She sighed and leaned against the stone railing. It had been such a lovely evening. Even under Lady Stanley’s scrutiny, she’d felt confident and self-assured, bolstered by Lord Mandeville’s voiced approval. It was obvious that some weren’t convinced and would never accept her talents as ladylike, especially for a girl of questionable breeding. But why should she care what they thought?
No, the night’s only disappointment had been the look on Susanna’s face when Lady Worthington had asked Henry to escort her in to dinner. The unhappiness in her friend’s eyes had pained her greatly. Even worse, Lucy had found that she all but forgot Susanna as the evening progressed. Only after they’d come upstairs to retire had she been reminded of her friend’s discontent. Susanna had looked to her with a mixture of surprise and distrust, as if she recognized that something had changed between her and Lord Mandeville.
Of course, Lucy could not put her finger on just what it was, but she felt certain that something had indeed changed. She knew she should speak with Susanna, try to set her mind at ease, but she found she couldn’t. Like a coward, she’d refused to meet Susanna’s gaze and hurried off to her own bedchamber, glad she had a room to herself, several doors down from the Rosemoor girls’.
What was she going to do for the next two days? She shivered, even though the air was warm. She should go to bed. No use staying up all night worrying over it. She turned and reached for the door leading back inside, and was suddenly startled by a voice below.
“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” It was Lord Mandeville on the lawn, kneeling in the grass on one knee with his hand placed dramatically across his breast. “It is the east, and Lucy is the sun.”
Lucy put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, but she could not help but join in the jest. Whatever was he doing out there under cover of night?
“What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?” she said.
He looked surprised as he rose to his feet. “You know Shakespeare?”
“Of course. I told you I was a bit of a bluestocking. Besides, my lord, it’s not as if you’ve chosen something obscure.”
“Well, then, perhaps I should I try some Troilus and Cressida.”
“You can if you must, but I’m afraid it’s not as fitting.”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right. It’s practically the middle of the night, you know. Could you not sleep?”
“No, I was restless. I needed some air. And you?”
“Restless as well. I was out walking in the garden when I thought I saw a flicker of light.”
“My candle.” She held up the taper.
“I had to investigate, especially once I saw it was you. You look so lovely standing there like that.”
Lucy looked down at her dressing gown, and pulled it tightly about herself. Dear Lord, she was standing there in her nightclothes. “I should go in. This isn’t proper.” Her stomach lurched at the thought of discovery.
“No, don’t go. Not yet. I love your hair loose like that. It reminds me of the very first time I laid eyes on you, at Glenfield. I thought perhaps you were a servant of some sort.”
Lucy laughed. “It must have been shocking, to find me attired as I was.”
“Why is it, do you think, that ladies must always have their hair bound up, covered with silly caps or bonnets?”
“I don’t know. I don’t often question such things.”
“Yet you often disregard such rules of propriety.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m going to be a spinster, after all, so what does it matter?”
“Why must you be a spinster?”
“Why so many questions?” She couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m only asking since you have so many ardent suitors.”
“Oh, that.” Lucy waved a hand dismissively. She couldn’t take any of them seriously. “That isn’t real, my lord. Truly, they don’t know me at all. They only know the illusion that I present for their benefit.”
For a moment Henry allowed himself to wonder if the Lucy he knew was the illusion instead. “Nevertheless, I’m sure you could wed a duke if you so desired.”
“Yes, and give up what I love most? As I’ve said many times, I’ll never do it. I thought you, my lord, knew me better than that.”
“I confess I’m not sure what I know where you are concerned. I do know, however, that you look like a vision standing there, your hair a golden halo. Perhaps I’m only dreaming. I will wake in my bed only to find this never happened at all.”
“This is no dream, I assure you. Really, Lord Mandeville, I must go in at once. This is most improper. What if someone were to see us?”
“Well, what if they did see us? This is my sister’s house, after all. They won’t throw me out on the street.”
“But my reputation.”
“Of course, you’re right. I mustn’t forget your reputation. I will leave you, then, but first you must promise me one thing.”
“Oh, all right. Tell me. What must I promise?”
“Tomorrow, after dinner, meet me in the meadow. We’ll steal away for a ride. Perhaps I’ll show you that abandoned cottage.”“No, absolutely not. Have you lost your senses? I cannot do that.” It was unthinkable.
“I shall stand here all night until you agree.”
“I’ll go inside at once, then.” She turned and started to do as she threatened.
“Then I shall be forced to serenade you,” he called up. “Loudly and most off-key. It will be quite embarrassing for both of us, I assure you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Would he?
“I most certainly would dare.”
He looked as if he might. “Oh, all right. I promise I shall try.”
“And wear your hair loose like that.”
“Will you leave at once if I say I will?”
“Absolutely.”
“Yes, then. Now go. Good night, my lord,” she called down with an easy laugh. “A thousand times good night.” Lucy hurried inside and blew out the candle, sure she had been dreaming herself.
***
“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Worthington, I’m suffering a terrible headache. I’m afraid I shall have to miss dessert. Aunt Agatha,” she turned to her aunt with a frown as the woman started to rise and follow her out of the dining room. “Please, stay. Enjoy the evening. I’m going straight to bed. Bridgette can see to me.”
“Are you certain, dear? You do look a bit peaked.”
“I’m certain. I just need some rest.” She’d never before lied so outrageously to her aunt. In all her antics, all her disregard of propriety, she’d never before done something so dangerous, so scandalous, as this.
She hurried to her room and gratefully accepted the cool cloth Bridgette laid across her brow before the maid disappeared back to her own quarters. The day’s worth of nervous anticipation had made her head begin to ache. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered just how she’d managed to make it through the day. She’d awakened at dawn and paced the room whilst she waited for the rest of the house to stir and go down to breakfast. Somehow she’d forced herself to eat a bite or two, and then joined Lady Worthington and several other ladies for a tour of the baroness’ greenhouse and orangerie.
Henry hadn’t appeared at lunch, and she’d been almost grateful to Lady Charlotte when the dreadful girl had politely inquired about his absence. Lady Worthington had claimed he had business to attend to in Oxford and would return the following day. Was it true, she’d wondered? Had he forgotten their assignation? Or perhaps this was part of his plan, an excuse for his absence.
She spent the better part of the afternoon enthusiastically engaged in a game of pall-mall on the lawn. She had hoped it would pass the time and divert her thoughts, and she had been delighted to find that it had. She’d paired up with Colin and they’d effectively trounced the competition, but the highlight of the game was watching the way Susanna flirted openly with Mr. Richard Merrill. Susanna seemed qui
te taken by the handsome youth who had been her dinner partner last night. Lucy and Jane had giggled and nudged each other a dozen times while Colin had rolled his eyes, watching Susanna and Mr. Merrill eye each other like shy colts.
Dinner had been pleasant enough, though she’d done nothing more than push her food about her plate and watch the clock. And now the moment had arrived. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Would she really do it? Would she meet him? The question had been nagging at her all day. No use continuing to ignore it. Her stomach fluttered nervously. She wasn’t a fool. She knew that it was likely to be more than innocent ride.
While her conscience screamed no, her heart quietly persisted, and she felt herself capitulating. There was no longer any use in denying that she was eager for his kiss, his touch. She wanted it desperately. But was she willing to become his mistress? Because, she reminded herself, that’s all she would be to him if she gave up her virtue.
She reached up to cover her eyes with the back of one wrist. How had it come to this? What would her papa think if he knew his daughter was considering giving herself to a man who would never marry her? Her dear mama would turn in her grave at the thought. Her cheeks burned with shame.
And yet...and yet she going to do it, wasn’t she? She was going to meet him. She tried to think of it as an adventure.
Besides, perhaps he wouldn’t show. Perhaps her imagination was running wild and he did intend an innocent ride and nothing more. Either way, she wasn’t going to shy away from the challenge, not this time. She would return home soon enough, never again to see him. The memory of his touch would have to sustain her for a lifetime. She pressed her fingers to her temples as her head throbbed painfully.
She threw the cloth off her forehead and stood on wobbly legs. Crossing to the vanity, she stood peering at her reflection in the mirror. She did look a little pale. She reached up to pinch her cheeks. There, that was better. Her hair had been arranged in a simple arrangement, one that could be easily undone with the removal of a few strategic pins.
It was time to go. She gathered her cloak and hurried out to the stables where she requested Thunder. As she galloped down the lane, the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. She slowed her mount as she reached the meadow. Glancing around one last time to make sure no one was about, she reached up and released her hair from its pins. She shook her head and felt the weight of her tresses upon her shoulders.
Was he there? Digging a heel into Thunder’s side, she led her horse toward the brook as the last light of day painted the sky with wide swaths of brilliant color.
And then she spotted him, sitting on the ground. One long, breeches-clad leg was stretched out in front of him and the other was bent at the knee, the sole of his boot resting on the grass. Reclining on one elbow, he held a sketch pad in his hands, his brows drawn together in rapt concentration. The tight fit of his fawn-colored breeches accentuated his powerfully built legs, and she could see the muscles in his forearm ripple as he worked. Something fluttered in her abdomen at the sight of him.
She dismounted a distance away and led her horse to a wizened old oak where Henry’s own mount grazed. Clearing her throat uncomfortably, she ambled his way. The sheer delight, the unmasked happiness that she saw in his face when he looked up at her set her head spinning, her heart racing, her palms sweating.
Dear God, whatever was she doing?
Henry blinked, hardly able to believe it. He was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. Had he conjured her image there with his sketch? He looked down at the page lying before him and then back up at the vision of loveliness standing before him in lavender, her glorious hair falling loose about her shoulders. She took a few hesitant steps toward him and he was paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at her. He hadn’t thought she’d come.
Finally, he reached a hand out to her. She took it and sat gracefully beside him, tucking her legs beneath her as she leaned curiously over his pad.
“What are you drawing out here in the twilight?” Her voice sounded stilted, forced.
“You,” he said simply, and picked up the pad and handed it to her.
He heard her gasp as her eyes scanned the page.
“It’s...it’s beautiful, my lord. I was right, then. It was me...” Her voice trailed off but he noted the amusement in her tone.
“Of course. You’re my muse. I’ve started two canvasses already from my sketches. They’re back at Mandeville House. James says this is my most accomplished work to date, and I have you to thank for that.” He reached up to brush her hair back from her face with his fingertips.
She flipped through the pages, her mouth pursed and her eyes wide. “These aren’t the drawings of an amateur, Lord Mandeville. They are precise, captivating. You’re truly gifted. These should be displayed somewhere.”
“No, I draw only for myself. I’ve shown no one, no one but James and Eleanor. And now you.” He playfully tapped her on the nose. What an adorable little nose it was.
“I’m touched,” she said, and even in the fading light he could see her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Truly I am.”
“Besides, what would people think if they knew I’d drawn such intimate portraits of you?” Henry smiled, remembering how swiftly James had come to the conclusion that she was his mistress. As would the entire ton, were they to see these.
Lucy’s cheeks colored. “I suppose you’re right,” she murmured. “But this James Frasier—he must be an extraordinary teacher to have such an accomplished student.”
“He is indeed, and I had plenty of time as a child to hone my craft. It occupied most of my hours, when I wasn’t in the schoolroom.”
Lucy looked up at him with curious eyes. “Tell me about your childhood, my lord.”
He looked up at the sky, now dotted with twinkling stars. “Believe me, you don’t want to hear it.”
“But I do. You said you were ill. You look so healthy and strong that it’s hard to imagine you unwell.”
His whole body tensed at her words. And then all at once, the tension disappeared. He wanted to tell her—had to tell her—everything. Never in his life had he so desperately wanted someone to understand him.
He took a deep breath and began his tale with the memory that plagued him most, that sordid spectacle in the maze and his mother’s cruel words.
Lucy felt ill just listening to his words. “That’s dreadful,” she said. “I can’t even imagine...” She trailed off, trying to imagine how a boy of twelve would feel to see his own mother in such a terribly compromising position. The blood rose in her face at once, her anger piqued.
“Oh, there’s more. Much more. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Lucy could only nod.
“I became frightened of the dark when I was no more than four. I woke up screaming several nights in a row, and finally the nurse went to my mother and told her. She thought my fear unmanly and sought to cure me of it in her own fashion—locking me in her trunk for what seemed like hours. She’d laugh while I gasped for air and screamed desperately, often until my voice was gone. At first my father protested her methods but she convinced him it was for the best, and he didn’t press it. He didn’t want to anger her. It became her favorite method of punishment, locking me in the trunk. I crept around the house, never knowing what misdeed would earn me the privilege of nearly suffocating to death. It’s a wonder my lungs never burst. You can bet the nurse never again told my mother anything of that nature.”
Lucy covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “But how...how could a mother treat her own flesh and blood so cruelly?” She dropped her hands and looked up at him with troubled eyes. What woman would want to torture her child that way, especially one so delicate? Now it made sense, it all made sense. How could Henry ever trust a woman when the one who brought him into this world—the one who was supposed to love him unconditionally—had denied him those assurances?
He shrugged. “Apparently my birth was painful and she suffered g
reatly. Eleanor was born first, you see, the strong, healthy twin. I came minutes later, breech, tiny and frail. Her only son, my father’s heir, sickly and weak. She was left unable to bear another child.”
“But that wasn’t your fault.” She reached for his hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I know. She’s a cold woman, Lucy. Cold and hateful. She had high aspirations for my father. He was brilliant, Lucy, the most brilliant man I’ve known. He was a serious student of philosophy, with progressive ideas on society and education. He was a poet, too—he could cast a spell with words. He could have influenced great changes in Parliament if he’d applied himself to it. He should have been a powerful man, an influential man. I’m sure my mother hoped that he would be. She covets wealth and position, things my father’s influence could provide her, but it was never enough.
“Besides, he didn’t care about any of that. He rarely took his seat in Parliament, hardly went to Town at all. I was his excuse for remaining in the country year in and year out. I’m sure in truth it had more to do with the fact that my mother cuckolded him at every given opportunity. My father wanted desperately to believe that she loved him as much as he loved her, and he didn’t want to provide her with opportunities to prove that she did not.” He rose and began pacing back and forth before her, not meeting her eyes.
She clenched her fists. “It was unfair of him to use you as an excuse.” Perhaps Lord Mandeville was willing to place all the blame on his mother, but she felt his father had failed him, too.
Unlaced (Undone by Love Book 1) Page 19