Someone to Love

by Cheryl Holt

  To her astonishment and delight, Luke was standing there, and she suffered a trill of pleasure. How had he found her? What could he want?

  Since they’d parted the prior evening, she’d been mooning over him every minute. It was a disgusting admission, but apparently, she’d been totally bowled over for once.

  A peculiar spark had flared between them, and she’d been eager to linger in order to see how hot it might burn. She was never stupid about men though, so she’d forced herself to depart, but she couldn’t deny that she’d been yearning to meet him again.

  He was more handsome than she recalled, wearing another black formal suit, an exquisite cravat knotted at his throat. He was displaying quite a bit of jewelry, and it glittered in the lamplight. She suspected the stones—as opposed to her fake ones—were real diamonds.

  His torrid gaze landed on her, and he grinned a devil’s grin that—if she’d been a fragile type of female—might have left her weak in the knees.

  “My goodness!” he said like a complaint. “If it isn’t Little Libby Carstairs, Mystery Girl of the Caribbean!”

  “Hello, Lucas/Luke.”

  “When we chatted last night, you might have warned me that you are a celebrity who’s taken London by storm. I would have been much more impressed. I was incredibly overwhelmed when I simply deemed you to be exquisite. I didn’t realize you would turn out to be so vastly extraordinary.”

  “I’m not a celebrity,” she felt compelled to state, “and I have never stormed anywhere.”

  “I beg to disagree. People in the seats around me couldn’t stop raving about you.”

  “Were you in the theater just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you saw my performance.”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  She hadn’t noticed him and was glad she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have been able to focus on her lyrics and lines.

  “What did you think?” she asked.

  “It was a tad maudlin for my tastes.”

  “Then you probably shouldn’t watch me in the future. I have hundreds of vignettes just like it. They scarcely vary from night to night.”

  “Such a tragic story!” There was a teasing glint in his eye. “Such a tale of woe! I was extremely moved by it.”

  “Liar.”

  “Do you make a good living from telling strangers about your disastrous past?”

  “I make a fair living.”

  She didn’t add that it fluctuated widely, by season and town and area of the country. It depended on the kind of group they’d joined, the reputation of the troupe, the split of the money paid to the actors. It hadn’t always been posh theaters and high-born audiences.

  She was often weary, but she was never bored, and she’d never been hungry.

  He was staring at her as if he’d like to gobble her up, and the air was charged with the perception that any wild behavior might be allowed.

  She nervously clutched the lapels of her robe, the instinctive gesture reminding her that she wasn’t dressed. She’d grown up on the stage, so she wasn’t squeamish about being viewed in her current condition, but she’d never previously permitted herself to be caught in such a scandalous situation.

  She only greeted admirers when she was fully styled and coifed for maximum effect. It was all part of her act to keep men besotted and wondering what chance they might ultimately have with her. The answer had always been, no chance at all, but they never believed that.

  He started toward her, and she commanded, “Stay where you are, you bounder!”

  “I don’t think I will.”

  She dashed into the closet, but there was no rear exit, so she had nowhere to go. He scooped her to his chest and wedged her against a dresser, then he kissed her as if they’d been lovers for years, as if he had every right.

  He might have been possessed. His hands were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, and his palms roamed over her torso. His masculine frame was crushed to her more feminine one. His belly was flat, his thighs hard and muscled. As she snuggled with him, she felt petite and vulnerable, as if she’d been in dire need of his help and was finally about to receive it.

  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. She was no trembling ninny, and she knew how to kiss a man. He was quite adept at it too, and it occurred to her that the fellows who’d dared to proceed in the past had been tepid and cautious.

  He was fierce, blatant, and brazen, and she was quickly overwhelmed.

  She’d been told blunt secrets about private conduct. Fish had never thought a girl should be kept in the dark about sexual matters, so she’d been very candid as to what was expected in the bedchamber. Libby had learned all sorts of things she shouldn’t, and with Luke proving himself to be very skilled at seduction, she was suddenly considering dissipation she had no business considering.

  With her clothes off and her wearing just her robe, chemise, and drawers, it seemed as if she was naked. It had her wishing she was wanton, that she’d paid more attention when Fish had been clarifying the woman’s role in a tryst.

  Down below, there was obvious carnal evidence of how she’d enticed him, how his body was inflamed by their proximity. He was pressing his loins into hers in a delicious rhythm that stunned and thrilled her. Her anatomy recognized the road he was determined to walk and joined in with incredible vigor.

  She couldn’t guess how long they continued. Nor could she predict what might have happened, but he was better at controlling himself than she was. If it had been left up to her, there was no telling what wickedness she might have pursued.

  He slowed and drew away, and he peered down at her with such affection that she was exceedingly flummoxed. Because of her odd upbringing, she’d convinced herself that she understood how affairs commenced and flared, but clearly, she’d had no genuine idea of the furious passion that could be immediately generated.

  How was she to handle all the sensation he’d ignited? How would she ever revert to being the woman she’d been before he’d started in on her?

  He smirked with manly arrogance. “I’ve been dying to do that ever since I first laid eyes on you. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “How utterly marvelous to hear it.”

  “I had decided, once I crossed paths with you again, and I refused to suppose I wouldn’t, that I would put myself out of my misery by kissing you—whether you were amenable or not.”

  She chuckled. “I might have been a tad amenable.”

  “It hasn’t calmed me down though. Not in the slightest. I want to do it again. I want to do it forever and never stop.”

  “You’re dangerous.”

  “Not usually, but you’ve stirred a beast inside me.”

  “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

  “You should be both.”

  He leaned in and nibbled a trail down her neck to her nape, and he took bites on her skin, at the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Goose bumps slithered down her arms.

  “I like the way you smell,” he said. “It drives me wild.”

  “I can tell.”

  “What are your plans for the rest of the evening?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re coming with me.”

  “To where?”

  “I haven’t figured out the location yet, but it will be somewhere quiet where I can have you all to myself for hours and hours.”

  “I’m sorry to report that you have completely misconstrued the kind of woman I am.”

  He frowned. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I’m a singer and performer, so you’re assuming I’m loose.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m actually very boring and moralistic.”

  His lazy gaze wandered down her torso, his ferocious regard lingerin
g on all her aroused female areas.

  He scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.”

  His frown deepened. “Are you playing a vixen’s game with me? Is that it? Are you hoping I’ll offer you money to socialize with me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “If that’s your ploy, you should be aware that I never pay for companionship.”

  “As if I would agree to such a sordid arrangement.”

  She must have looked sufficiently offended because he studied her, then said, “I’ve insulted you.”

  “Of course you have. In my line of work, I receive many, many suggestive proposals, but I never accept any of them.” She motioned to the door. “Would you leave?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I have a show.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about in the afternoon?”

  He delivered another thrilling kiss that went on and on. It lowered her defenses and shot down any walls she’d erected to keep him at bay.

  “Two o’clock,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled, and she kicked herself for capitulating so easily.

  “I’ll pick you up at your home. Where do you live?”

  “I’m not about to tell you.”

  “Then I’ll meet you here at the theater, out on the front walk.”

  “All right.”

  “Wear your most scandalous gown so I’ll be absolutely tantalized.”

  “What is your favorite color?” she asked.

  “Red.”

  “I have several red ones. I’ll select the most alluring one for you, but I can’t imagine why I’m being so accommodating.”

  “I always get my way. You’re simply learning fast.” He stole a final kiss. “If you think you can avoid me, if you’re not here at two, I’ll come to the theater tomorrow night. During the middle of your performance, I will march onto the stage and carry you off while everyone is watching.”

  “You probably would, wouldn’t you?” She bristled with disgust. “What type of ride are you planning? Are we taking a carriage or will horses be involved? Should I don a riding habit rather than a dress? What sort of promenade are you envisioning?”

  “I’ll bring a carriage so I can lock you inside and have you all to myself.”

  “I must be mad to have consented to this,” she said.

  “If you weren’t mad before, you will be after I’m finished with you. Don’t disappoint me, Libby.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He turned to start out, and to Libby’s dismay, Fish was standing there, a stunned expression on her face. Libby never entertained gentlemen in her dressing room unless she was fully clothed and there was a chaperone lurking to prevent any untoward advances, so Luke’s presence was strange and wildly out of character.

  “May I help you?” Fish asked him.

  “No,” he cockily replied. “Libby has provided all the assistance I require for one evening.”

  He nodded imperiously at Fish, winked at Libby, then strolled out.

  She and Fish were frozen in their spots, listening as his footsteps faded down the hall.

  “Who on earth was that?” Fish inquired when it was quiet again.

  “I have no idea.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lucas. Luke.”

  “Lucas what?”

  “I have no idea about that either.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes—just a bit bewildered.”

  “What did he want?” Fish asked.

  “Nothing good.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  “I’m riding with him tomorrow at two.”

  Fish raised a brow. “Really?”

  “He demands I wear red. It’s his favorite color.”

  Fish snorted with what sounded like excitement or maybe glee. “I already know which gown it will have to be.”

  “Who shall I tell her is calling?”

  “Luke. I’d provide my surname, but she’s never learned what it is, so it won’t help to put me in her good graces.”

  The footman who’d answered the door pulled it wide, and Luke entered the foyer of Libby’s small home. He glanced around, being incredibly curious as to what sort of abode would house such an odd creature.

  He’d always heard that actors skated on the edge of poverty, that they hid from debt collectors and snuck out of town in the middle of the night to avoid paying their bills. Her prosperous condition obliterated that notion. Gad, she employed a footman! It was a peculiar fact that was completely unanticipated.

  The dwelling was two stories high, constructed of red brick with white trim and black shutters. Flower boxes hung under the windows, and fragrant rose bushes hugged the walk. The property was located in the theater district, so her neighbors were artists, dancers, and musicians.

  The front parlor was spacious and comfortable. There was scant evidence of female fussing and hobbies though. He saw no knitted shawls on the backs of the chairs, no embroidered doilies under the lamps. Then again, she wasn’t the type to sit by the fire with her knitting needles clicking.

  He wasn’t certain what he was doing, but he felt halfway bewitched by her. Although he was a sailor, he wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t worry about spells or signs, didn’t believe a fellow could be ensnared by magic, but it seemed as if that was what had happened.

  He was a rich, titled gentleman, a decorated navy hero, and beautiful women threw themselves at his feet. They always had, so in stumbling on her, it wasn’t as if he’d never trifled with a gorgeous woman before. Yet he’d seen her, and he’d had to have her. An impulse of jealous possession had taken root, and he couldn’t free himself from it.

  These days, he was the most boring man in the world. After his deceased older brother, Bertie, had ruined the family’s reputation with vice and dissipation, Luke had made a pact with himself that he would never cause a scene or rock a boat. He was determined to prove that he was stable, solid, and dependable—and nothing like his dead wastrel brother.

  He intended to settle down, marry appropriately and quickly to a wealthy debutante with perfect bloodlines, and live—if not happily ever after—then contentedly ever after.

  So why was he in Libby Carstairs’s parlor? He had no idea.

  “Miss Carstairs is preparing to go out,” the footman said.

  “Yes, she’s planning to meet me at the theater, but I decided to pick her up instead.”

  “Might you give me your last name anyway? Just so I can introduce you properly?”

  “Tell her it’s Lucas Watson, Lord Barrett.”

  The footman had to be new at his job. He blanched when he wasn’t supposed to ever display a reaction to any comment. Apparently, they weren’t expecting an aristocrat to arrive.

  It was his own fault for being so furtive. He’d been too busy mooning over her to bother with the formalities, and he was humored to discover that she still didn’t know who he was. What would she think when his identity was revealed? He doubted she’d be impressed.

  “Would you like a brandy, Lord Barrett?”

  “I would love one.”

  The footman gestured to the sofa. “Will you sit?”

  “No. I’ll stand. I’m eager to snoop.” The poor boy’s brows rose to his hairline, and Luke asked, “How long has Miss Carstairs resided here?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord, but it hasn’t been very long. I’ve only been working for her for two weeks myself.”

  Luke’s brandy was poured and handed over, and he shooed the footman out to fetch her.

  It hadn’t been dif
ficult to find out where she was staying. He’d simply bribed an actor at the theater. If he’d had any sense, he would have met her there as arranged, but he’d been convinced she wouldn’t appear. If she hadn’t, he’d have been extremely annoyed, so he’d intervened to prevent any mischief on her part.

  He’d been to the theater on dozens of occasions in his life, but he’d never encountered a performer who could mesmerize an audience like Libby. When they’d chatted on that dock bench, he’d wondered who she was and how he might cross paths with her in the future, but when she’d strolled out from behind the curtain to begin her monologue, he’d almost fainted with astonishment.

  He’d been seated in a box with acquaintances, and they’d all known her and had greeted her with rousing applause. Once she’d been announced, he’d realized he knew her too. Who hadn’t heard of the little lost girls who’d been rescued in the Caribbean?

  They’d been too young to provide much information about themselves. They couldn’t explain how long they’d been stranded or how they’d survived. They only remembered that their ship had sunk. It was like a plot out of an adventure novel.

  It had been British sailors who’d chanced upon them, and with him being a sailor himself, it was a story told too many times to count. After they’d been brought home, it had created a huge uproar in London that had never completely faded.

  On stage, she’d been a dazzling vision, wearing a diaphanous white gown so she might have been an angel or a fairy. She’d sung a trio of haunting ballads, and interspersed between the songs, there were several narratives about her being on the island, she and her two tiny friends huddled together at night in the sand and staring up at the stars.

  The spectators had been transfixed, and more than one person had dabbed at tears with a kerchief. Not him of course. He was much too manly to exhibit such a maudlin response, but he’d been as spellbound as everyone else.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she waltzed in, looking stunning and splendid and exasperated. At the sight of her, his bones seemed to melt, and his breath hitched in his lungs. He felt overwhelmed as an adolescent boy with his first girl. How did she have such a dramatic effect? What was causing it?