by Anna Bradley
Not many ladies could wear such a vibrant shade of green, but not many ladies were Lucy. No color could outshine her, no matter how bright.
Ciaran forgot he’d decided not to dance with her. He forgot everything he’d told himself and held out his hand to her. “Come dance with me, Lucy.”
Lucy glanced up at him, her eyebrow raised. “Certainly not. I like you too much to dance with you.”
She laughed at his expression, and a tingle of pleasure shot down Ciaran’s spine. She had the most engaging laugh—rich and full, but husky, as if she were slightly breathless.
“You agreed to dance with me at the assembly in Brighton,” he reminded her. “Why should this be any different?”
“You know why. Because I’ll make a dreadful mess of it. Brighton is one thing, Ciaran, but London is quite another.”
“Come now, Lucy. You owe me a dance.” All at once, Ciaran wanted to dance with her more than anything, and he was prepared to tease and cajole until she gave in.
“It had to be the quadrille, didn’t it?” Lucy muttered, her gaze dropping to something she held in her lap. She stared down at it, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her brows drawn together with fierce concentration.
Ciaran leaned over her shoulder, curious, and saw a few cramped lines scrawled across the leaves of her fan.
The steps to the quadrille.
He dissolved into a grin. “Ah. Your lessons at Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy still aren’t going well, then?”
Lucy grimaced. “Not unless you’d call nearly knocking a gentleman down ‘going well.’”
There wasn’t any reason in the world Ciaran should find that endearing, but somehow, he did. He’d felt just as out of place as Lucy did now when he’d first come to London last year. A big, awkward Scot among all the sleek, fashionable London gentlemen. He’d been like a fish out of water.
But if there was one thing he’d learned since then it was how to dance the quadrille. He’d led every wallflower in London through every dance at every ball last season. He was as skilled a partner as any dancing master. “It’s not as difficult as it looks. Come dance with me, Lucy, and I’ll teach you the steps as we go.”
Lucy glanced at the dancers, then back at his face, then back at the dancers. Ciaran could see she wanted to dance, but her forehead was creased with doubt. “You didn’t see the disaster I made of the set the other day at my lesson. If you had, you wouldn’t ask me. I trod on Monsieur Guilland’s foot a half-dozen times, at least.”
“I don’t care. I’d still ask you, even if you’d trod on dozens of gentlemen’s feet.” Ciaran realized with a start it was true. Even if she’d knocked a man unconscious—or, more likely, broken his nose—he’d still ask her. He couldn’t think of a single circumstance in which he wouldn’t want to dance with Lucy.
Dance with her, lie on a beach with her, watch a bout with her, stroll along Bond Street with her on his arm. Images of Lucy flashed through his mind—moonlight on damp red hair, glittering drops of water clinging to long, dark eyelashes—and an odd, breathless feeling swelled inside him.
He didn’t know what to make of it, but all at once a part of him wanted to flee—to leave London this minute and run off to Scotland before he did something he’d regret.
But that wasn’t what he did.
Instead he reached down, grasped her gloved hand gently in his own and urged her to her feet. “I promise I’ll take care of you, Lucy. Don’t you trust me?”
The tiny frown line between her eyes disappeared and her face went soft. “Of course, I do. More than anyone. It’s just…I’m not certain it’s a good idea.”
“I am.” He wasn’t, but he smiled down at her as if he was.
She smiled back, and the lovely brown eyes that made his chest ache went soft and warm. She raised her hand to take his, but just as her fingertips grazed the palm of his glove she froze, her smile vanishing as she stared at something over his shoulder.
“Lucy.” Mrs. Jarvis turned suddenly toward her niece, her voice high with warning.
Ciaran turned to follow their gaze, and his chest went tight.
Jarvis was coming toward them, with Lord Godfrey on his heels. Ciaran had never seen two men who looked more like villains than these two. Jarvis wore such a smug smirk on his face Ciaran’s fist twitched with longing, and Godfrey…
Jesus, he looked like a vulture, salivating as he circled his prey.
Ciaran tensed, his body vibrating with suppressed aggression as Jarvis and Godfrey drew closer. He wanted to leap in front of Lucy, to protect her, but just as he moved to shield her, Jarvis and Godfrey were already upon them.
Ciaran narrowed his eyes as Godfrey sketched an extravagant bow before Lucy. “Good evening, my dear.”
My dear? Ciaran stiffened. Who the devil did the old scoundrel think he was, addressing her in such a familiar manner? As much as Godfrey might wish it otherwise, Lucy wasn’t his betrothed.
“You look as lovely as ever this evening.” Godfrey’s gaze swept over Lucy, his pale gray eyes glittering with possessiveness. “I’d be honored to escort you to the dance floor.”
Godfrey held out his hand to her with an assured air, as if he hadn’t the least expectation of being denied. Ciaran saw Lucy try and suppress a shudder of revulsion. “That’s kind of you, my lord, but I don’t intend to dance this evening. I’m a trifle fatigued tonight.”
“Nonsense, girl.” Jarvis scowled at Lucy, his face flushing with anger. “Lord Godfrey is honoring you with his attentions. You will dance for as long as he wishes it.”
“No, Augustus.” Mrs. Jarvis’s voice was sharper than Ciaran had ever heard it. “The child looks pale, and she said she’s fatigued. I won’t let you force her.”
Jarvis said nothing, but he gave his wife a look that made her shrink back in her chair before he turned his icy gaze back to his niece. “Do as you’re bid this instant, Lucinda.”
It was the same ugly scene that had played out at Lady Ivey’s ball all over again, except this time Ciaran was determined to put a stop to it.
He was about to give in to his fantasy of leaping on Jarvis and pummeling him into the ballroom floor when Lucy gave Godfrey her hand. “Yes, I—yes, of course. I’d be pleased to dance with you, Lord Godfrey.”
“Splendid,” Godfrey said, darting a look of smug triumph at Ciaran as he clamped his hand over hers and dragged her toward the floor.
Ciaran started to go after them, but Lucy shot an anxious glance at him over her shoulder. It was a plea, and it was as clear as if she’s spoken it aloud.
Please don’t make a scene.
Ciaran was shaking with anger, but Lucy was right. A scene would only make it worse for her. So, he stood there helplessly while Godfrey manhandled Lucy as if she were his prized possession, like a pretty piece of art, or an enviable bit of horseflesh.
One dance, and then another…
By the end of the second dance Ciaran was ready to explode with impotent rage, but what happened next was far, far worse.
The last notes of the music faded, but Godfrey didn’t escort Lucy off the dance floor. Ciaran saw her disentangle herself from his grip and try to move back toward her aunt, but before she’d taken two steps she stopped, her face going pale.
The other couples shifted, and some left the floor. A new set assembled, and then, unbelievably, the music began again.
A red haze descended over Ciaran as Godfrey swept Lucy into the dance.
Their third dance.
Ciaran stood on the edges of the ballroom, frozen with fury as Godfrey forced Lucy to waltz with him.
It went on forever. It was the longest waltz in Ciaran’s life.
By the time Godfrey led Lucy back to Mrs. Jarvis he was smirking with satisfaction, but Ciaran hardly spared him a glance.
His gaze was fixed on something else.
A dark red handprint on the pale, delicate skin of Lucy’s arm.
Godfrey had grabbed her. Hurt her.
A rage unlike any Ciaran had ever felt before swept through him, like a fire devouring his insides. He heard Lucy say something to him, her voice high-pitched and anxious, but he couldn’t make out the words through the roaring inside his head. He thought, fleetingly, of the one time he’d seen his brother Lachlan in a rage like this, when another man had laid his hands on the woman Lachlan loved.
Lachlan had seized the man by the throat and nearly shaken the life out of him. Ciaran hadn’t understood it at the time. Hadn’t understood how a man could feel so much rage, and so much love.
Ciaran thought fleetingly of Lucy. Of moonlight on damp red hair. Of long, dark eyelashes tipped with glittering drops of water. Of an ugly red handprint on smooth, pale skin…
Am I in love with Lucy?
The question stole through Ciaran as quickly as a breath, but then it was gone, and he was moving, following Jarvis and Godfrey, his hands clenched into fists. They were strolling toward the card room, laughing and chatting, satisfied with their success.
He didn’t get far.
“Ciaran, don’t.”
Lucy’s voice was soft, but this time it penetrated the roar in Ciaran’s head. He turned toward her just in time to see her collapse, a sea of bright green silk falling around her, enveloping her like a wave as she sank to the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
Everything happened so quickly after that, the only thing Lucy could recall later was Ciaran’s solid strength. His soft murmurs and gentle hands.
By some miracle, he got her out of the ballroom, called her carriage, and hurried her into it without attracting the attention of the Weatherbys’ fashionable guests.
Had she once teased him about his heroism? It didn’t seem so amusing now.
“Don’t try and tell me you feigned that swoon, Lucy.” Ciaran was standing at the open door of the carriage, his blue eyes moving anxiously over her face.
Lucy blinked at him. Had she feigned the swoon, or hadn’t she? She hardly knew anymore.
He rubbed her cold hands between his. “Are you all right? You’re shivering, and you’re whiter than my cravat.”
You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.…
It wasn’t the first time she’d thought it. Every time she looked at him, Lucy found something new she loved about his face. The angular curve of his cheek, the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. But somehow now, with the light from the townhouse shining on his dark hair and playing over the angular line of his jaw, he took her breath away.
“Lucy?” His fingers tightened over hers.
She tugged gently, urging him into the carriage with her. “I—I’m all right, yes.”
“No, I don’t think you are.” He flung himself down next to her and slammed the carriage door behind him. He ran both his hands down his face, his chest straining with shallow, jerking breaths. He was too agitated to notice how close they sat, with their bodies pressed tightly together on the narrow seat.
But Lucy wasn’t.
For the space of a single heartbeat she closed her eyes and let herself sink into the feeling of his warmth enveloping her, his reassuring strength pressed against her. For a heartbeat only, and then she opened her eyes. “I promise you I am, Ciaran. I—I feigned the swoon.”
Mostly. There’d been a moment, when Lord Godfrey had grabbed her, that the frantic pounding of her heart had made her chest tighten and her head go dizzy with fear. It was the closest she’d ever come to a real swoon, and she had no wish to repeat the experience.
Ciaran leaned over her, his dark blue eyes holding her gaze as if he could see all she hid from him in her eyes. “I can’t let this business with your uncle and Godfrey go on any longer, Lucy. It grows worse every day—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on her face. “There’s more, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.”
Lucy dragged in a shuddering breath. Ciaran was going to be furious when she told him she and Eloisa had sneaked into Uncle Jarvis’s study, but there was no other way to explain how they’d gotten ahold of his accounting book.
Ciaran had said from the start he thought her uncle was in debt to Godfrey, but he could never have guessed how bad it was. The gaming debt, and all those tradesman’s bills…
Five thousand, three hundred, and six pounds.
Lucy dropped her gaze to her lap, but in an instant Ciaran was there, capturing her chin in his fingers and raising her face to his. “He didn’t…touch you, did he? Your uncle, or Godfrey? Tell me at once, Lucy! I can’t bear—”
“No!” Lucy pressed her fingers to Ciaran’s lips to quiet him. “No, that’s not it. It’s the debt, Ciaran. You were right all along. My uncle owes Lord Godfrey a great deal of money.”
“How do you know?” Ciaran’s eyes were bleak.
Lucy hesitated. He wasn’t going to like this, but a lie would only complicate things. In any case, she couldn’t lie to Ciaran. “Eloisa and I went to Uncle Jarvis’s study last night and rifled through his desk.”
Even in the dim light, Lucy saw Ciaran’s face go white. His mouth opened but he remained silent. When he did speak, the words sounded as if they’d been torn from his throat. “Do you know—do you have even the slightest inkling what he would have done to you if he’d caught you, Lucy? You can’t…I can’t…he might have hurt you.”
“But he didn’t. He was out all evening. We were very careful, and he knows nothing about it. We found his accounting book, and…oh, Ciaran. It’s so much worse than we thought.”
“How much?” Two words only, but so harsh they sliced through the quiet of the carriage like a whip.
Oh, God, she didn’t want to tell him. As soon as she said the number aloud there would be no taking it back, no pretending this wasn’t real—
“How much, Lucy?”
Lucy tried to jerk away from him, but Ciaran wouldn’t let her go. He tipped her chin up higher, so she couldn’t avoid that wild blue gaze.
“More than five thousand pounds,” Lucy whispered, but she might as well have screamed the words for the effect they had on Ciaran.
He sucked in a shocked breath, and his entire body tensed. She saw his throat move in a swallow before he said in a strangled voice, “Enough. This stops now, Lucy. It has to. You can’t deny any longer how dangerous this is.”
An image of Uncle Jarvis’s red, furious face rose in Lucy’s mind, and a shudder passed over her. “I don’t deny it, no.”
“That isn’t all, is it?” He released her chin, but his hand stayed on her face, his fingertips on her jaw. “Tonight, on the dance floor. Godfrey forced you to remain for three dances, didn’t he?”
Lucy hesitated. Godfrey had indeed forced her, but she didn’t want to admit it to Ciaran. He’d nearly torn Godfrey limb from limb in the ballroom, and now he looked as if he were ready to leap from the carriage and hunt Godfrey down. “He was a trifle insistent, yes, but he didn’t precisely force—”
“Stop it, Lucy.” Ciaran’s fingers remained gentle on her face, but his jaw looked ready to shatter. “Stop acting as if you’re not in danger. Do you realize all the ton now thinks you’re betrothed to him?”
“Betrothed to him?” Lucy stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why should they think that?”
“Because a lady doesn’t dance with a gentleman more than twice unless they have an understanding, Lucy. That’s why your uncle forced you to allow Godfrey to take you to the floor in the first place. Don’t you see? They planned this. They want all of London to think you and Godfrey are betrothed, to try and force you into a marriage.”
Lucy stared at him, stunned. How could her uncle be so cruel, so manipulative? She’d never imagined anyone could behave so viciously. A raw, dry laugh tore from her throat. “They don’t know me ve
ry well then, do they? I don’t care a fig for what anyone thinks. If refusing to marry Lord Godfrey after dancing three times with him ruins my reputation, then so be it. I don’t intend to ever marry anyway, so what difference does it make?”
Ciaran let his hand drop away and stabbed his fingers through his hair. “You don’t understand. If Jarvis and Godfrey will go so far as to publicly expose you, there’s no telling what else they’ll do. When I think I might have left you here in London, alone and unprotected…”
He muttered this last part, as if he was speaking more to himself than to her, but Lucy heard him and her spine stiffened. “I told you once before, Ciaran. I’m not alone. I have Eloisa and my Aunt Jarvis, and Lady Felicia, Lord Vale, and Lord Markham—”
“None of whom can do a damn thing to protect you if this business turns any uglier. Your cousin and aunt care for you, but they’re terrified of Jarvis, and what do you suppose our friends can do?”
“They could…that is, I can’t imagine they’d allow…” Lucy’s voice faded. She fell back against the squabs, her heart rushing into her throat. She wasn’t a piece of property. Surely Uncle Jarvis couldn’t simply do whatever he pleased with her?
“Jarvis is your guardian, Lucy. That doesn’t give him a legal right to force you into anything, but practically, what do you plan to do if he attempts it? Complain to the Court of Chancery?” Ciaran let out a bitter laugh. “You’ll be married to Godfrey with a half-dozen children clinging to your skirts before they ever get around to hearing your case.”
Lucy couldn’t deny it was true. She was certain her Uncle Jarvis was already stealing money from her trust, but what could she do to stop him? He’d have to give an accounting of her fortune to the court eventually, yes, but there were dozens of ways he could excuse the withdrawals. Uncle Jarvis was coarse and grasping, but clever when it came to saving his own skin.