by Sara Portman
“I have, ma petite. My husband is dead, I have no children in France, and I am, in my soul, English.”
Lucy smiled. Most would not consider it very English to think of one’s soul at all, outside of church. “Is that why you are introduced as Lady Constance, as opposed to your French title?”
The lady leaned in as if to speak confidentially. “Nobody likes the French, ma petite. It’s perfectly acceptable to tolerate the French, even to emulate the French tastes, but it’s not entirely acceptable to be French. Too many memories of lads lost. One must be sensitive to these things. The honorific reminds everyone that I was born English.”
Lucy nodded, recalling Lady Grantham’s comments.
Lady Constance leaned away again. She waved her hand in the air as though dismissing a thought Lucy had not yet voiced. “Do not mistake, I loved my years in France. So many wonderful things about the French.”
“I should like to hear more about them someday,” Lucy said, and she meant it most genuinely, but she had already taken up too much of the comtesse’s conversation. “Why don’t I fetch you a lemonade, Emma,” she offered, “while you speak with Lady Constance.”
“I’m sure I can get something to drink in a bit,” Emma said. “There is no need for you to get it for me.”
“Nonsense, I am happy to do it,” Lucy assured her. “Stay just where you are and I shall return shortly.”
She rose. As manners required, Bex rose as well. She realized once she began to walk away that he had not reseated himself, but left the group also. Was he following her? She glanced over her shoulder. He was two paces behind her as she walked. He was following her.
Whatever for? She turned again. He had stopped. He was not even looking at her.
“Do you know the direction of the card room?” he asked a gentleman she did not know.
Lucy watched as he was given the requested direction and, after expressing his gratitude for the information, walked away. He did not even glance her way.
He had not followed her after all. An oddly deflated feeling came with that knowledge, but she did her best to ignore it, instead allowing her curiosity to circle about the fact that he was looking for the card room. Had he not just insisted to Lady Constance that he did not play cards?
Before she could think better of it, Lucy abandoned her previous destination and walked in the same direction as Bex. Now she was following him. Why had he lied about playing cards? It was not as though such an admission would be scandalous. Card rooms were set aside at events like this for the very fact that many perfectly respectable gentlemen participated. The more she realized his lie made no sense, the more determined she was to follow, though to what end, she had no idea.
She bemoaned her small stature as she attempted to track his progress through the room. From what she could see, he was making his way toward the far wall, which contained three recessed archways. She lost him for a moment, but, rising on her toes, she spied him again, walking into the center archway. Even as she questioned what she might do or say if she actually entered the card room—and she suspected women did not—she lowered herself back onto her heels and made her way to the far wall.
She stopped when she reached it, because there were not, in fact, three archways. There were four. Which meant, of course, that either of the middle alcoves could be the one through which he had passed. Slowing to a more meandering pace, Lucy strolled past first one and then the other middle alcove. Both led to recessed doorways.
* * * *
She stood, frozen, between the two doors, obsessed with the choice of which one he’d used, despite knowing with absolute certainty the correct choice for her was neither door, but rather to turn around, find a glass of lemonade, and spend the remainder of the evening at Emma’s side.
Though, perhaps, if she could manage to only peek without being seen…
As though she had intentionally set out to disprove Emma’s description of her sensible personality, Lucy turned and ducked into the archway to her left. The alcove was not deep and, as she’d already discovered, it ended at a tall, heavy door. She reached out and gingerly touched the handle. Slowly, she grasped it more firmly and pushed.
The door did not budge. It could not be locked from the inside, if Bex had entered. She pushed one more time. Whatever prevented the door from opening with her first push must have come loose, because with her second push, it swung wide, pulling her with it through the doorway.
Chapter Ten
She was outside.
Conscious of being seen, Lucy pulled the door shut behind her, only to be plunged into blackness at the loss of the glow from the interior of the house. From the little she had noticed when she could see, she was in a small, walled garden. She dare not take a step for fear of stumbling in the dark.
Why did Bex Brantwood have the effect of inducing her to make ill-advised and impractical decisions?
She’d taken complete leave of her senses. The mix-up of archways was a blessing. Fortune had taken pity on her wayward soul and, for the second time, protected her from her own impulsive foolishness. How easily she’d lost sight of her purpose here.
Pay attention, Lucy.
Lemonade.
Governess.
Go back inside, she told herself. Retrieve Emma’s drink. She should direct her attention to behaving as the perfectly respectable vicar’s daughter that she, in fact, was.
She placed her fingers on the handle of the door and felt it turn within her hand, before she’d applied any pressure to accomplish the task.
She snatched her hand back.
She gaped at the door. As it moved slowly outward, a thin shaft of light began to slice into the darkness of the tree-shaded garden.
Oh, God. Someone is coming! She should not be here by herself. Respectable young ladies did not lurk in dark gardens at London house parties. When her mind could not immediately leap to a plausible excuse for her present location, she put her limbs into action instead. With an indelicate lift of her skirts, she darted behind the largest nearby tree with the sort of agility one only possessed in moments of panic.
Eyes wide in the steadily brightening garden, Lucy pressed her back to the large tree and silently blessed whoever had decided to leave the old thing where it stood and plant a garden around it rather than cutting it down.
The door shut again and she blinked, once again plunged into dark as her eyes failed to adjust to the abrupt changes in light.
Footsteps.
If you wouldn’t mind, unknown intruder, could you please return to the soirée and allow me to do the same? If only she could will the request to the mind of her unwanted companion. Go back inside. Go back inside.
She briefly considered an attempt to sneak past and get to the door, but discarded the notion. Her presence would only be announced when the darkness was again brightened from the open doorway, as it had been moments ago.
Yielding to her frustration, she made a face in the blackness that, of course, no one saw. She could barely see her own fingertips.
“Mariah?”
Lucy froze. The masculine whisper came from much nearer than she had expected. She held her breath.
“Mariah?” The voice was closer still.
“There you are, sweeting.” A large hand closed around her forearm and tugged her forward.
She tugged back.
A low chuckle came from dangerously near her left ear. An arm snaked around her waist. “You’re not going to become shy now, are you?” The breath was warm, but thankfully free of the scent of liquor.
Or perhaps, drunkenness would be preferable. She did not want to be recognized, after all. Wouldn’t an intoxicated man be less likely to have a clear recollection? It was a useless point, she supposed, as this man did not suffer from that particular affliction.
Why was it so dark? She couldn’t even get her bearing
s.
Absent drunkenness, however, perhaps the dark was better. She hastily considered. What would she say? I beg your pardon, but I am not Mariah. He would be embarrassed, she would be embarrassed, and what of poor Mariah?
Often, when one hesitates in decision, one loses the opportunity to decide. This was startlingly clear when she was pulled firmly against the broad chest of a strange man and felt hands tilt up her chin.
“My love,” came his whispered declaration. Then his lips fell on hers.
Lucy was most definitely being kissed, by a man she could not see and surely had never met. She was too stunned to react immediately. By the time she was capable of reacting, she decided to push him away—only she didn’t. Instead, it occurred to her that here was a man kissing her as though she were his sweetheart.
Since she was already being kissed, she supposed she could at least gain an answer to her most pressing question. Would his kiss feel the same as Mr. Brantwood’s?
* * * *
It was gentle.
He was gentle.
He did smell nice—like leather and perhaps a hint of tobacco.
She supposed it was…nice.
She didn’t kiss him back, precisely, but she did allow him to continue kissing her, his unfamiliar lips pressed insistently to hers, as she evaluated.
Then he ended it and pulled back, still holding her waist. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Mariah, she decided, must be more enthusiastic.
“Um…” She tried to step back. “We’ll be caught,” she said in a breathy whisper that she sincerely hoped would successfully disguise her voice. “I should go.”
“But we’ve only just gotten here,” he said without yielding his hold.
“They’ll catch us,” she said in the same gravelly whisper, taking a calculated guess that there was, in fact, a “they.” There was always a “they,” wasn’t there? Parents, uncles, chaperones of some kind. Why else take the trouble of a secret meeting?
“I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said. He sounded so heartbreakingly sincere, she felt guilty for not actually being Mariah.
“I will go in first,” he said, “in case anyone saw me walk out just now. I will make sure your father is nowhere near. Wait a few minutes, then come back inside yourself.”
Well, he did seem rather solicitous. If not for the absolute absurdity of the notion, she might have envied Mariah her chivalrous beau.
His hand slipped from her waist. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the light and she was curious—incredibly curious—to see what he looked like, but she kept her head down. If she could begin to make out shapes in the shadows, so could he. What if he realized hers was not a match for the shape he’d been expecting? What if her eyes were bright enough to reflect the light and appeared the wrong color?
She kept her chin firmly down and said, “All right,” one more time in her throaty whisper.
He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Until later, my love,” he said and stepped away.
She exhaled. She had not realized how long it had been since she had fully allowed herself to breathe. She stayed in place as the light filtered over her, marking the opening and closing of the door as he went inside. She blinked, and, once more, she was sightless in the warm, damp evening.
“That was touching…Mariah.”
She spun. She recognized this voice. Bex.
“What are you doing here?” Unable to see, she shot the question accusingly in the direction of the voice.
“I might ask the same of you, Saint Lucy. I am here because I received some inaccurate instructions and exited the wrong door. I stayed because I wondered what sort of business would cause a perfectly respectable vicar’s daughter to sneak into a dark garden in the middle of a house party. A moonlight tryst and a false identity? I am impressed. That is a great deal of shameful behavior for one evening.” She could hear his voice drawing closer. “One might even call it impulsive.”
“This was not a tryst,” she declared, beginning to make out his shape as it moved toward her. “At least it was not my tryst. Why would I go about masquerading as this Mariah woman? I am only here because I walked through the wrong archway as well. I thought I was at the door to the card room.”
She recognized her error immediately.
“A tryst, a deception, and a weakness for cards.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Saint Lucy, you shock even me, and I do not shock easily.”
Even recognizing it for the trap it was, she could not help herself. “Why were you looking for the card room?” she demanded. “You lied to Lady Constance. You told her you don’t play cards.”
“Saint Lucy, were you following me?”
She bristled. “It doesn’t reflect well on your character that you would lie so freely.”
“I assure you, I do many things that do not reflect well upon my character. Lying is not among them.”
“But I heard you. You asked for the card room.”
“I did ask for the card room,” he said without concern. “But does it necessarily follow that I intended to play cards? Perhaps I sought a cardplayer, not a card game.” He was very near now. “My behavior is nowhere near as scandalous as yours. What a surprise you have turned out to be.” She could hear his smile in the dark.
“I already told you, I took the wrong door. I came outside by mistake. “
“So Mariah is not a pet name from your sweetheart? You do not play games that involve adopting roles like governesses or sweet young girls?”
“No,” she hissed, “Mariah is not a role or a pet name. She is clearly a real person and planned a clandestine interlude with her admirer. If you want to be scandalized by anyone’s behavior, you can look to her. Although,” Lucy amended, “she did not come after all, did she? Perhaps she thought better of it and changed her mind.”
His laugh was soft and low. “You are too good, dear. It makes you horribly uncomfortable to speak ill of this woman who is nothing more than a name to you—the name of a woman who is behaving less than respectably, I might add.”
She stiffened. “I am in no position to judge this girl. I have never met her and know nothing of her.” She had also just allowed the other woman’s beau to kiss her, but she did not believe that warranted reiteration.
“Except that she was conveniently absent, thus you decided to take her place,” he said, obviously deciding the reminder was, in fact, necessary. “Did you enjoy participating in her tryst?”
“Don’t be absurd.” It was absurd. Not entirely untrue, however. “I was taken by surprise when that man kissed me.”
“Of course. So, naturally, you immediately objected and announced your true identity.”
“I didn’t want to be caught here, and I didn’t want him to know that he had been caught as well. I thought I could extricate myself from the situation more easily by…by…cooperating.”
He was standing directly in front of her—near enough to touch her. He spoke very quietly, but she had no difficulty in hearing him, or even feeling his breath as he spoke. “So, allow me to confirm my understanding. In order to avoid being caught in a compromising and scandalous position, you decided to let a strange man kiss you.”
“It seemed more rational at the time,” she hastened to explain. “It all happened very quickly.”
“I should have thought your curiosity already satisfied.”
It was as though he could read her thoughts. His intuition when he couldn’t even see her face seemed a wholly unfair advantage. She had no sensible response that wouldn’t paint her as a reckless, naïve fool—which she supposed she was.
“You were curious, weren’t you?” he asked, taking her silence as confirmation.
“It’s not what you think,” she blurted. “It was already happening. If I was curious, it’s only because I needed to know if it wo
uld be different.”
He was quiet.
Lucy felt her cheeks warm. Why, why had she said that?
“Was it different?” he asked. Had he just moved even closer?
She set her jaw. “I do not wish to discuss this with you.”
“Was it?” he asked. This time his voice was low, insistent, no longer teasing.
She lifted her head, but her voice was very small when she answered. “Yes.” She wished very much that she could have simply lied to him.
He was right there at her answer, hands closing around her arms, just below her shoulders. His grip was urgent, but not rough. “How?” he implored.
She stared up at his face in the darkness, feeling as though her inability to clearly see him made this moment somehow less real. Could she answer his question in the daylight? Would she answer it?
“He was kind,” she said. “He smelled pleasant. It was nice.”
His grip tightened.
Her voice dropped to barely a breath. “It was only nice…not…not…”
She couldn’t even say what it wasn’t. She didn’t need to say it. He showed her. He showed them both. His grip clutched her and his mouth fell to hers and, heaven help her, he showed her everything the stranger’s kiss had lacked.
The insistent pull that forced her to not only receive, but participate to the extent her inexperienced self could know how.
The urge to get closer—to create as many points of contact as they could.
The build of heat between them until she thought it might explode.
All of these things, and the strength of will it required of her—to hold back from complete surrender into the kiss and wherever else the kiss might take them.
His lips moved insistently over hers and she knew, in the most natural way of knowing, that nice would never be enough. A sound that barely registered as her own rumbled softly in the back of her throat.
It was not an objection, but it should be.
She knew it should be.
She pulled her lips from his. She tried to step back, but met the abrasive bark of the tree against which she had been hiding. She sidled left, freeing herself from the heady pull of his proximity.