For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  They’d have plenty of time to linger in bed once they were married.

  A sleepy smile drifted over his lips at the thought, and he gathered Lucy closer. “You’re not falling asleep, are you?” He teased his mouth over the damp curls at her temple. “Did I wear you out?”

  “Shhh.” Lucy’s eyes were closed, a contented smile on her lips. “Go to sleep.”

  Ciaran chuckled, stroking his hand down the silky length of her spine. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t bother you with my attentions again this morning.”

  Lucy smiled, opening one sleepy eye. “Do I look bothered to you, Ciaran?”

  Ciaran grinned back at her and dropped a kiss behind her ear. “Well, no, but a proper gentleman would have had the decency to wait.”

  She opened the other eye and gazed at him, suddenly wary. “What do you mean? Wait for what?”

  Something in her tone made Ciaran stiffen. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Wait until we marry.”

  An awful silence fell, and then she was struggling out of his arms. “We’ve been through this already, Ciaran. I told you I can’t marry you.”

  Ciaran sat up, every vestige of sleep dissolving at her words. “I know what you told me, Lucy, but that was before.”

  “Before what?” A faint flush rose in her cheeks, but otherwise her face gave nothing away.

  “Before what?” He gestured between them, then waved a hand over the tangled coverlet, the rumpled sheets. “Before this.”

  Lucy took in the evidence of their passion with cool, dark eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

  He stared at her, his skin going cold. “It changes bloody everything. Jesus, Lucy. Last night, you…I would never…do you think I would have come to your bed if I didn’t believe you’d changed your mind about marrying me? Do you think I’m the sort of man who’d steal a lady’s innocence and then abandon her? I’m not a villain.”

  She was quiet for a moment, her dark eyes unreadable. Then she asked, “Is that why you came to my bed? To lure me into marrying you?”

  Lure? Hurt and anger swelled in Ciaran’s chest, but he sucked in a quick breath to calm himself. He must be misunderstanding her, because he couldn’t believe his Lucy could really be accusing him of trying to manipulate her into marriage.

  No, something was wrong. That bland expression on her face was too practiced, too careful. There was something else going on here. She was hiding something from him.

  “I took you to my bed for one reason, Lucy.” He took her hand and gently laced his fingers with hers. “Because I wanted you. I still want you, and I think you want me, too.”

  “I do. I—I did. I can hardly deny that while we’re still lying in bed together.”

  She let out a little laugh, but there was something hard and raw about it, and the sound tore at Ciaran’s chest. Did she want to deny it? He shook his head, a strange, dark foreboding curling into a tight ball inside his chest. “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  Lucy’s face softened. She gripped his hand hard, her fingers curling into his palm. “What happened is we made love, and it was…it was special, Ciaran, but I haven’t changed my mind about marriage.” Her voice cracked a little, and her gaze dropped to their joined hands. “You haven’t changed yours, either. Your future is in Scotland. I gave myself to you because I wanted you. You didn’t steal anything from me, and I won’t steal your future from you.”

  He shook his head to try and make sense of his chaotic thoughts. He tried to grasp them, to catch them on his fingertips and line them up in the proper order, but his mind and his heart were in turmoil.

  How could she think she was stealing anything from him?

  She hadn’t stolen a thing.

  She’d given him something. Something that felt like…everything.

  “You’re not taking anything away from me. How can you think that? Don’t you see? I want to marry you. My God, Lucy, you’re my dearest friend.”

  He wanted to take her into his arms then, to explain, to make her understand what he was trying to say—to make both of them understand—but she recoiled from his touch. Ciaran froze, his heart rushing into his throat. She’d never done that before—never shrunk away from him as if she couldn’t bear for him to touch her.

  “And you’re mine, but I told you last night, Ciaran. Best friends don’t marry each other.”

  The words cut through Ciaran. Hurt and anger poured from the wound, drowning him in pain and ugliness. “They do if one of them has ruined the other.”

  Lucy heard the coldness in his voice and she went still. “Is that what you think happened last night, Ciaran? That you ruined me?”

  “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what I think. You’ve fled your uncle’s protection, Lucy. Everyone will assume I’ve ruined you.” A harsh laugh fell from Ciaran’s lips. “And they’ll be right, won’t they?”

  An angry flush darkened Lucy’s face, and she grabbed at the tangle of blankets and dragged them up to her chin. “Still trying to save me, Ciaran? Ever the hero. This is no different than the prizefight, or that morning on the beach, is it?”

  “No! That isn’t what this is about. I—it’s…” Ciaran dragged a hand through his hair. What was it about? God, he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “You’re my friend, Lucy. I could never hurt you.”

  Ciaran saw at once, without understanding that this had been the wrong thing to say. Lucy flinched at his words, her grip on the blankets going so tight her knuckles went white. “I never needed you to save me. I didn’t need it then, and I don’t need it now.”

  He leapt from the bed, suddenly so furious he couldn’t stay still a moment longer. He snatched up his breeches and tugged them over his hips, not bothering to fasten his falls. “I warned you this would happen. That morning on the beach, I told you men and women couldn’t be friends, and damned if I wasn’t right all along.”

  She glared at him over the edge of the coverlet. “No, you weren’t! You said a man can’t be friends with a woman without someone shrieking at him to marry her. Well, the only one shrieking about marriage here is you.”

  Ciaran threw his hands up in the air, at his wit’s end. “Christ, you’re stubborn! You were a stubborn friend, and you’re an even more stubborn lover.”

  “I’m not being stubborn. I’m trying to…” She broke off on a sharp breath. When she spoke again, she was nearly pleading. “You think you want to marry me now, but marriage isn’t a holiday in Brighton, Ciaran, or an afternoon at Brighton Racetrack. It isn’t a few hours this time, or a few weeks. It’s your entire life. You don’t understand what you’re promising.”

  “No, Lucy. It’s you who doesn’t understand. I know exactly what it means to promise a woman my entire life.”

  Lucy stiffened. “I—I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Ciaran hesitated. He’d never once mentioned his former betrothed to Lucy. Never once breathed her name, but the words were there now, waiting to be spoken. “I made that promise once before, when I became betrothed to Isobel Campbell.”

  It wasn’t until Ciaran heard himself say Isobel’s name aloud that he understood he wanted to tell Lucy about her—had wanted it for some time.

  Isobel Campbell. His childhood friend, and the lady he was meant to marry. The lady who’d abandoned him when he needed her most. Ciaran went still, bracing himself for a painful wave of memories from his past. Memories of another lifetime, of a love and a promise he’d thought would last forever.

  They never came.

  He’d been drowning in those memories since the day he left Scotland. They’d rolled and tossed him, left him spluttering, gasping, and choking, a broken bit of wreckage on the sand. But now, when he thought of love, of promises, of lifetimes, he didn’t think of Isobel. He didn’t see Isobel’s face. He saw moonlight on damp red hair, and long, dark e
yelashes tipped with glittering drops of water.

  He saw Lucy.

  He hadn’t said anything about Isobel to Lucy because…

  Because Isobel no longer mattered to him.

  Isobel no longer mattered.

  The lady he thought he’d loved beyond measure. The lady who’d hurt him in a way he’d believed he’d never recover from. The lady who’d broken his heart.

  Isobel was a part of a painful past, but she had nothing to do with his future. He hadn’t thought of her in weeks. No, months. Since he’d first set eyes on Lucy, she’d dominated his every thought, his every action.

  Lucy was staring at him in shocked silence.

  “Lucy.” Ciaran held his hand out instinctively, as if he could stop her from drawing the conclusion she was clearly already drawing.

  “You…you were betrothed?” All at once Lucy’s face drained of color, until it was as white as the bedsheet still clutched in her hand. “It’s the Scottish lady you told me about that morning on the beach, isn’t it? The first lady you ever kissed? The lady you’ve dreamed of marrying since you were a boy?”

  Her face went from white to red, then back to such a stark white Ciaran felt a stab of fear in his chest. “Yes, it’s her, but it’s been over between us for some time.”

  Lucy just stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  Ciaran sank down on the edge of the bed. “It ended when my family left Scotland. She jilted me, and I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.”

  Lucy swallowed. “H—how long were you betrothed to her?”

  Ciaran winced at the question, knowing his answer would only make things worse. “Three years. I was hardly more than a lad when I offered for her, and our families insisted on a long betrothal.”

  “Three years.” Lucy sounded dazed. “You’ve known this lady your entire life, and you were betrothed to her for three years. All this time you’ve been insisting on marrying me, you never once thought to mention her?”

  “I wasn’t trying to hide her, Lucy. I swear it. I just—she doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “She doesn’t matter?” Lucy repeated, as if she couldn’t make sense of the words. “I think she matters very much. You must have loved her, or you never would have asked for her hand. I think you still love her, Ciaran. If I’d known about her, I never would have…” She trailed off, but the look she cast at the disheveled bed revealed her thoughts more clearly than words.

  If I’d known, I never would have brought you to my bed.

  Ciaran dragged a hand down his face. How could he make Lucy understand it had never been about Isobel, when he’d only just realized it himself? “I was besotted with her at one time, yes, but it was a boy’s infatuation, not a man’s love. We’ve been apart for more than a year, ever since I left Scotland. I don’t love her anymore. This isn’t about Isobel, Lucy. I thought it was, but I was wrong.”

  Lucy let out an incredulous laugh. “Ciaran, don’t you see? She’s the reason you’re so determined to return to Scotland. She broke your heart, and now you’re going back for her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “No! I don’t want Isobel back. I thought I did at one time, but…don’t you see, Lucy? My past, and Scotland, and Isobel are all tangled together in my mind. I didn’t understand it at first, but I was never heartbroken over her. I just…I miss Scotland. I wanted to go back because I wanted my home again.”

  Except Scotland wasn’t his home. Not anymore.

  It hadn’t been for a long time. His family was here—Finn, Lachlan, Isla, baby Georgie, even Lady Chase.

  His home was with them. With them, and with Lucy.

  “Lucy, please listen to me.” He reached for her, surprised to see his hands were shaking. “I’ve made a mess of this from the start, but I want to fix it. You have to let me—”

  “I—I think it’s best if I don’t go to Buckinghamshire with you, Ciaran,” she whispered, drawing away from him.

  Ciaran’s heart stopped. “No. Don’t say that.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll stay here at the Swan and Anchor until Lord Vale has settled things with Eloisa. Once I know she and my aunt are safe, I’ll return to Devon.”

  “Lucy, please listen to me—”

  “Once I’m gone, you’ll be free to return to Scotland, and—”

  “No!” Ciaran’s voice was hoarse with panic. “I don’t want—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, and the muffled sound of a servant’s voice on the other side. “Mr. Ramsey? Lord Vale is here to see you.”

  Ciaran’s gaze didn’t leave Lucy’s face. “Ask him to wait.”

  The servant paused, then said, “His lordship says it’s urgent.”

  Lucy tugged her hands free of his. “Go, Ciaran. He might have news about Eloisa and my aunt.”

  Ciaran hesitated, but then rose to his feet and pulled on some clothes. His knees were shaking. When he reached the door he turned back, his pleading gaze falling on Lucy. “I’ll go, but I’ll return soon. We’re not done with this discussion, Lucy.”

  She nodded, but the look on her face…

  Ciaran thought he might indeed be done, whether he wanted to be or not.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Anyone looking at Augustus Jarvis’s face would believe him to be a man whose carefully laid plans were falling into ruin right before his eyes.

  He cradled his throbbing head in his hands. He’d been so deep in his cups the night before he couldn’t quite recall what had happened, but one thing was certain. He’d left the card room at the Weatherby ball four-hundred and nine pounds poorer than he’d been when he entered it, and Godfrey had his vowels to prove it.

  It hadn’t been a fruitful evening at the tables, but whatever twinge he’d felt at losing a few pounds was nothing compared to the hammering pain in his skull this morning.

  Lord Godfrey was stalking back and forth in front of the fireplace, every inch of him quivering with fury. “Call that chit down here at once, Jarvis, and force her to explain herself!”

  No need for Godfrey to name which chit he meant. His lordship only ever became this agitated over one chit.

  Jarvis’s niece, Lady Lucinda Sutcliffe.

  A termagant of the first degree. She’d seemed biddable enough at the start, but after that business in Brighton Jarvis had decided Lady Lucinda was a vixen sent straight from hell to torment him.

  Vixens must be dealt with. Lady Lucinda certainly would be, but Jarvis had to survive this encounter with Godfrey first.

  “Wake up, damn you!” Godfrey’s fist slammed down onto the desk in front of Jarvis, making him jump. Papers flew in every direction, tradesmen’s bills fluttering to the floor at Jarvis’s feet.

  It seemed a bad omen, that.

  Godfrey’s livid face was mere inches from Jarvis’s own, so close Jarvis could smell his lordship’s hot, fetid breath. His stomach heaved as the bottle of port he’d drunk the night before threatened to reappear, but he managed to gag it back down before it spurted from his mouth and splattered onto the desk between them.

  “Now, my lord, I’m certain it’s nothing more than a rumor.” Jarvis wiped his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief and offered Godfrey a weak smile. “I can’t believe my niece would disgrace herself in such a manner, and you know how the ton loves their gossip.”

  Lord Godfrey’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “I warned you once before, Jarvis. I won’t be made a fool of. Not by you, and not by some uppity little chit like Lady Lucinda. I won’t take a whore as my wife.” Godfrey reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out a piece of paper and shoved it into Jarvis’s face.

  It was the special license Godfrey had procured at Doctors Commons the day before. Jarvis watched, eyes narrowed, as Godfrey marched over to the fireplace and dangled the paper over the flames.


  Jarvis heaved himself up from his chair, but he didn’t approach Godfrey, and he made no effort to snatch the paper from Godfrey’s hand. “Now, now, my lord. You’re being much too hasty. I’m sure it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding. Lady Lucinda is, er…a trifle spirited, but she’s not a wanton.”

  Not as far as Godfrey knew, anyway.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Godfrey spat. “I can assure you I don’t intend to take Ciaran Ramsey’s leavings. For your sake, I hope I find Lady Lucinda’s explanation satisfactory.”

  “I’ve no doubt of it, my lord.” The lie slid easily enough from Jarvis’s lips, and it did seem to appease his lordship.

  For now.

  Whether he’d remain so was less certain. Ramsey had been chasing Lucinda for weeks, and if the gossips could be believed, he’d finally caught her. In Jarvis’s carriage, no less, outside the Weatherby ball last night. Lady Essex had seen the debauchery with her own eyes, and hadn’t hesitated to share it with all of London.

  Jarvis’s hand was shaking as he pulled the bell for a servant, his voice not quite steady as he instructed a housemaid to fetch Lady Lucinda from her bedchamber and bring her to his study without a moment’s delay.

  But there was a delay, and it was a long one. The minutes ticked by, one after the other, and no one appeared. Godfrey was growing twitchier by the second, and the bile was rising once again, a hot, burning trickle at the back of Jarvis’s throat.

  Until at last, the door cracked open.

  Jarvis leapt forward, a shout already on his lips. “How dare you keep his lordship waiting so long, Lucinda? Come in here at once, and explain—”

  When he saw who was on the other side of the door, the words died in his throat.

  It wasn’t Lucinda who entered the study. It was Eloisa, and with her was Jarvis’s wife, Harriet, clutching Eloisa’s arm.