CHAPTER TWELVE
For the following week, Lucan rarely slept. Each night, he lingered in the gallery at Whitelock’s manor, ensuring that Frances received no unwanted visitors.
He could not account for the sudden change in him—the urgent need to ensure her safety. It was different from the others he’d helped. It was in his nature, he supposed, to want to protect those who did not look out for themselves. Yet he wasn’t even certain that Frances was in danger. Nonetheless, Lucan required daily confirmation of her safety.
And perhaps part of him merely wanted to see her.
During the days, he divided his time between his friends and locating Arthur Momper’s sister. The nights were devoted to Frances. Today, however, was the village fair. With any luck, she would be there. Perhaps seeing her in the light of day wouldn’t be as tempting.
Their exchanges had been brief during the past few meetings. Lucan didn’t dare step out of the shadows as he had the first night. Seeing her in the lamplight was all the temptation he could bear. He had to keep his distance.
They spoke in whispered conversations. She would tell him about her days but merely the events. Not her own observations. He was beginning to wonder if she was starting to see cracks in the noble façade Whitelock had created. Was the surface of his flawless statue showing signs of deterioration or rot from the inside?
Standing beside him in the music room at Fallow Hall, RJ issued a grunt as if wondering the same thing. Absently, Lucan scratched the beast behind the ears, reassuring him that all would be well. “Until I have proof, I can do nothing.”
“You wear that scowl more and more often these days.”
Lucan turned away from the window to see Danvers’s bride stroll in for her daily piano lesson. Unlike him, she wore a smile that gleamed brightly within her cornflower blue eyes. It was no hardship to grin in return. “It must have been a trick of the light.”
Hedley eyed him with speculation. Having suffered in her youth as well, she knew the root of the darkness in him better than the others. And there was no deceiving her. “One would think you’d walk around gloating each day after having won your wager against my husband and Calliope’s.”
“You are all far too happy to inspire gloating. Truly, newlyweds are the worst losers.” He feigned a grumble of disgust, but in truth, he couldn’t have been happier for them. Nonetheless, he preferred to remain cautious about revealing too much of himself.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons he was drawn to Frances. She was wary of revealing herself too.
“Even Boris has noticed a change in you,” Hedley said, petting the Beast of Fallow Hall, who would always be RJ to him. “He’s been listless as well. I think perhaps he formed an attachment to Miss Thorne, and he misses her.”
Lucan eyed his friend shrewdly. “He did not form at attachment to Miss Thorne. He barely knows her.”
“He has this uncanny ability to know when the right person—”
“Hedley,” Lucan warned.
She shrugged and sat on the bench. “We only want you to be happy. And it has nothing to do with the wager.”
“Nothing, hmm?”
She laughed and began playing the scales with a great deal of flair. “Well, not in my case. My husband, however, might want your happiness and for you to lose the wager.”
But he feared that happiness and losing the wager could never exist together. Because if he lost the wager and Hugh Thorne went to the hangman, then Lucan would never see Frances again.
The village hosted a fair in honor of Saint Etheldrea near the end of June each year. Lord Whitelock was good enough to allow the entire household time away to enjoy the afternoon. Penny, Nannette, Bess, and Mrs. Darby were amongst Frances’s group. In the week since her arrival, they’d taken her in as one of their own.
“Many couples choose this day to be married,” Nannette said as the church bells rang and a pair of newlyweds walked out from the chapel on the hill, beaming from ear to ear.
“I thought Etheldrea was a virgin saint,” Frances whispered, confused. “She managed to persuade her husband to honor her vow of chastity throughout their marriage.” Surely that couldn’t be the intention of the couples marrying on this day.
“It has more to do with our strawberries, which are abundant in this village,” Mrs. Darby said and then lowered her voice to a whisper and offered a cheeky grin. “Because the berries are covered in seeds, some believe they have a certain fertile power. Mark my words, by next March, the village will be full of babes, all fresh and new.”
Behind the churchyard, small stalls and tents outlined the open green. Jugglers and performers milled about the crowd. Unlike a London festival, the air here smelled like sweet strawberries and the fresh hay growing in the surrounding fields. While Frances missed her father and Kaye and wrote to them each day, she’d discovered that she truly enjoyed living in the country.
The people were friendlier and smiled more. There wasn’t any shoving or bustling, not even in the market. Her surroundings were idyllic too. The sounds were not of shouting and coarse language. Instead, she heard joyful cheers and children’s laughter.
She could imagine having a family in a place like this, which was surprising for her. She’d never thought to entertain that notion again. Perhaps after a time, and after her father was situated, she might find a husband in this village. A widower who wouldn’t mind a woman of her advanced years, or a shop owner in need of someone to assist him, or even—
Lucan Montwood crossed her field of vision.
He had an uncanny way of appearing just when she least expected it. Although, that wasn’t entirely true. Lately, he was more apt to appear precisely when said he would.
There was something endearing about the way he held to his promise to see her at the end of each day. Of course, she didn’t actually see him. After that first night, whenever she spoke with him, he remained in the shadows. Even so, knowing he was there filled her with a sense of peace but also restlessness too.
Eagerly, with each encounter, she waited to see if he would draw closer. The constant conflict inside her had kept her far too preoccupied. More often than not, she found herself thinking of him and wanting to see him again.
And now, here he was, lingering along the outskirts of the fair. His dark hair and a charcoal gray coat blended in with the shadows cast by the tents and stalls. He even wore a gray cravat. The color suited him remarkably well.
Loping beside him was RJ, his nose lifted high in the air as he took in all the fragrances, as if searching for his next snack.
Surreptitiously, she watched Lucan move, admiring the sureness of his gait and remembering the firm muscles she’d spotted beneath those tails that day in London. The morning seemed to grow warmer the longer she watched him. Even standing beneath the shade of a chestnut tree did not help. A droplet of perspiration slipped from beneath her bonnet and meandered down her throat.
“Miss Thorne, you must try this strawberry wine the vicar made,” Nannette said, offering a tin cup. “It’s delicious.”
Overheated and needing refreshment, Frances took a sip and then another. The sweet flavor tasted like summer in her cup. “Mmm . . . lovely.”
Above the rim, she watched Lucan lingering near a table laden with pastries. He held a shilling and flicked it with his thumb into the air before catching it. Standing near the corner of platters of strawberry tarts, buns, and scones, he leaned in. His coat stretched taut along the length of his back, displaying the breadth of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. She felt the sudden desire to turn herself into a pastry.
Then, just when she thought he would flip the coin toward the baker, he straightened and shook his head before walking on.
She felt oddly disappointed.
“These strawberries are divine,” Penny said, popping up in front of her. “You must try some, though perhaps you’ll want to remove your gloves first.”
“Oh, yes, of
course.” Not wanting to stain her best gloves, Frances slipped them off and tucked them away. Penny promptly filled her hands with warm, ripe berries. The scent teased, making her salivate. She took a bite. The sweetness burst in her mouth, flooding her taste buds. “They’re like heaven, Penny. Thank you.”
As she moved on with her group while they sampled jams, she wondered if Lucan had tasted the strawberries yet. She still kept her gaze on him.
Standing all the way across park, both he and RJ seemed to be watching something with avid interest. When she followed the path of their gazes, she saw a magician’s stall with a wall of brightly colored ribbons behind him. A bevy of girls gathered around trying to guess his trick for a prize. But there was also a young boy with a messy mop of dark hair, jumping up and down, eager for the chance to win as well. The boy held up a shiny penny. The magician tried to shoo him away several times. Apparently, the man was only interested in having girls and young women at his stall. But after it appeared the boy wouldn’t give up, the magician snatched the coin before waving his hands over the three bowls.
With a flourish, he presented a bean and summarily slipped it beneath one of the bowls. After maneuvering the bowls around and around, he gestured for the boy to choose. The boy pointed to the bowl in the middle. The magician’s lips curled in a somewhat fiendish grin as he lifted the bowl. There was no bean beneath it. Left with nothing, the boy lowered his head and walked on.
That was precisely why Frances loathed deception.
To her surprise—and then annoyance—Lucan stepped over to the magician’s stall, while RJ slipped away amidst the crowd. The girls, some of whom she recognized as maids at Lord Whitelock’s estate, giggled and blushed at whatever he said in greeting. Frances felt the urge to instruct them about proper behavior. What saved her from marching across the knoll to do just that was the way Lucan turned his attention to the magician.
Lucan tossed a coin and the man caught it handily, that fiendish grin reappearing. As before, he presented the bean with a wave of his hand and then slipped it beneath one of the bowls. He moved them around at a dizzying speed. When finished, he gestured for Lucan to choose, but Lucan shook his head. Then he gestured to the magician’s hand. A short argument ensued with the magician pointing to the bowls. Lucan turned to the surrounding coven of gigglers. After a short speech and an elegant bow, he appeared to be employing their assistance.
In the next moment, three of them reached forward and lifted one bowl each. There was no bean. Frances could hear their gasps across the park. The magician attempted a look of surprise and began searching for the lost bean until Lucan deftly captured the magician’s hand to reveal that the bean had been there all along.
Shaking their heads, the girls stormed away from the stall. Lucan gestured to the wall of ribbons and the magician handed one over reluctantly. While Frances was impressed by Lucan’s uncanny ability to spot the missing bean, she was also disappointed that he’d done all that to win a ribbon for one of the maids. Disappointed and . . . jealous. And not a mild sort either. As he left the stall and started crossing the park in the direction of the maids, hot, churning envy boiled in her stomach.
She hated herself for feeling it. He was a skilled deceiver and he’d just proven it. If she were smart, she wouldn’t give Lucan a passing thought. She would forget about that kiss and the way it felt to stand alone with him in the dark. She would—
Just when she was about to turn away, she noticed that Lucan had passed the girls and caught up with the boy instead. With a tap on the shoulder, the boy looked up, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Lucan held out two closed fists and the boy pointed to one.
In the next instant, a bright blue ribbon appeared, waving in the breeze like a banner. The boy beamed. He lifted his face to Lucan’s and received a nod. Then, as he took the ribbon, Lucan gave a penny to the boy as well.
Caught up in the boy’s elation as he scurried across the park, she watched as he approached a man pushing a woman in a Bath chair, wearing a quilt over her legs. Proudly, the boy presented the ribbon to the woman, who must have been his mother, for she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the head.
Frances felt tears sting her eyes. Lucan had outmaneuvered the magician’s trick solely for the boy?
Her heart fluttered in a queer sort of way. It wasn’t as she’d suspected at all. In fact, Lucan was turning out to be far more than she’d ever guessed. She searched for him again, only to see him slip into a red-fringed fortune-teller’s tent at the end of the row.
Unable to help herself, she made her excuses to the group and followed him. She encountered RJ along the way. He brushed beside her only long enough to receive a friendly scratch behind the ears before he moved on.
At the tent, she noted the sign hanging from a chain, indicating that the fortune-teller would return shortly. Frances listened at the flap for any sound but heard nothing. Perhaps Lucan had stepped inside and then left through another exit. She turned around to search the crowd just as a familiar long-fingered hand reached out and snatched hers, flesh to flesh. A rush ran through her as Lucan pulled her into the tent.
The flap closed behind her, blocking the daylight and muffling the noise of the crowd outside. It took a moment to clear away the splotches of light in her eyes. During that time, Lucan held on to her hand as if to steady her but kept a discreet distance. Behind him, two empty chairs sat at opposite sides of a small round table draped in deep velvets and silks. The air was thick and heady with incense. And they were completely alone.
Suddenly, the contact of her hand in his seemed far more intimate.
“You’re following me, Miss Thorne.”
Yes. She’d followed him because he’d surprised her and because she needed to know more about this man.
“Perhaps I want my fortune told,” she said, her focus on the feel of his warm flesh against hers. She turned her wrist, shifting slightly to thread her fingers through his until they were palm to palm. The rough callused pads below his fingers elicited tingles through her body. A sense of longing stirred. It had been nearly a week since he’d last touched her. Until now, she hadn’t realized how desperately she’d missed the contact.
Lucan tightened his grip. In that small gesture, he revealed so much. Perhaps he’d missed touching her as well. Then, stepping in front of her, he reached down for her other hand and lifted it. He turned her wrist so that her palm faced his gaze. But he wasn’t looking at her hand. He was looking at her. There was not enough light to illuminate the amber in his irises. That must have been why they appeared dark, rimmed only with a thin halo of pale color. His thumb stroked the dewy surface of her palm, eliciting spears of pleasure along every nerve inside her.
“I see a long life of passion.” Lifting her hand higher, his mouth took the place of his thumb, his gaze never leaving hers. The tip of his tongue traced the long horizontal line directly above the hollow of her palm. His teeth scraped the fleshy pad above.
She inhaled sharply. Her body clenched in a swift but almost sweet pain. A steady, throbbing pulse forced her to press her thighs together. Yet what she really wanted was to feel him . . . there.
“But not until you leave Whitelock’s employ,” he added before lowering her hand. While his gaze remained fixed on hers, his jaw hardened with resolve.
At seven and twenty, she was far more eager for passion than unwanted advice. She did not care for his tender manipulation. With a grumble of frustration, she slipped both her hands free and took a step back.
“Have you proof, then? Or are you still trying to poison my mind into seeing lechery where there is goodness?”
“Proof has a tendency to reveal itself past the eleventh hour,” Lucan said, clenching his jaw so hard that a muscle twitched.
A frisson of apprehension tore through her at his dire warning. There was so much she did not know about his past. It was telling, however, that he’d publicly sided with her father instead of his own family. “If I knew the nature of your q
ualms, perhaps I could better listen to your warning.”
He searched her gaze, his expression unreadable.
Believing that doubt was the cause for his delay in responding, she added, “I’ve spent a goodly number of years discovering all manner of sordid tales. I can assure you that I am the last person to defend someone when I believe them of wrongdoing.”
“Then you are keeping a watchful eye, still, and have not been persuaded by the appearance of good?” His brows lifted, waiting for her answer. He even seemed to be holding his breath.
The unabashed concern she witnessed stole her breath. Was it possible that his warning did not come solely from an obligation to her father? That, perhaps, he cared for her? Though, after witnessing what he’d done for the boy, she wondered if he felt an obligation to protect everyone he encountered. There was no reason to believe she was anything special. But that’s exactly what she wanted to believe.
She took a moment to weigh her response. “As of yet, I have not been swayed to either side.”
“Though perhaps you are listing to my side now? Before, you refused to hear me at all.” Lifting a hand, he grazed his knuckles along the edge of his jaw. A smirk toyed with his dimple.
He saw through her too easily.
“I heard you.” Yet she wasn’t ready to reveal the change occurring within her. “I credit the reason to your unpleasant tone. It has a grating quality that is impossible silence.”
The full force of his grin flashed at her and in that moment, she wondered if he’d already noticed the change. “Then I will be cautious of what I reveal.”
“And you are not cautious already?” she scoffed. “You reveal so little as it is.”
Lucan propped a shoulder against the center pole of the tent and stared down at a crown he now rolled over his fingers. “Perhaps there is a reason.”
“Of course there is a reason. We all have our own, do we not?” How could he look at her with such heat in one moment, concern in another, and yet still treat her as if she were a stranger? She’d confessed private thoughts to him regarding her mother and Roger Quinlin, albeit unexpectedly. Yet Lucan did not confide in her. He didn’t even tell her the root of his suspicions against Lord Whitelock.
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 14