Shana Galen

by When Dashing Met Danger

  “Undoubtedly.”

  She reached up to restore some order to her heavy curls, but after several futile minutes, threw down her hands in frustration. “Why are you here anyway? It’s been years since I’ve seen you, and I can’t remember the last time you called at Berkeley Square.”

  It was an obvious attempt to change the topic, and Alex allowed it, smiling at her understatement. “I’ve never called at Berkeley Square. And I’m content to keep it that way. Your parents are my brother’s in-laws. Let Ethan deal with them.”

  Lucia frowned at him. “Have you no sense of etiquette?”

  Alex settled back on the bench, stretching his long legs and watching her under lowered lids. A cloud, long and wispy, passed over the moon, casting the garden into semidarkness. The remaining silver halo of moonlight reflected off the white silk of her gown, leaving her looking more like an angel than the girl he remembered. The dark, heavy smell of the roses wafted over them, and he wondered vaguely if this was some kind of dream.

  “Perhaps my manners leave something to be desired. I assure you”—he added an extra measure of sarcasm to his tone—“had I realized the beauty you’d grown to be, I would have called. And frequently.” In the pale darkness, he thought he detected a blush on her vanilla complexion. “I’d heard of your charms, but I seldom agree with the ton’s definition of beauty.” His eyes swept over her. “I’m pleased to find myself in error.”

  At his appraisal, her cheeks crimsoned further, and for a moment she was speechless—a rare occurrence, he surmised—then she shook her head in disbelief.

  “You are a rake. I’d heard as much but never believed it. Your brother always speaks so highly of you, but the rumors are true, aren’t they? No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t answer. Your behavior confirms everything. All the on-dit and allusions and half-whispered stories. Well, I won’t fall into one of your rakish schemes. I have nothing but contempt for girls who ruin their name and that of their family for a scoundrel like you.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re far too innocent for my tastes. Anyway, I regard you as a sister. A sister who’s surprised me by growing up.”

  He rose and took her hand. Turning her toward the drive and the waiting carriages, he said, “Let’s be friends. I promise no further unbrotherly perusals of your lovely form.”

  Her fingers on his sleeve tensed.

  “If you promise no further eruptions of that unsisterly temper.”

  She looked away and harrumphed, which he supposed was an agreement of sorts. With a low chuckle, he led her out of the garden.

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t want to be here,” Lucia muttered to herself. It was a lie, and she knew it even before she settled on the sensuous squabs of Selbourne’s town carriage with the Selbourne coat of arms emblazoned on the door. She was a bad liar. Why, she couldn’t even convince herself. This was exactly where she wanted to be—only not tonight, not under these circumstances.

  She snuggled into Selbourne’s greatcoat and tried not to think about what might have been. The night air was chilly for early May, and on the way to the carriage, he’d wrapped her in the voluminous garment. The gesture had surprised her. It wasn’t as if he’d shown any other inclinations toward civility. In fact, she’d been so confused when he’d draped it about her shoulders, she’d started to protest, then closed her mouth abruptly as the delicious warmth from his body seeped from the coat into her skin.

  Even now she could smell his scent on the material—something dark and enigmatic, like the man brooding in the shadows across from her. The curtains were drawn, enfolding them in a plush darkness penetrated only by the flickering carriage lamps. Normally she found carriage lamps comforting and was warmed by their soft glow. But Selbourne’s lamps seemed cold and weak.

  She shifted, unnerved by the silence that reigned between them since leaving the Pools’. As promised, he’d given her no more of those seductive stares, no more lingering looks that caused heat to rush to her face—and other parts of her body. In fact, he seemed not to notice her at all.

  “You never did answer my question,” she said finally, more out of a need to break the heavy silence than out of curiosity. “Why did you attend the Pools’? I know this is only my second Season, but I’ve never seen you at any other functions. I was under the impression they were not to your taste.”

  “I just returned from Hampshire and thought I’d better make a social appearance.”

  Lucia almost jumped at the sensation the sound of his voice produced in her—warm velvet in the golden dark. The deep tones caressed and enveloped her like his scent on the greatcoat she wore. She shivered and tried to focus.

  “Hampshire? I thought you spent most of your time on the Continent.”

  “As you say.” He pushed the curtains aside and peered at the silvered streets.

  Lucia frowned. He certainly wasn’t given to conversation, but she’d expected as much. His stoicism was one reason she’d never liked him—well, except for the tendre she’d harbored for a few months after they’d first met—but even when she’d fancied herself in love with him, he’d made her nervous. Or perhaps not so much nervous as filled with anticipation, as though something—she didn’t know what—was about to happen. She had only to catch a glimpse of him and her pulse would thrum. But, she reminded herself, she was not the only one ill-at-ease in his presence. Reginald’s reaction to him in the garden was a perfect illustration of his effect on most people.

  Selbourne snapped the curtains closed, and Lucia jumped. She liked him better when she could prod him to talk.

  “And what brought you to Hampshire?” she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

  His gaze slid to her, and appearing as though he was making a monumental effort on her behalf, he said, “Business.”

  “Oh?” Lucia straightened. Business—a safe, banal topic. Tedious, but at least she was making progress. “What business?”

  He raised a brow. “Business at Grayson Park, and now business in London.” He parted the curtains again, obviously impatient to arrive in Berkeley Square and be rid of her.

  Lucia scowled. Why did she have to be saddled with him?

  If mad King George himself had emerged from behind those trees in the garden, Lucia could not have been more surprised. It was bad enough to be caught in such an embarrassing position, but worse yet to have Selbourne witness the indignity. She hoped he didn’t plan to inform her parents.

  She assessed him through the gloom. “I—I hope you won’t feel obligated to mention the—the, ah, incident with Lord Dandridge to my father.”

  With a grin, Selbourne dropped the curtains and looked at her.

  “I prefer to sort out my own scrapes,” she said, tossing her hair for emphasis. “And I don’t need a knight on a white horse, or black horse as the case may be, coming to my rescue.”

  “Is that what I am? A knight on a black horse?” His irritating grin widened. She ignored the question.

  “I’m no damsel in distress, Lord Selbourne. Reginald was no real threat. In fact, you’ve caused more harm than good.”

  He crossed his arms and settled back on the squabs. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, warming to her argument. “He’ll be in a pet tomorrow, and I imagine I’ll have to apologize.”

  “You’ll apologize?”

  She heard the disgust in his voice and felt it herself. After all, why should she apologize? She’d done nothing wrong. But it was either that or risk Reginald’s displeasure, and she couldn’t afford to lose him. Couldn’t afford to disappoint her father yet again.

  With a sigh, she tried to push thoughts of the inevitable meeting aside. Tried to push aside as well the memory of Reginald’s advances. For a moment, shoved up against the cold, hard stone of the bench, Reginald’s clammy hand locked around her neck, she’d felt a tremor of panic. She’d never seen that side of her bumbling fiancé before, and she didn’t relish ever doing so again. But of cours
e she wouldn’t. Reginald had drunk a bit too much champagne tonight.

  “And how long were you at Grayson Park?” she said, changing the topic with finesse. At times like these, she was thankful for her years of training in the social graces.

  “I thought we were discussing your fiancé.”

  She frowned. Obviously Selbourne didn’t appreciate her talents. “No,” she said with a tense smile. “We were talking of business.” She pulled the greatcoat closer against her neck at the considering look he sent her. “You’ve been at Grayson Park—”

  “Two months.”

  “Two months in Hampshire? Whatever do you find to keep you occupied?”

  “There’s always something.”

  Lucia wondered if the something was his French mistress. The rumor was he’d spent much of the last two years on the Continent with a French dancer. And she could well imagine him, all arrogance and ennui, in Europe. She found it harder to see him at home in the Hampshire countryside. Unless, of course, his mistress was in residence as well.

  She bit her lip against the urge to ask directly about the mistress but couldn’t stifle the impulse altogether. “And were you alone at Grayson Park?”

  She immediately regretted the question. Even in the darkness, she saw the knowing flicker in his eyes.

  “No.”

  Lucia waited for him to elaborate, but—vexing man!—he remained silent.

  What seemed like days of nerve-wracking silence passed, and Lucia tried to distract herself by looking out the window. She could feel those cool gray eyes on her, and her body warmed in response.

  From the moment she’d seen him in the Pools’ garden, she hadn’t been able to drag her eyes from him. Five years ago, when she’d met him, he’d been twenty-four and barely a man. Now there was nothing of the boy left in him. Handsome, formidable, broad-shouldered, he overwhelmed other men of her acquaintance. Lucia herself was tall for a woman and looked most men in the eye. But she’d had to crane her neck to meet Selbourne’s penetrating gaze.

  She darted a glance at him now. His hair was dark brown, swept back carelessly from his forehead and too long to be strictly fashionable. The neglected mane framed a face that, like his body, was all hard planes and ridges, only the face was softened by lips that could only be described as sensual. Unlike the ridiculous fops of the ton, he was dressed in black, and the color suited him. He looked…dangerous. She shivered again. Underneath that fashionably bored exterior she imagined he was dangerous.

  Lucia twirled a curl around one finger, pulling it surreptitiously over her face to hide the blush heating her cheeks. As she did so, a mental image of her dishabille flashed in her mind. With a start, she realized the uproar she’d cause if she arrived home in this condition.

  Locating some of the pins in the tangled mass, she began to pile sections of hair on top of her head. With fumbling fingers, she twined and twisted, jabbing pins into the unruly pile. The whole bundle fell over lopsided, and she sighed impatiently. Bleakly, she prayed Selbourne wasn’t watching.

  “Need help?”

  She groaned at her bad luck. His voice had sounded strained for some reason, and Lucia peeked at him reluctantly.

  His eyes were on her—a blistering gray that smoldered like molten steel. She took a shaky breath and forced herself to sound normal. “I need Jane, my maid. If I arrive home in this state the servants will be gossiping for a week. My father won’t tolerate that.”

  “In his position he can’t afford scandal.” He watched her a moment longer. “Come here. I’ll do it for you.”

  She laughed. “You?”

  He didn’t laugh in return. “I’m full of surprises. Come here.” It wasn’t a request this time.

  Lucia froze, unsure of the proper protocol. The situation seemed far too intimate for propriety, and she knew she should refuse. But she was an engaged woman. And she did need to fix her hair. Damn Reginald!

  Across from her, Alex spread his hands and raised a brow. She supposed the action was designed to give him a harmless appearance, but it looked more like a wicked invitation than a guarantee of safe passage.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Afraid?” She forgot her wariness and let out a bitter laugh. “Lord Selbourne, you are hardly the sort to frighten me.” Her tone was as stiff as her movements when she crossed to sit next to him, and she turned her face to the window so he was presented with her cold, ramrod-straight back.

  But as soon as she was beside him, she knew she’d lied. He did frighten her; he overwhelmed her. She could almost feel his gray eyes searing into her, tracing her every curve as he had in the garden. Why didn’t he move? Breathe?

  She had to check herself from peering at him over her shoulder. But even without looking, she felt the tension in his body, and it only increased her anticipation. Then, just when she knew she could no longer stand the uncertainty, she felt his hands on her shoulders. Their heat penetrated the thick greatcoat and flowed through her.

  “I need to remove the coat,” he murmured.

  She nodded, and he slipped the garment halfway down her shoulders. It was an effort to smother the urge to tremble.

  In the next moment his warm, strong hands were on her bare neck, tracing the skin above the row of cold amethysts she wore. Goosebumps followed the trail of his heated fingers as, with aching slowness, he slid his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck. His touch was gentle and firm, so unlike Reginald’s clumsy caresses. Tingles of pleasure coursed through her as he stroked the sensitive skin. Quelling her quivers was becoming more challenging by the moment.

  “Are you cold?” he whispered. “You’re shivering.” His breath brushed her ear, another caress, the sensation fogging her mind. She clung to one thought—she mustn’t let him know the effect he had on her.

  Lucia blurted the first words that came to her. “What business brings you to London?” She tried to concentrate on anything but the feel of his hands on her bare skin; it was all she could do to stop herself from shaking. “Are there not enough young ladies in Hampshire in whose lives you might interfere?”

  His chuckle was deep and quiet, and the low rumble sent another shot of heat straight through her.

  “Ethan needs me.”

  Lucia craned her head, her interest piqued. “What do you mean? Is something wrong between my sister and Ethan? I dined there only Wednesday, and Francesca seemed as happy as ever.”

  “Hold still a moment.” He lifted her hair and positioned it. Dear Lord, was he actually styling it? She didn’t even want to consider where he’d acquired this talent.

  “It’s not their family who need assistance,” he continued when it seemed he had better control of her curls. “It’s yours.”

  Lucia started, and the heat and fog in her mind whooshed away. She opened her mouth to ask him what in blazes he meant, when the carriage slowed.

  “We’re here,” Alex observed. He reached around her, parting the drapes, and she recognized her parents’ elegant town house across from the tree-lined park of Berkeley Square.

  He tugged her hair a few more times, then remarked, “It’s not pretty, but it’s neat.”

  Reaching back, she touched her hair and was surprised that it did seem in order—the kind of tight, efficient style a man would create.

  “I’ll escort you inside.”

  “No,” she barked.

  His coachman opened the door just then to assist her, but she pulled it shut in the surprised servant’s face and rounded on Alex, almost bumping noses with him. Ignoring his nearness as best she could, she demanded, “Explain what you meant by your last comment.”

  “I’ll escort you inside? It’s simply a polite—”

  “No, you obstinate man!” She poked him in the shoulder. “About my family!”

  “Ah.” His steel gray eyes considered her coolly. In the dim light she felt rather than saw him search her face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the particulars. I’ll call on your father tomorrow.
Maybe you’ll learn more then.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all the reply I’m to expect when this concerns my own dear relations?”

  “For now. Get out. I’ll escort—”

  “No!” She whirled and swung the carriage door open, taking the baffled coachman’s hand. “I’ll do quite well without you.” She stepped down from the carriage, deposited his heavy greatcoat at his feet, turned, and glided regally up the short walk.

  “You’re not behaving in a very sisterly fashion,” he called after her. She stiffened at the amusement in his voice and stopped for a fraction of an instant under the wrought-iron arc of the lamp shedding light on the landing. Then, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a backward glance, she straightened, jerked her head high, marched up the last of the steps, and stormed through the polished black door of the town house.

  Chapter 3

  From the coach, Alex watched Lucia flounce away, a bemused smile on his lips. “Oliver, to my club.” At least there he could avoid any further female entanglements.

  He was wrong.

  He sat alone in a dim corner of Brooks’s Great Subscription Room, away from the sparkling light of the chandelier dominating the domed ceiling. Nursing a stiff drink, his third in a row, Alex ignored the low rumble of gamblers’ voices at the green baize faro tables. Behind him the heavy drapes on the floor-length windows were shut against the crowds on St. James’s Street, but thoughts of Lucia refused to leave him in peace. Over and again, he saw her hair tumbling from its pins, felt its silkiness in his hands, felt her body shiver as he touched her, saw fire in her eyes when she challenged him.

  He’d been a fool to touch her. It only served to arouse him further, and to keep his body in check, he’d had to cling to the refrain that she was family, and he was supposed to be her protector, not her ravisher. He’d not thought of her in either light before. At fourteen she’d been too pretty for her own good—a silly chit, giggling and flitting about him like a butterfly. Even then she’d been headstrong and impulsive, her intelligent eyes missing very little. It wasn’t exactly an accident that he hadn’t seen her in years.