coin at a time—by the time you realize your danger, it’s too late. You’ve given it all up, and all your coins are gone.”
His fingers tightened on her chin. “Not always. Sometimes a risk pays off, and you get back something you need.”
Something you need…
Gold-flecked hazel eyes. A warm, rough fingertip against her skin. An elusive, surprisingly vulnerable, hide-and-seek smile.
Or something you want.
Hyacinth stared up at him, mesmerized. Did he realize the gold flecks in his eyes glowed when he was agitated? Or that the fall of his dark hair over his brow made him look almost boyish, despite his intimidating size, and the way he vibrated with raw intensity?
Did he know he made her entire body vibrate in response?
Perhaps he did, because as he stared down at her, there was a subtle shift in his expression. It might have been imperceptible to anyone else, but Hyacinth saw it. His mouth softened, and his eyelids grew heavy over eyes gone suddenly dark.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Then, slowly—oh, so agonizingly slowly she wasn’t sure he was moving at all until she felt his touch—he slid his hands over her neck and stroked the rough pads of his thumbs across her jaw.
She sighed softly. His gaze dropped to her parted lips, and then he was moving closer, his mouth descending toward hers, and she was trembling in anticipation, her eyes drifting closed…
Oh, so soft. His lips were so much softer than she’d dreamed they’d be.
Because she had dreamed of them. Of him, and his kiss. She hadn’t admitted it to herself until the moment his lips met hers, so careful at first, so gentle, just the lightest brush against one corner of her mouth, then the other. They were tiny, restrained kisses, but they deepened when a whimper tore from her throat, and she rose onto her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck.
“Hyacinth…” A hoarse whisper in her ear, her name both a plea and a warning at once, but she didn’t heed it. She held him tightly, stroking her lips over his again and again until at last he let out a tortured moan, and took her mouth harder, teasing the tip of his tongue at the seam of her lips until she opened for him.
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he dragged her closer, his mouth plundering hers. His tongue was hot and demanding as he stroked into all the empty spaces inside her—the ones she knew about, and the ones she didn’t. She clung to him, her knees weak, and her belly quivering with desire.
He dragged his lips over her throat, her neck, across the tops of her breasts. His kisses were desperate, as if he thought she’d be torn from his arms at any moment, and wanted to taste every inch of her skin while he still had the chance. But even as he devoured her, he was whispering to her, his voice strained, breathless, “Hyacinth, we can’t…”
Her heart gave a fierce throb of protest as he began to pull away from her. She buried her hands in his hair, but it did no good. He raised his head, and her eyes popped open just as he took a step back, away from her.
And dear God, she’d never been so disappointed in her entire life. Her heart, bursting with hope only moments before, dropped like a wounded bird into the pit of her stomach.
No, don’t stop. I don’t want a brother, after all.
But Lachlan had already drawn away, so far away even one of his long arms couldn’t stretch across the chasm he’d put between them, and the boldness that had made her demand his kiss curled in on itself, and burned into nothingness.
* * * *
Whatever cold, black remnant of his heart remained, Hyacinth Somerset was breaking it.
He couldn’t bear to see her always hovering on the edges, like a shivering, hungry child standing on a freezing sidewalk, her nose pressed against the window, looking in on a room filled with the warmth and light of a roaring fire—a child who wanted to come inside, but couldn’t quite find her way. What kind of hard-hearted scoundrel could stand about and do nothing while a child froze to death?
Not him. As little as a week ago Lachlan would have said he was just the scoundrel for the job, but she’d made that shriveled organ in his chest creak to life again, shuddering and protesting with every beat.
But Hyacinth Somerset was no child.
She was a woman—a woman with wide blue eyes and soft, plump pink lips, with skin that begged to be touched, and curves that pleaded for the stroke of a man’s hands.
His hands.
How like him, to want to steal all her sweetness for himself. A sweetness he had no right to, and didn’t deserve. He’d done wicked things in his life before—things he regretted, and things he was ashamed of, but to take something so sweet…
It was unforgivable, like ripping the wings off an angel.
An angel who also happened to be his new brother’s sister-in-law. A new brother Lachlan was growing fond of, and one who, apparently, wouldn’t hesitate to thrash him if he laid one finger on Hyacinth.
It wouldn’t be one finger, either. No, it would be all his fingers, and fingers would lead to other appendages, because once he touched her, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Hyacinth wasn’t Mary Mackenzie, and he was no longer a twelve-year old boy. He was a man, well past the point of an innocent flirtation, and God knew there was nothing about Hyacinth that made him feel innocent.
Christ. He’d kissed her, and she needed to be kissed more than any woman he’d ever known. Kissed and stroked and treasured, until she saw herself as he saw her.
Perfect. Beautiful.
He wasn’t the scoundrel for that job, either, but the thought of anyone else kissing her made him want to rip a gaping hole in the sky.
In every way in which it was possible for a woman to be untouchable, Hyacinth Somerset was untouchable to him, and yet he couldn’t just avoid her. No, in a vicious twist of fate that was no doubt a punishment for his many sins, the only lady he couldn’t touch—the one lady who tempted him more than any other lady ever had—was the same lady he’d vowed to protect.
Even if it meant protecting her from himself.
For an entire season. Weeks of dancing with her at balls, and riding with her in close carriages. Weeks of gazing into those dark blue eyes, and weeks of trying not to gaze at those maddening lips.
Weeks of sensual torture.
And he’d bear it. He suppress every lustful urge, and he’d do it without a word of complaint. She’d been forced to put up with Lady Joanna’s insults tonight because of him. He’d coaxed her into going ahead with her season, and he wasn’t going to abandon her now.
“Lachlan? My grandmother is still in the carriage.”
Lachlan jerked his attention back to Hyacinth, suddenly aware he hadn’t said a single word in more than five minutes. He ached to take her in his arms again. Even now his eyes refused to leave her face, and his body wouldn’t obey his command to back further away from her. Jesus, at this rate he’d tip over into madness before the end of the season. “No more hiding in the library, Hyacinth, and no more surrendering to Lady Joanna. Promise it.”
Lachlan winced at the hard edge in his voice. He hadn’t meant to sound so severe, but there was safety in retreating into the roughness he knew so well.
Her eyes went wide,
but then she dropped her gaze entirely. When she spoke, her voice sounded small. “I promise. I-I think we’d better fetch my g-grandmother from the carriage now.”
Lachlan dragged a hand down his face, remorse washing through him when he heard her stammer. She’d had a miserable evening, and he wasn’t sure how he’d prevent it from happening again. He understood fists and blood, and how to bring a man to his knees with a single blow, but whispers and sneers, and the ton’s sophisticated malice? He hadn’t any idea how to protect her from that sort of cruelty.
“I’ll go at once.” He strode outside to the carriage, roused Lady Chase and escorted her into the entryway.
“Oh, there you are, dear.” Lady Chase released Lachlan’s arm and took Hyacinth’s elbow. “Well, well. I don’t know how Lady Bagshot always contrives to have such exhausting balls, but there it is. Good night, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Good night, Lady Chase, Miss Somerset.”
Hyacinth didn’t reply, and when he straightened from his bow, she’d already turned away, and was leading her grandmother up the stairs. She looked smaller to him, as if the massive staircase were swallowing her, and her frame seemed too slight to bear Lady Chase’s weight. A surge of sudden, fierce protectiveness shot through him, and before he was aware of what he was doing, he’d climbed half a dozen stairs after her. He made it to the first landing before he came back to his senses, and trudged back down to the entryway, and outside into the cold.
It was late. A fine, wet mist hung over the drive, and the coachman was waiting to take him back to Grosvenor Street, but Lachlan took a moment to lean back against the closed door, and draw a few cold breaths of air into his lungs.
He’d never felt anything like that sudden, mindless stab of emotion in his stomach when he’d charged up the stairs after Hyacinth. Reason had abandoned him, pushed aside by pure instinct.
Whatever he’d been feeling in that moment, it wasn’t brotherly.
But it would be. He’d make it be, no matter what he had to do.
Only a devil ripped the wings off an angel.