Cecily did nothing to hide her shudder. “I have found, sir, that it did not live up to my expectations.”
He shook his head, though a corner of his mouth kicked up in a slight grin. “But madam, what does?”
To her surprise and delight, before she could answer, he lifted her into his arms and proceeded to carry her from the building into the early summer sunshine.
“You,” she said, tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder.
A hitch in his breath was the only clue that he’d heard her.
Once they were settled together in the carriage, Cecily sprawled across his lap, she spoke again.
“We must go to my father’s house at once. Lord Brighton struck Violet quite hard.”
“Hush, now,” Lucas said against her hair. “Violet is well. She’s the one who told us where to find you.”
She sagged with relief, then stiffened again.
“Lucas,” she said carefully, “did you read the letter I left for you at Hurston House?”
When she felt his arms tighten around her, Cecily’s heart sank. “You did, didn’t you? Lucas, I meant none of it! Brighton forced me to write it.”
“Shh,” he said, rubbing circles over her back with his hand. “I knew immediately that you hadn’t written it of your own free will.”
“But—” She stopped. “You believe me?”
Lucas chuckled, the noise reverberating through her. “My dear, I had not seen you and David Lawrence together for above a minute before realizing that there is no way in heaven or on earth that you would ever willingly abscond with the man. Your loathing for him is evident for anyone with eyes to see and I was able to decipher your message. Besides,” he whispered into her ear, “you love me.”
“Lucas.” Cecily leaned back to look into his eyes. “When I thought I might never see you again, I was mad with regret for being so foolish. I thought that by refusing to confess my love to you I was somehow protecting myself from the pain I might feel if something should ever happen to part us. But when Lord Brighton told me that he was going to kill me, all I could think was that if the situation were reversed, then I would much rather have known you loved me before you were taken from me than not.”
Her eyes welled at the thought that Lucas might never have known how she truly felt about him. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you since that first day on the steps of the Egyptian Club.”
He took her face between his hands and kissed her with a tenderness that stole her breath.
“I love you too,” he said, finally, his eyes smiling, his whole body radiating with joy. “God willing we will only be parted by death, and that when we are well into our dotage and surrounded by scores of grandchildren.”
On the last word he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her again.
Some minutes later, she asked, “Scores? Hadn’t we best wait on predicting the number of our grandchildren until we have some actual children?”
His grin turned wolfish.
“Of course. But I’d better warn you. It is a project to which I plan to devote a great deal of time. Are you equal to the task?”
As he took her lips again, Cecily couldn’t stop her grin.
“More than equal,” she whispered.
This was one dance for which she and her duke were very well matched indeed.
Epilogue
Three weeks later
Cecily sat at her father’s bedside, reading aloud to him from the latest issue of Proceedings of the Royal Society, though he had fallen asleep several pages ago.
At one time she would have rushed away as soon as she was able, but now that they had put many of their past difficulties behind them, Cecily cherished these moments with her father in a way she had never dreamed of before the events of the past few months. He was slowly regaining his ability to speak, though it was halting, and he still had difficulty at times recalling just which word he wished to use. But just that small bit of communication was a welcome relief to those who cared for him.
As with many who faced serious health problems, Lord Hurston was frustrated by his vulnerability, but he also seemed grateful to have his family around him. Especially Cecily.
Per the doctor’s orders they had not yet told him about the perfidy of Lord Brighton, and since he did not seem to have any memory of the events leading up to his illness, there seemed no need. If Lord Hurston wondered at the absence of his old friend from his bedside, he did not remark upon it.
A soft knock on the door diverted her attention, and Cecily looked up to see Violet come to her side in a rustle of skirts.
“Juliet and Madeline are waiting for you in the sitting room. Do go see them,” she whispered, so as not to disturb the now sleeping Lord Hurston.
Cecily nodded and stepped quietly from the room.
She found Juliet and Madeline tucked cozily into Violet’s sitting room, chatting over the tea tray.
“When were you going to tell us?” Juliet demanded before Cecily could even be seated. “We had to learn from Amelia Snowe of all people!”
“Imagine!” Maddie said with a frown. “Having that horrid girl know your news before we did! It was most upsetting, I assure you.”
Cecily was nonplussed. “How could Amelia possibly know about…?”
She had only told Lucas yesterday, after all. And though he was quite pleased, she somehow did not think that would translate into him telling Amelia their good news.
“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you talking about?”
Mid-macaroon, Juliet paused. “The fact that you will be editing your father’s journals, of course.”
“Why?” Madeline asked, looking from Cecily to Juliet and back again. “What other news is there?”
Cecily felt her face redden under their scrutiny, but said nothing.
“Cecily!” Juliet cried. “Never say that you are enceinte!”
At her nod, Maddie clapped her hands, and then both cousins nearly smothered Cecily in a massive hug.
“A baby,” Maddie said, once things had calmed back down a bit. “I can hardly imagine it. Especially since only a short time ago we, none of us, thought we’d ever marry at all.”
“It is rather hard to fathom, isn’t it?” Cecily asked. “But I have every faith that the two of you will be making equally promising matches very soon.”
Juliet laughed. “I am very much afraid that even having our cousin the Duchess of Winterson on our side, Mads and I will still be spending our evenings with the other wallflowers.”
Rising, Cecily stepped over to the console table near the fireplace, and retrieved her reticule.
“Here,” she said, removing something and pressing it into Juliet’s hand.
It was Amelia’s dance card that she had used at the Bewle ball.
“Do you remember how we worked together that night to make sure that Amelia didn’t know we were using her card?” she asked. “Well, the way I see it, Maddie and I will simply do the same thing again. And this time we will be even safer, because who on earth would dare suggest that a duchess had stolen a dance card? It’s perfect.”
“But why me?” Juliet asked, looking guiltily at Madeline. “Why me and not Mads?”
“You’re older,” Madeline said before Cecily could respond. “Cecily was oldest, then you, and then me. It makes perfect sense. After all, you have much less time before you are completely on the shelf and are doomed to be an ape-leader for all eternity.”
“Very funny,” Juliet complained. “So, I am to dance with all these tulips of the ton and then expect to find myself the latest toast? It worked for you, Cecily, but that doesn’t mean it will work for me.”
“Stop complaining and just take the dance card,” Cecily told her with a laugh. “Lady Rawlins has a ball coming up next week. I believe that’s ample time for us to transform you into a toast.”
“This will be so much fun!” Madeline said with relish. “I get to choose her shoes!”
> Juliet was saved a reply by Winterson’s entrance.
“What are you doing here, dearest?” Cecily asked as he approached her. “I thought you were spending the afternoon at Tattersall’s.”
He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “We finished early and I thought I’d bring the carriage round to take you home.”
A pucker formed between Cecily’s brows.
“Why should I need the carriage?” she asked. “Winterson House is barely two streets away.”
He raised one dark brow. “I thought we had agreed that you would rest a bit more. Because of … ahem…”
At his vague words she smiled. “They know, Lucas.”
“Ah.” He looked slightly disappointed. As if he enjoyed a bit of subterfuge. “Well, then, I thought we had agreed that you would rest a bit more because of your delicate condition.”
His ears turned slightly red at the words “delicate condition,” drawing smiles from Madeline and Juliet.
Cecily, however, was slightly annoyed.
“I am not a delicate flower, Lucas,” she said with a frown. “I am perfectly capable of walking from here to—”
When he silenced her with a kiss, she sighed. “All right. I will take the carriage home. But I warn you that if you intend to do this for the entire nine months, you will have a very ill-tempered wife on your hands.”
“My love,” he said, winking at Juliet and Madeline, “I will count myself lucky to be upbraided by you.”
Once they were safely ensconced within the carriage, Cecily asked, “Did you mean it? About feeling lucky, I mean.”
He kissed her hard on the mouth. “My dear,” he said, “I love you and I count the day you snubbed me outside the Egyptian Club as one of the luckiest of my life.”
Cecily felt her eyes well up. “Truly?”
“Absolutely.” Lucas kissed her eyelids and then the tip of her nose.
“And I love you. And I count the day you accosted me outside the Egyptian Club as one of the luckiest of my life,” Cecily said.
“Then there’s nothing for it, my dear,” he said against her throat. “We must pool our resources and get lucky together.”
Her reply, while enthusiastic, was unintelligible.
Read on for an excerpt from the next book by Manda Collins
HOW TO ROMANCE A RAKE
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
One
From his close-cropped golden curls to his gleaming dancing shoes, Lord Deveril was a man envied by men and adored by women.
And he was bloody tired of it.
A leader of the fashionable set, he was dressed tonight for his family’s annual ball in a style slavish young fops had dubbed “Deverilish” which was marked by a blend of Brummell’s simplicity and a hint of dash. His pristine neck cloth was skillfully tied in a knot called—what else—The Deveril. The cut of his black coat was looser than in Brummell’s day, but the tailoring was exquisite.
It was not that he minded his popularity so much. Given the snubs he’d endured from the hypocritical ton when his father had still been drinking and whoring his way through London, the ton’s approval had been a welcome change at first.
It hadn’t happened overnight, of course. He had been ruthless in his social campaign for those first few years. He’d worked hard to establish himself as a man of substance as well as style. He gambled, but only enough to prove himself honest. He had his share of liaisons with willing widows and even kept a few mistresses. But though he’d enjoyed the affairs while they lasted, always in the back of his mind was the memory that he was proving to the world just how different he was from his father.
And eventually, his diligence had paid off. Whereas he’d left university still in the shadow of his father’s notoriety, now he was considered a good ’un by the gentlemen, and a catch by marriage-minded mamas.
Given what his social status might have been, then, Alec knew just how ungrateful it was for him to admit he was less than satisfied with it. His ennui sprang, he supposed, from the knowledge that if he so chose, this same pattern could continue on into his dotage. Breakfast at White’s, horseflesh at Tattersall’s, seeing and being seen in the park, followed up by some evening entertainment or other. The same people, the same food, the same conversation.
“Why so gloomy, Deveril?” Colonel Lord Christian Monteith asked from his usual post, one shoulder propped against a marble column. “Trouble with the old cravat? Champagne not shining your Hessians as bright as you’d like? Stickpin poking you in the…?”
“Don’t be an ass, Monteith.” Alec raised his quizzing glass and a dark blond brow, channeling his annoyance through the eye-piece.
“Sorry, chap, that thingummy doesn’t work on me,” Monteith said apologetically. “My head’s too thick. Its powers cannot penetrate to my brain.”
With a sigh, Alec tucked the glass away. “Should have known you’d ignore it.”
Taking up a position on the other side of Monteith’s pillar, he nodded toward the ballroom floor. “Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked.
“Already did.”
“What, you danced once and having done your duty, retired here to this pillar?” It was unfair for Monteith to shirk his duty when Alec knew full well that there were plenty of ladies who would be without a partner. Ladies like his sisters. He ignored the fact that his own failure to marry someone who could serve as a chaperone for them might also impact their social success or lack thereof.
“For your information, Lord Hauteur,” Monteith returned, “I danced with at least five ladies and now I am resting my tired bones, rather than sprinting to the card room as my less noble spirit would have me do.”
Oh. “Where’s Winterson?”
The Duke and Duchess of Winterson had become good friends with Alec earlier in the season through their investigation of the Egyptian Club, of which Alec had been a member. Theirs had been a rather hasty marriage, but to his delight they seemed blissfully happy together. Winterson and Monteith had served in the campaign against Napoleon together and were often to be seen surveying the crowds at these ton entertainments.
“Keeping watch over his lady wife,” Monteith said with a frown, “and intimidating young swells into paying court to her cousins.”
Alec felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy. He’d been considering the possibility of marriage as a means of curing his ennui, and the Duchess of Winterson’s cousin Lady Madeline Essex was high on his list of potential candidates. Curvy, blond, and quiet, Madeline would make an excellent Viscountess. And her easy manners would endear her to his sisters. But if Monteith beat him to the punch, it wouldn’t matter whether his sisters liked her or not.
“How is that working?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
“Not too well.” The taller man grinned. “I don’t think Miss Shelby or Lady Madeline care for being managed by their cousin’s husband. Took quite a bit of convincing to get Lady Madeline to dance with me, and that was only grudgingly done. I do not think the lady cares for me.”
Something in Alec’s gut unknotted. He had come to admire both ladies over the past few weeks. But he had no wish to compete with his friend as a rival for Lady Madeline’s hand. He was quite sure he could hold his own, but Monteith could be charming when he set his mind to it. Things would be much better if Monteith set his sights on Miss Juliet Shelby, the Duchess of Winterson’s other cousin.
Slim and fair of complexion with deep auburn hair, Miss Shelby could have been the toast of the ton were it not for an accident during her teens that had left her with a pronounced limp. Alec had been partnered with her at a card party some weeks ago and found her to be a sensible and witty young woman. She was not one to suffer fools gladly, and he could only imagine her annoyance at Winterson’s interference. If he guessed right, she’d much rather have spent the evening at home working on one of her compositions for the pianoforte.
“On the other hand,” Monteith continued, “Miss Shelby and I had a de
lightful conversation speculating over the identity of the artist everyone is chattering about. She thinks he’s probably some unknown trying to gain the spotlight. I think it’s probably some chap with a flagging career who wishes to raise speculation about his work.”
“Il Maestro, you mean?”
All of London had been engrossed with learning the identity of the mysterious artist who had begun showing his controversial paintings a little over a month ago. The gallery owner claimed not to know, as did the few who had purchased pieces from the show. And it was generally agreed that the longer he kept his identity a secret, the more intrigued the public would become.
“Who else?” Monteith said with something like disgust. “I blame Byron for all of this ado. He swans about with his dark looks, spouting poetry and seducing women, and now every other fellow with the least bit of artistic inclination thinks a foreign sobriquet and risqué art are the shortcut to celebrity.”
“Yes,” Alec reasoned, “but Byron didn’t keep his identity a secret. He makes sure everyone knows it’s himself he’s writing about.”
The other man grimaced. “Just wait. Il Maestro will have a grand unmasking as soon as he’s whipped the ladies into a sufficient frenzy of curiosity.” He smiled. “All except for Miss Shelby, that is. I think a surfeit of chatter about that blighter is what sent her over the edge.”
“What do you mean?” Alec asked, his brow furrowed. “Is she unwell?”
He did not like to think of Juliet ill. And it was the duty of a good host to ensure the comfort of all his guests, of course.
Monteith’s glib tone turned serious. “I think her leg might be paining her a bit,” he said. “And of course her harridan of a mother refused to allow her to take the carriage home.”
On that point, Deveril and Monteith were in firm agreement. Lady Shelby was one of the most beautiful women to grace the ton. She and her two sisters had taken society by storm when they’d made their debuts some two and a half decades earlier. The daughters of an undistinguished Dorset squire, they’d been introduced to the ton by a distant cousin and within months married three of the most eligible bachelors in town. Of the three, Rose was the least admired. Not because of her looks, which had only improved with age, but because of her unpleasant nature.
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