Lucy reached down to readjust her satin slipper and realized her feet ached terribly. If only she could sit for a moment, perhaps breathe in some revitalizing fresh air. She glanced at her dance card, tied conveniently to her wrist, and knew that surely someone would be clamoring for her attention soon. Perhaps she could escape for a moment’s solitude in the garden. She glanced furtively about to make sure no one was watching, then hurried to the French doors leading out to the terrace.
As soon as she stepped out into the sultry night, she saw him standing there, his profile illuminated by the silver moonlight. Her breath caught and she froze, one hand raised to cover her mouth. Silently, she stepped back, hoping to escape before he became aware of her presence.
With a start, he turned toward her, his blazing eyes meeting hers and setting her heart aflutter.
“Miss Abbington.” He did not bow. Instead he leaned against the railing, one gloved hand clasping an almost empty champagne flute. “Enjoying yourself, I see.” His tone was cold, accusing.
“Yes, I am. Shouldn’t I?” Lucy shook her head in confusion.
“Of course. The evening is undoubtedly a success for you. You must be pleased.” He was positively glaring at her.
“I...I am, I suppose. At least I have not made any terrible blunders yet.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out high pitched and unnatural sounding. “Perhaps I should leave you to your solitude, my lord—”
“I asked you to call me ‘Henry’, did I not? And yet you still call me ‘my lord’ and here I am still calling you ‘Miss Abbington’. Lucy, is it not? Colin Rosemoor calls you ‘Lucy’, so perhaps I should, as well.”
“But I have known Colin Rosemoor my entire life, my lord, so it cannot be compared now, can it?”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, no matter. Hurry inside, then. Or were you perhaps hoping for another kiss?” He leaned toward her with a lascivious smile, and she smelled the strong scent of whisky on his breath.
He’s drunk, Lucy realized with disgust. She affected the haughtiest pose she could muster. “You have no right to speak to me this way.” She held her head high, but her body betrayed her emotions with trembling rage. “No right at all,” she added, practically in a whisper. She would never understand this maddening man. He was so affable one moment and then cruel the next. He broke down her defenses, drew her into his web of friendly camaraderie, and then, once she was there in his clutches, turned on her with inexplicable ire.
“Go, Lucy,” he said, waving his hand dismissively toward the doors. “You’ve no idea how you’ve disappointed me.”
“Do not address me so informally, my lord.” Her chin, which she had thrust in the air so defiantly, began to tremble and treacherous tears threatened her eyes. She had to go back inside now and find somewhere private to collect herself. Without another word to him, she turned and fled through the single door on the far side of the terrace, toward Lord Rosemoor’s study.
Henry took a few steps after her, into the open doorway, and watched her flee down a darkened hallway. He’d seen the tears in her eyes, and guilt had washed over him. What in God’s name had he done? Bloody hell, he hadn’t meant to make her cry.
He stood there indecisively for a moment, and then followed the direction she had taken. Halfway down the deserted hall he paused and listened. From behind a door to his right came the faint sounds of shuffling feet and snuffling. He took a deep breath and rapped on the door.
“Lucy?” No reply. “Miss Abbington?” More shuffling of feet.
“Go away,” she called through the closed door.
Without thinking, he opened the door and stepped inside, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him. She was leaning against a heavy desk, her back to him.
She whirled to face him, her angry eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice catching on a sob.
Henry’s breath caught in his throat, and he closed the distance between them in three strides, clasping her to his breast. She tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter. He raggedly breathed in her scent as his heart thumped against his ribs. Feeling her against him set his body on fire. He took a deep breath, fighting desperately for composure. “I am sorry, Miss Abbington.” His voice cracked slightly. “You did not deserve that.”
“You’re right, my lord, I did not,” came her muffled reply.
Ever the little warrior, he thought in admiration. But he was relieved that she continued to let him hold her. She sniffled, and he reached up to stroke her hair, soft as the finest spun silk. He could not manage to swallow the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “You must forgive me. I behaved abominably once again.”
She sniffed in response.
“Have you a handkerchief?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, her face still buried in the folds of his coat.
“Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white linen square. “Take this. Dry your eyes.”
She took it and did as she was told. After she had blown her nose and dabbed at her eyes, he pulled her small form back toward his. He could not help himself. His body was betraying him, and he felt himself harden. Burying his face in her neck, he reached down to cup her bottom. It was surprisingly firm and muscled. His hands moved back up again, across the curves of her back, as his mouth pressed against the bare skin of her neck. She leaned into him, her eyes half lidded. His hands moved between their bodies to her stomach, and crept stealthily toward her voluptuous breasts until his roaming fingers found them.
He heard her gasp, but she didn’t move, didn’t push him away. He brushed his fingertips across the ripe fullness of her bosom. It would not take much to push down her bodice, expose the nipple that had hardened to his touch.
Henry closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath as he clutched her to him. Dear God, what was he doing? And why was she allowing it? This was wrong. Dangerous. He couldn’t torture himself this way. Releasing her with a groan, he took her chin in his hand and tipped her head up. She boldly met his gaze. “Do not fall in love with me,” he warned, his voice gravelly.
“Oh!” She wrenched herself from his grasp.
“Whatever it seems we have between us, it is false, nothing but illusion,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I want you, yes. Desperately perhaps. But I will not marry you. I have no desire to take a wife at present, not till it’s prudent that I do so. But when I do, I will marry well.”
In a flash her hand flew out and struck him solidly across one cheek. The blood rose in her face, staining it an angry red. She stood there glaring at him, her hands clenched by her sides and her bosom heaving.
Henry reached up to rub his own smarting cheek. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“Of course you did, you arrogant fool,” she said. “I don’t want to marry you any more than you want to marry me. Must I remind you that I am not looking for a husband?”
“Then why are you here? What were you doing out there, putting on that brilliant performance?”
“I told you. My papa wishes me to have a Season, so that’s what I am doing. Having a Season. I’m behaving as a proper young lady should, fulfilling my duty. Surely you can understand that?”
“Perhaps,” he said warily. “I must say, you are doing a damn good job looking as if you enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it. Why shouldn’t I? Just because I’m not hanging out for a husband doesn’t mean I can’t have fun. It’s almost as if...as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s skin for the night. No one is thinking how odd I am or smiling at me patronizingly as they usually do.” She shook her head. “Besides, it’s none of your concern.”
He cleared his throat. “I can’t help but admire you. I want to believe you are different from the rest, though I’ve no idea why.”
“Why do you find it so hard to trust me? To believe that I’m not out to ensnare you?” All at once her anger seemed to melt away and she looked almost sympathetic. “Is it because...” she swallowed and
dropped her gaze. “Because of Miss Layton?” She looked up at him quizzically, her lovely green eyes shining.
“Cecelia? So you heard the story, I see. And what exactly were you told?”
“Well, that...that she broke your heart, of course.”
“A broken heart? Is what they think?” He sat down and laughed, a deep, booming sound, echoing off the walls.
“Shhh. Someone will hear you,” she pleaded.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat again. “To have one’s heart broken, I suppose one must be in love first. And I can assure you I never loved Miss Layton. Mrs. Ridgeley, that is,” he corrected.
“Bu—but, they said...” she stuttered, looking confused.
“Would you like to hear the truth? It’s quite comical, really,” he continued before she had a chance to respond. “My father had just passed away, and on his deathbed had begged me to take a wife, to ensure the marquessate. I felt the burden of the responsibility, and so I courted and offered for the most desirable young debutante of the Season, an heiress with a considerable portion behind her. Cecelia was beautiful, and I was fond of her, I suppose.” He stood and began pacing the room, his hands shoved roughly into his pockets. “She accepted me eagerly enough, and we were able to reach a mutually pleasing agreement. And then the next day”—he stopped his pacing and pounded his fist on Lord Rosemoor’s desk—“the very next day she was caught—quite publicly I might add—with her skirts around her waist and Ridgeley driving into her.”
Miss Abbington’s cheeks turned crimson, and Henry flinched at his own crudeness. The girl was a virgin, after all. But then, he had supposed Cecelia was, too. Obviously, he was no judge of virtue.
“Lord Mandeville, you should not tell me these things. It isn’t proper.” She wrung her hands, her cheeks scarlet, and refused to meet his gaze.
“Well, you wanted to know the truth, did you not? I was humiliated. I’m sure the ton enjoyed speculating as to why she would choose Ridgeley, a mere mister, over the newly made Marquess of Mandeville.”
“But...but why would she agree to wed you and then do such a thing?”
“And worse yet,” he said with a caustic smile, “get caught doing it? Honestly, I’ve no idea. It was suggested that she had been carrying on with Ridgeley for some time before, so perhaps she was marrying me for my title, hoping to continue her liaison all the while. Perhaps her family insisted she marry me and she wanted out of the arrangement. Whatever the case, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out the reasons for her deception. I left immediately for Scotland, where I remained overseeing my estate for more than three years. My sister finally convinced me to return and take my rightful place in Parliament. Eleanor is my twin, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she whispered.
“There is much you do not know about me.”
“Nor do I wish to know more, Lord Mandeville,” she said coldly. “You should go at once. We must not be alone here, like this. I have worked so hard—”
“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to ruin your prospects. But can we call a truce of sorts? Can you forgive me?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said vaguely, taking his arm and steering him hurriedly toward the door.
She was right, he should go. Home. Immediately. “Good night, Lucy,” he said, reaching for the doorknob.
As he opened the door and stepped into the hallway he heard her whisper, “Good night, Henry.” His heart contracted painfully in his chest.
Lucy wiped her eyes once more and blew her nose. She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. A large, intricately scripted M was sewn in black at one corner, a coronet embroidered above it. Mandeville. Had she really let him touch her so intimately? She reached a hand up to her bodice, remembering the searing heat of his hand upon her breast. Had he felt her heart accelerate at his touch? She shivered at the memory of his warm breath against her neck, the sensation of his lips on her bare skin.
She’d never before let any man take such liberties. She had known it was wrong, terribly wrong, and yet she seemed powerless to stop it. She had stood there, frozen, and allowed him to touch her. It was more than that, too, she admitted to herself. She’d liked it. She hadn’t wanted him to stop. Dear God, what sort of harlot had she become? Lucy felt powerless over her own traitorous body. She stamped a slippered foot in frustration.
His words echoed in her ears. I will not marry you, Lucy, he’d said, the words all too familiar. She closed her eyes, remembering the chill in the air that cold December night, little more than two years’ past. She’d fancied herself in love with the Earl of Sherbourne’s youngest son, attracted by his boyish good looks, his easy charm. Edward had sought her out, openly flirted with her, and she’d been flattered that he’d taken notice of her. He’d strung her along for several months, while the whole village of Hollowsbridge wagged their tongues and speculated on what was developing between the oddly matched pair.
And then that December night, when the entire village had gathered for the annual lighting of the tree in the square, he’d pulled her out of the crowd, into the darkened lane, and tried to kiss her. She was so young, so naïve. She’d pushed him away and asked him his intentions—did he plan to marry her? If only she could take back those words and the humiliation that followed. She could still hear his laughter rising above the sounds of the festive caroling. She cringed, remembering the contempt on his face. “Marry you?” he’d laughed. “I won’t marry you, Lucy. You didn’t truly think I would? Honestly, a girl like you? I was just after a bit of fun.”
“A bit of fun?” she’d asked with disbelief. How silly she’d been to believe he loved her.
“Of course. Come now, my father is an earl. You’re not at all suitable. Surely you realized what I wanted from you.” To this day, she could still feel the raw humiliation, the rage she’d felt at that very moment.
She would never again let a man humble her so, make her feel so lowly and common. She hadn’t allowed Edward Allerton to break her spirit, nor would she allow Lord Mandeville.
She shook her head, hoping to clear it of the unwanted memories. How long had she been away from the ball? She needed to return before her absence was noted and speculated upon. She smoothed her hair, readjusted her bodice, and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief one last time. With a deep breath, she opened the door and hurried out, trying desperately to compose her features into a mask of decorum.
“Oh, Lucy, there you are, child. I was worried, dear. I could not find you anywhere.” Aunt Agatha was standing at Colin’s side, a frown upon her face. Lucy had seen her aunt gesturing wildly as she approached. “I was about to send Colin here in search of you.”
“Why, whatever is the matter?” Lucy’s stomach knotted in fear.
“Nothing is the matter, dear,” Aunt Agatha said. “Lord Rosemoor wished to introduce you to the Duke of Colne and I simply could not locate you. It was as if you had vanished into thin air.”
“I’m sorry I worried you, Auntie. I just needed a moment’s rest, away from the crush.” Lucy hoped her expression did not betray her guilt.
“Yes, well, do not disappear again.” Her aunt patted her hand and smiled affectionately. “The evening is going so well, dear. I am so proud. So proud,” she repeated. “Now that you have been found, I am off to the library for some whist.” Lucy sighed as her aunt scurried off.
“I’m not so easily fooled as Agatha, Lucy,” Colin said. “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?” He leaned toward her, peering anxiously into her face. “You look as if you’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t...” Lucy found she could not lie to Colin, after all. “I cannot tell you.” She shook her head resolutely.
Colin took her hand. “You’re trembling.” He turned her hand over. “What is this?”
Startled, she dropped the handkerchief she had not realized she was still clutching, and it floated gracefully to the ground with a swish.
Colin bent to retrieve the c
loth. He held it up and examined the monogram. “M?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Lucy chewed on her lower lip, unable to reply. She looked around nervously and saw Lord Rosemoor watching them, not six feet away, with a troubled expression darkening his normally jovial countenance.
“Mandeville, I suppose,” Colin said.
Lucy squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. “Oh, Colin,” she whispered, “it was awful. Awful. He followed me to the study and, and...” Lucy suddenly realized she had erred most grievously in her candor. Colin’s gray eyes looked like storm clouds about to burst. She was frightened by their intensity.
Colin roughly grasped her wrist. “Lucy, come with me out to the terrace.”
She followed him dutifully, afraid to refuse.
As soon as the doors shut behind them, Colin took hold of her shoulders. “Did he kiss you?” he asked.
Oh, it was so much worse than that! She remembered his hands on her bottom, on her bodice, touching her through the thin fabric of her gown. She shuddered. “He...I...well, not really, not this time, but—” Lucy gasped, realizing what she had inadvertently revealed.
“I’ll kill him!” Colin said, and he looked as if he might. He stormed toward the doors, but Lucy reached for his sleeve and pulled him back to her side.
“No, Colin, you will do no such thing,” Lucy said emphatically. “I am a grown woman, not some helpless little girl. I can fight my own battles.” She refused to back down—she would not have the situation worsened by Colin’s interference. “Truly, it’s my own fault.”
“Your fault?” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “You are an innocent, Lucy, new to the ways of the ton. He took advantage of you, in my family’s home, and I will not allow it.”
He was practically apoplectic, and Lucy was reminded of her own papa when he was furious at her or Nicholas for some egregious misdeed. A nervous giggle bubbled up, and she reached a hand to her mouth to suppress it.
“Are you laughing?” Colin asked incredulously, his face turning bright red. “This is no laughing matter, Lucy.”
Unlaced 1 Page 7