Unlaced 1

by Kristina Cook

  As if the gods were listening to his pleas, the music rose to a crashing crescendo and then mercifully silenced. He heaved a sigh of relief as the heavy curtains dropped across the stage.

  “Well, Henry, you look as if you’ve just endured a most painful invasion of your senses.” Eleanor patted his hand. “Did you really find it so unpleasant?”

  “Lady Helena Waring—what do you know of her?” He cocked his head in the girl’s direction.

  “Lady Helena?” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you wish to know? She’s a lovely girl, just out this Season.”

  “Who’s courting her?”

  “The cream of the crop, to be sure. John, Earl Covedon. Lord Embry, eldest son of the Duke of Colne.”

  Henry waved a hand dismissively.

  “Why ever do you ask?”

  He ignored her question. “And does she favor any of those cowhanded lads?”

  “I’m sure I’ve no idea.” Eleanor absently looked past Henry. He followed her gaze and saw that she was watching Lucy who had risen to her feet, Sinclair holding her arm possessively.

  “What of her intelligence? Is she completely empty-headed and vacuous? Does she have any pluck at all?” Henry asked, unable to tear his gaze from Lucy.

  “Who? Miss Abbington? Surely you know the girl better than I.”

  “Not Miss Abbington,” he said exasperatedly, returning his attention to the girl in white. “Lady Helena.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said with a sigh. “Lady Helena. Well, I would say she is somewhat sharper than most. She strikes me as generally appropriate to her station. What is your sudden interest in Lady Helena, anyway? I thought you had no plans at present to take a wife.” Eleanor looked past Henry’s shoulder again, her brow drawn. She was watching Lucy again, he was sure. He turned impatiently and saw that Sinclair still held her arm, but it appeared as if she were trying to wrench it from his grasp. Mrs. Stafford was nowhere to be seen. What the hell is going on?

  “Please excuse me for one moment.” He was gone before his sister could respond, striding angrily in the direction of Sinclair’s box.

  ***

  “I must insist you unhand me, sir.” Lucy gritted her teeth and glared at Sinclair as she took her seat, one hand nervously fidgeting with the locket at the base of her throat. Her mother’s locket.

  “Come now, Miss Abbington. Don’t play the role of coy schoolgirl. Surely a lady such as yourself is used to such, er, attentions.”

  “What are you insinuating, sir?” Lucy felt a white-hot anger searing her breast as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up again.

  “Enough of the simple country-girl act,” he whispered into her ear, pulling Lucy toward him and grazing her breasts with the back of his hand. His pale eyes glittered and his mouth twisted into an angry sneer. Lucy’s eyes widened in horror as he reached down and cupped her backside with his hand.

  Lucy rose to her feet in indignation, grateful for the dim lighting. Where was Aunt Agatha? Why had she not yet returned? “Please, sir—”

  “Call me Thomas.” He stood and draped one arm across her shoulders. In a flash, one of his hands reached down to pinch her nipple suggestively, causing bile to rise in Lucy’s throat. Instinctively, her hands balled into fists and she shoved with all her might at his chest. At the same time, she raised her knee and thrust it directly into his groin.

  “Oof,” he groaned, his face contorted with a mixture of pain and rage. “You bitch,” he ground out in whispered tones. He reached for Lucy’s wrist and twisted it painfully. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You’re nothing but a little piece of—”

  Suddenly the door to the box swung open, banging against the wall with a dull splinter of wood. Lucy gasped in surprise as Lord Mandeville’s muscular frame pushed through the doorway, his dark face a mask of fury. He shoved Sinclair against the wall, toppling chairs as he did so, and grabbed the man roughly by the collar.

  “Little piece of what, you bastard?” Henry said, his voice a menacing growl. “Go on, say it so that I can rip your throat out with just cause.”

  Lucy shuddered. It looked as if he just might do what he threatened. She scuttled to the far corner of the box, pressed herself against the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Mandeville, this is no business of yours. This is between Miss Abbington and me.”

  She opened her eyes just wide enough to see Henry tighten his grip on the man.

  Just then, what was left of the door swung open again. Colin burst in, his brow furrowed in concern. “Lucy, is there a...” He trailed off and looked around, taking in the scene before him. “Mandeville, what’s going on here?” Colin looked to Lucy, still huddled in the corner. “Lucy, are you hurt?” He rushed to her side and drew her into his arms. Henry still held Sinclair against the wall.

  “I—I’m fine,” Lucy stammered. She looked up, beyond their box, and saw dozens of eyes trained on them, a chorus of mouths forming silent O’s of surprise.

  “Someone will tell me what has happened,” Colin demanded, swinging his gaze from Sinclair to Henry.

  Lucy mutely looked to Henry. His eyes were smoldering.

  “Mr. Rosemoor, your family was severely amiss in allowing Sinclair to escort Lucy tonight. He tried to take advantage of her—practically attacked her. I only got here just in time.” He released the silent, glaring Sinclair and threw a disdainful glance at Colin. Crossing to Lucy’s side, he grasped one of her hands in his.

  “Are you certain he didn’t hurt you?” Henry’s voice was soft, his touch gentle. “Just give me the word and I will—”

  “You will pay for this, Mandeville,” Sinclair said as he reached up to rub his bruised neck. His eyes, full of hatred, boldly met Henry’s. “You and your little whore—”

  Henry was across the small space in an instant, his hands encircling Sinclair’s neck. “I’ll kill you, you bastard.” His eyes were blazing, the thick cords of his neck standing out.

  Sinclair’s face registered utter surprise and disbelief.

  “Mandeville, he’s not worth getting thrown into Newgate over. Let him go,” Colin said.

  Lucy nodded, her legs shaking madly, and Henry dropped his hands to his sides. Sinclair slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

  Aunt Agatha rushed in, clutching two lemonades to her bosom. “I’m sorry, dear, the crowds were so thick I thought I’d never—” She looked around and her eyes widened with horror. She dropped the lemonades and they hit the floor with a thud, showering a spray of pungent liquid over the box’s stunned occupants. “Oh, goodness, whatever happened? I think I’m going to swoon...” And with an even louder thud, she slumped to the ground in a heap of bombazine.

  Sinclair rose to his feet and stepped over the prostrate woman. “I believe I’ll be on my way,” he said, casting a contemptuous glance over one shoulder as he stormed out.

  Lucy rushed to her aunt’s side, reaching for her reticule and retrieving a vinaigrette. She waved it in front of her aunt’s nose several times until the woman’s eyes fluttered open.

  Aunt Agatha sat bolt upright. “What...what happened?”

  “You swooned, Auntie. Here, lie back down.”

  Aunt Agatha looked up at Henry, confused. “Where is Lord Thomas? Lucy, what has happened?”

  “It turns out Lord Thomas isn’t such a gentleman, after all. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I fetch you some water?” Lucy’s brow furrowed in concern.

  Henry handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at the lemonade soaking her aunt’s frock.

  “No, dear, I’m fine now. Here, Colin, help me up off the floor.”

  Colin righted an overturned chair and assisted Aunt Agatha to her feet. She sank into the seat with a grateful smile.

  “Mrs. Stafford,” Henry asked, “are you sure you are well? I think it’s best we leave—we seem to have created quite a stir.”

  “He’s right. Auntie, are you well enough to walk?” Lucy had to leave, to get out of ther
e as quickly as possible.

  “Yes, of course. I’m perfectly fine.” Lucy was relieved that the color had indeed returned to her aunt’s wrinkled cheeks and her ragged breathing had slowed to normal.

  “Come, Lucy. I’ll see that you and Mrs. Stafford get home safely.” Henry took her elbow and steered her into the hallway.

  “No need for that, Mandeville. I can see them both home. If you’ll excuse us.” Colin dismissed the marquess with a nod, leading Aunt Agatha toward the stairs.

  “I insist, Rosemoor, on seeing Lucy safely to your carriage, then. It’s painfully obvious that she isn’t safe left to your family’s discretion.”

  Colin released Aunt Agatha’s arm and whirled about to face the marquess challengingly. He drew himself to his full height—nearly equal that of Henry—with his chest thrown out and his fists balled at his sides. Henry glared back, flexing his hands menacingly, his dark face only inches from Colin’s fair one.

  Lucy knew she had to do something, and fast. This whole evening was spiraling out of control, and she was beginning to feel ill. “Colin, please.” She reached for one of his bottle-green sleeves. “Lord Mandeville is only trying to be helpful. Come,” she said, reaching for the marquess’ arm. “I am grateful for your assistance, my lord.”

  Henry bowed and reached up to cover her hand with his as he escorted her out.

  As they stepped out into the warm night, Lucy paused briefly to fasten her cloak. Her eyes widened as she clutched at her neck in desperation. Her necklace!

  “My locket!” It was gone. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t leave without it—it had been her mother’s favorite piece of jewelry. She couldn’t even picture her mother without seeing the golden oval at the hollow of her neck. She had to go back and find it at once.

  “I have to go back inside. Colin!” she called out, and he turned to face her. “My mother’s locket is gone. It must be in the box somewhere.”

  “Are you certain?” Colin asked. “Are you positive you were wearing it?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Please!” There was a dull, tinny ringing in her ears, practically deafening her. She had to get back inside, and now.

  Aunt Agatha raised a hand to her forehead, her knees buckling slightly beneath her. Colin tightened his grasp around her middle, supporting her weight with his own. “Oh dear, I think I might swoon,” she said.

  Lucy hurried to her side, reaching again for the vinaigrette, but her aunt waved her hands away.

  “Ahhh, Colin, dear,” Agatha moaned. “Rosemoor House, at once.”

  “But, but...” Lucy stammered, “my locket! I can’t leave without it.” Her vision became blurry as tears threatened her eyes. Blast it! She didn’t want everyone to see her weep here in front of the King’s Theatre. Nor did she wish to appear selfish, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave without the locket. Surely her aunt would understand.

  “Mandeville, make yourself useful and go back and find it,” Colin said, tipping his head toward the theatre’s pale stone façade. “Come, Lucy. Let’s get Agatha home.”

  “I...I can’t just leave my locket, Colin. What if Lord Mandeville can’t find it? How will he know what it looks like?” Lucy shook her head. “I’m sorry, Auntie, but I must go back.”

  “Go, Rosemoor,” Henry said. “Take Mrs. Stafford home. I’ll go back in with Miss Abbington and then see that she gets home safely.”

  Colin wavered slightly, looking at Henry with a mixture of anxiety and distrust.

  “Ohhh, my head,” Aunt Agatha moaned, her knees dipping again. “Please, Colin. Go on, Lucy. Go with Lord Mandeville.”

  Lucy wrung her hands. “Colin, I’ll be fine. Just get Auntie home.”

  Colin hesitated again, looking from Aunt Agatha to Lucy with a worried frown. “If you’re sure?”

  Lucy barely heard him as she turned and followed Henry back into the opera house, back to the box she had occupied earlier.

  The two dropped to their knees, crawling about the small space and squinting in the dim light as the music swirled and crashed around them. This time Lucy didn’t care who saw them, so intent on her search was she. Within moments, she spied the locket, gleaming in the corner beneath an upturned chair. Thank God!

  “Lord Mandeville,” she whispered loudly. He rose to one knee and looked up. She held out the necklace triumphantly, and then put it in her reticule. He reached for her hand, helped her to her feet, and the pair hurried out.

  “Wait,” he said, halting as they reached the staircase. “Eleanor—I nearly forgot her. Come, follow me. I’ll tell her what has happened, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Lucy nodded and followed him silently to his sister’s box. As he slipped inside, she waited, fingering her reticule and heaving an enormous sigh of relief, so happy to have her treasure back. What would she have done had she lost it? It was unthinkable. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer of thanks. When she opened her eyes again, Henry was back at her side, his face grim.

  “My sister assures me there is at least another two hours of this drivel, plenty of time to get you home and return for her.” He took her arm and led her down the sweeping stairs and back out into the starry night.

  “I’m so sorryto drag you away like this. Perhaps I should hire a hack—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Trust me, you’re doing me a favor. I couldn’t have borne it another minute. Here we are.”

  A footman offered Lucy a hand, and moments later she was settling herself into the dimly lit carriage, Henry seated opposite her. He stretched his legs out in front of himself, crossing them at the ankles, drawing her attention to the length of his limbs. Her gaze traveled up his form, resting on his face, which was turned away from her toward the window. His eyes appeared darker than usual, shadowed. Haunted, perhaps? He often looked troubled, and it was not the first time she’d wondered why.

  She removed her gaze from his form, and stared unseeing out the window. Half the ton had just witnessed that ugly spectacle in the box. Surely there would be talk, gossip linking her and Lord Mandeville in some unflattering way. Truly, she didn’t care what they said about her...but what of him? Did he care? She continued to hear talk of his relationship with Lady Charlotte Haverford. Hadn’t his own mother hinted at a forthcoming engagement between the two? Her stomach churned at the thought, and her gaze was immediately drawn back to him. She studied his profile, so noble, so proud, so...beautiful. That was the only word for him.

  The carriage jolted violently, pitching to the right. Henry was instantly by her side, his arms tight about her shoulders.

  “Sorry, milord,” the driver called out from above. “Blasted pothole.” “Are you all right?” Henry gently brushed a lock of hair from Lucy’s cheek, and then grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” She wriggled uncomfortably from his grasp, his touch searing her flesh.

  He roughly shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slid toward the door, leaving a respectable distance between them. “Well,” he said, his voice significantly cooler than before, “that was quite a night, wasn’t it? Mozart and madness—what a suitable combination.”

  “I’m so very sorry to have dragged you into that awful scene with Sinclair. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, of course, but I do appreciate your coming to my rescue as you did.” And so gallantly, too.

  “I’m just sorry I didn’t kill him right then and there. Never did a man deserve it more.”

  Lucy’s heart lurched.

  “Besides, it looked as if Colin Rosemoor would have been your rescuer instead, had I not gotten there first.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Lucy said, smiling a genuine smile for the first time that night. Yes, Colin had burst in only moments after Henry, that same murderous look on his face.

  “Just what is there between you and Rosemoor?” he snapped, his dark eyes suddenly stormy.

  “Whatever do you mean?” She
knitted her brow in confusion.

  “You know exactly what I mean. What is there between you?”

  “Noth—nothing! I’ve known him my whole life—he’s like a brother to me.”

  “Are you lovers?” he asked, leaning toward her, his voice hoarse. “Have you kissed him the way you’ve kissed me, Lucy?”

  Before she could reply, he pulled off his gloves and began roughly unfastening her cloak with his bare hands.

  “Oh!” Lucy cried out just as his mouth took hers ruthlessly, possessively. A thick heat seemed to swirl around their bodies, enveloping them in a luxuriant haze as she kissed him back, her intensity matching his. His tongue sought entry to her eager mouth, and she yielded, melting against the squabs as his tongue found hers. Her limbs felt weak, limp, but her heart beat furiously, a dizzying crescendo sounding in her ears.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck. She inhaled his scent—sandalwood and leather—so wonderfully masculine. She felt the pressure of his tongue against the pulse just above her collarbone, and she dropped her head back as a soft moan escaped her lips. His hands reached up to her hair, blindly pulling at the pins that held her carefully coiffed tresses in place. She shivered as she felt the soft, silken waves tumble down her back.

  She braced herself against the back of the seat with her palms, giving in to the waves of pleasure coursing through her. She’d wanted this all along, she admitted to herself. His mouth, his touch. She couldn’t deny it.

  Before she knew it, his fingers had found the fastenings on the back of her gown. He deftly undid them and pushed her bodice down, exposing her shift beneath. Surely he could see her breasts through the transparent fabric. She knew she was correct when she felt his fingers tracing circles around her nipples, causing her to shudder fiercely.

  “My lord, please...you mustn’t...ohhhhhh,” she cried out as he took one hardened peak between his teeth and began to suckle her. She could feel the heat of his mouth through the wet fabric of her undergarment, and she squirmed in her seat. A warmth spread from her stomach to her thighs, and she desperately wanted...wanted...something. She reached down to clutch the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his dark hair.