by Eloisa James
If she married him, they would fight.
She bent over to dry her feet and ankles. Then she straightened, and looked at herself in the standing glass.
Her breasts felt different after his caress, heavier, more sensitive. Though that was surely impossible.
She dropped the towel and turned to the side, looking at the way her bottom rounded down to the slender line of her leg. When had she decided that she was utterly undesirable?
The last three years had been spent entirely in the dowagers’ corner, her heart beating fast if a gentleman veered toward them, desperately praying that her mother wouldn’t hail the poor soul and force him to take her onto the floor.
Maybe she’d had it all wrong.
She crawled into bed thinking of the way Cyrus looked at her on the terrace. Then she slipped into a dream in which a pirate rescued her from a burning deck—but he had a wicked grin on his face, the grin that Cyrus would wear . . . if he knew how to grin.
Even in the middle of the dream, she knew that he had learned that smile from her. With her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Not knowing precisely what time in the morning Lucy considered early, Cyrus slept for a couple of hours and arrived at the mews that backed onto his erstwhile fiancée’s house at precisely five A.M. It was the work of a moment to bribe a groom into tucking his horse into a spare stall; after that he sat down to wait until a Towerton footman called for Lucy’s mare.
At that point he planned to trot around to the front of Grosvenor Road and look as if he had just happened by. She would never believe this, but clearly he wouldn’t be welcome if he made a formal call.
Lady Towerton hadn’t even bothered to murmur a polite regret with regard to the broken engagement but had just smiled at him with all her teeth showing.
Cyrus sat on a bale of hay and pulled out a roll of foolscap he’d stuck in his pocket that morning, containing figures pertaining to a wool factory in the Midlands.
But he couldn’t keep his attention on it. What in the bloody hell was he doing in the mews? She had broken off their engagement, hadn’t she?
Perhaps his actions weren’t so irrational. After all, he had invested time in the betrothal. Anyone could understand that he didn’t wish to waste that effort. What’s more, if he always gave up at the first sign of opposition, he’d still be chasing his first fortune.
He turned back to the papers and tried to concentrate. But he found himself staring blindly at lists of numbers. Was he here only because he couldn’t bear to lose? Or even worse, because he knew that Lord and Lady Towerton would welcome the Duke of Pole when he arrived to woo Lucy?
“Pompous ass.” He could hear her voice in his memory, saying it with a touch of amusement. Has it never occurred to you that you are a pompous ass?
No.
He thought of Pole as a pompous ass, never himself.
Pole was the one who treated people shabbily. Who was rude to his acquaintances, and downright brutal to strangers.
But it was he, not Pole, who had treated his own fiancée like a chess piece, and not even the most important chess piece on the board either. He wasn’t used to this feeling . . . this kind of regret that verged on misery.
He rolled the papers back. He wanted to leap on his horse and ride away from the whole mess. At the same time, when he thought about leaving Lucy behind, it felt as if a cold hand reached right into his chest and squeezed his heart.
Ridiculous.
In some strange fashion, she had woken him up, jerked him out of the fierce ambition that drove him from Number One on the to-do list of his plan to Number Two . . . to Four and Five and almost Six.
During all of which he used people like chess pieces.
During which he didn’t notice that his fiancée was funny, and a bit sad, and very beautiful, with the rosiest lips in the world and breasts that he ached to touch again.
Fool that he was.
He jammed the papers back into his pocket. He was wasting his time; she would never have him.
But as he strode down the corridor toward his mount, he heard a laugh that, although he had heard it only once or twice, was unmistakable. He froze, and she came in the door, still laughing.
And then she froze. “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tight, all laughter gone. The footman who stood a pace behind her moved forward, not threateningly, just making his presence known.
“Last night you said I never asked you to ride,” he said, ignoring the footman. “I thought I should make up for that mistake.”
Her eyebrow shot up. Cyrus watched, fascinated. Her face was so mobile, so much more interesting than other women’s. She wasn’t unaffected by him. There was a rosy tint in her cheeks that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“I wanted to ride with you,” he added simply. If he knew one thing about Lucy, it wouldn’t do to lie to her.
His answer was a small smile, like a secret kiss. It sent a shot of lust straight to his groin.
“Well, I suppose you may accompany me,” she called over her shoulder as she turned and walked toward her mare, a nice horse with white socks and a whiskery nose. “Franklin, Mr. Ravensthorpe will escort me; you may remain here.”
A few minutes later they were walking the horses down the street, her footman left behind. A morning fog hung over the cobblestones, swirling around the knees of their mounts.
“Hyde Park?” Cyrus asked.
She nodded. “At this hour no one is in the Long Walk, and Tulip and I can go as fast as we like.” She threw him a sideways glance. “We like to go very fast.”
“Tulip?” he asked, watching her ride. She sat on the horse as if she were made to be on horseback.
She started telling him a story then, about the mare eating a whole bed of tulips. But he wasn’t listening. He just watched the way her eyes sparkled, the way her hair looked paler in the early morning—more like silver than honey—the way she looked like a treasure.
The kind of treasure a man should make the plan of his life to win. The plan of all plans. It felt as if he’d been struck by a spell, this obsession that came out of nowhere. He could spend days cataloguing the way her upper lip curved, just slightly, and the way her hair shone under that silly little riding hat. Even in the fog it still shone.
“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.
“No,” he said, realizing that complete honesty had its drawbacks.
But she just laughed. “I suppose you aren’t a morning person. My elder brothers aren’t either. When they still lived at home I used to drag them out of their beds. It wasn’t until my parents decided that I was old enough to be accompanied by a groom that I allowed my siblings to sleep past six o’clock.”
They had reached the edge of Hyde Park. The fog was thicker here, swirling around the trunks of trees and making the woods look mysterious and rather enchanted, not at all the prosaic cluster of trunks one saw in the afternoon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lucy asked. She was gathering up her reins.
“You mean to gallop here?” Cyrus glanced ahead at the path that curved left and disappeared into the fog.
“Of course!”
“It’s dangerous. You might have trouble with that turn.”
“I generally don’t, but I can understand it if you are concerned.”
One nudge of his knee sent his horse knocking against Tulip, his knee brushing hers. His whole body resonated with the pleasure of that small touch. “I gather you mistrust my skills; would you accept a wager?”
“Without hesitation, Mr. Ravensthorpe.”
“Cyrus.”
She hesitated and then repeated, softly, “Cyrus.”
“To the end of the path?”
“And back,” she said, eyes dancing.
“The forfeit?”
She turned up her nose. “There’s nothing I would want from you.”
“A pity,” he remarked. “There’s so much that I want from you.”
; “No,” she said. Very simply.
He raised an eyebrow, precisely in the manner that she did.
“I’m not going to kiss you again,” she told him. “I cannot. You’re very sweet to want to do it, and I appreciate that. But nothing has changed in the way I feel.”
A growl rose in his throat but he choked it down. “In that case, I’d like a question if I win the race. No, three questions.”
Her dimple showed again. “Pride goeth before a fall, Cyrus. And you are the epitome of the prideful man waiting for a fall.”
“Oh, I’ve had the fall,” he said casually.
“You have?”
“Last night.” He glanced at her. “Are you ready? I’ll give you a lead since Tulip is a hand shorter than Beast.”
“Beast? Beast? What sort of name is that?”
“It’s not a real name,” Cyrus admitted.
“You don’t know your horse’s name!” she said, pouncing on it. “Shameful. Cyrus, what on earth is the matter with you?”
He spoke to what was unsaid. “I may not have been as aware as I could have been when I asked for your hand, but I chose correctly. You are the perfect wife for me.”
Lucy looked rather startled.
He grinned at her. He could feel joy rising up in his heart, the kind of silliness that had to do with flirting, and riding for pleasure, and being so close to a beautiful woman. “I chose correctly,” he repeated. “Now, would you like a head start? I have to warn you that Beast will trounce your Tulip without breaking a sweat.”
Lucy and Tulip flew down the path and, just for a moment, Cyrus enjoyed the sight of her curved rump and straight back. Then he shook himself out of the sensual haze she put him in and loosed the reins.
With a shake of his mane, Beast lunged forward. Lucy had veered around the corner; Cyrus went around the same curve at a more measured pace. But then he urged Beast on, ripping into the fog at such a speed that ragged tendrils of white mist fell behind him.
For a few seconds the only sound was the thudding of horses’ hooves. Cyrus had just time to think that he was having fun.
Fun?
He could not remember the last time he’d had fun. Playing with his tin soldiers, perhaps.
Tulip slowed, turned a neat circle, and then started back toward them. Lucy was bent low, her hat, miraculously, still perched on her head.
Beast twitched his ears, reached the end of the path and turned on his rear hooves. Cyrus leaned over and said to him, “Let’s go, Beast. Time to trounce the ladies.”
The gelding lengthened his stride, and tore past Lucy before the curve. By the time Tulip arrived at the beginning of the path, they were waiting, composed again.
“Wretch!” Lucy cried once she got her breath. “A gentleman would have let me win, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m no gentleman,” he said, grinning at her again. The smile felt unfamiliar . . . good.
“All right, you may have your questions,” she said, dropping her reins and reaching up to her hat.
Lucy’s riding costume clung tightly to her every curve. A stroke of hot fire caught him unaware and he swallowed a hoarse groan just before it betrayed him. She pushed a pin back into her hair, straightened her hat, and lowered her arms again.
“Ask me three questions,” he managed.
“What?” She made a little huffing sound of surprise.
“Ask me whatever you wish.”
“I will not ask you questions!”
“You must. I won.”
“But you were supposed to ask me questions!”
“I am coming to know you,” he said patiently. “But you don’t know me.” He smiled at her, slow and seductive. “I want you to.” He meant it, even though he had never encouraged a woman to ask him anything. In fact, he rebuffed inquiries of all kinds.
Lucy was different.
“I don’t know that there’s all that much to ask,” she said.
He winced. Was he that boring? True, he hadn’t thought of much other than the Exchange for the last few years . . . Then he registered her tone of voice. She was laughing at him.
“Try to think of something,” he told her. “If only so that you don’t hurt my feelings. I’m still bruised from last night.”
Lucy smiled—and then suddenly experienced one of the bouts of vertigo that happened when she was around Cyrus. There didn’t seem to be anything about him that wasn’t perfect: chiseled jaw, cheekbones, eyelashes, even nose.
“Why are you here?” she asked, schooling her tone to calm curiosity. “Is it because jealousy of your cousin piqued your interest? Or because you hate to lose, and my rejection piqued that interest?”
“Are those the only two options you can think of?”
“Yes.”
“But for you, I wouldn’t be here. I have a very nice office, do you know that? Seven people work there, from clerks to accountants. They’ll all be wondering where on earth I am.”
“I didn’t ask you what you’d rather be doing. I want to know why you are here with me.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, looking off into the woods. “And to answer your question more precisely, I am not here because I’m jealous of Pole. Frankly, when I saw you laughing with Rathbone, I did feel possessive. But Pole? Everyone in the ballroom saw the glazed look on your face. Ask me another.”
Lucy thought about it for a moment. They began walking the horses back to the mews. “What do you want most in the world?”
“I want to regain the position in society that my mother lost,” Cyrus said without hesitation. “And then, I want to make certain that my sisters can marry whomever they chose.”
“That seems a reasonable goal,” Lucy ventured.
“Yes. I have a plan to do it. A very specific, precise plan.”
“Your plan includes a bride from the aristocracy,” she guessed.
“I thought it would be helpful, yes.” She chose to interpret the brooding darkness in his eyes as apologetic.
“So what number was I on that list?”
“Five,” he said, wincing a bit.
“Let me guess . . . the Duke of Pole’s estate was Number Six?”
“Seven. And it didn’t have to be that estate. I simply planned to buy one.”
They had reached the stables, and her groom, Franklin, moved forward, intending to lift her from her horse. Cyrus’s face snapped into cold, implacable lines and the groom stepped backward instantly, as if he’d been stung.
Cyrus dismounted, pulled off his gloves and thrust them into his pocket, and then reached up for her. She braced her hands lightly on his shoulders as he lifted her from the horse and set her on her feet. He smelled like sweat and horse and man, she thought. Not just any man: Cyrus.
“Franklin, please take Tulip inside and rub her down,” Lucy said. “She had a hard run today.”
“I will escort Miss Towerton to her house,” Cyrus put in. “You needn’t worry about her. If you’ll have my mount rubbed down as well, I’ll return for him.”
Franklin nodded, and led both horses into the mews.
“Are my looks acceptable to you?” Cyrus suddenly asked. “Do you like the way I look?”
“For goodness’ sake,” Lucy said, almost under her breath but not quite. “Of course I like the way you look, Cyrus. What woman has ever disliked your looks?”
There was that smile again, the one that could be bottled and sold. It was dangerous, and satisfied, and altogether sensual.
“I like the way you look too,” he said. Then he bent his head and dropped a kiss like a brand on the side of her neck. “And as for other women, I’ve never paid much attention to what women think of me.” She looked at him skeptically, but the sincerity in his face wasn’t hard to read.
Interesting. She’d always thought that physical perfection was what she most wanted. She was utterly convinced that if she were only a normal height for a woman, her life would be perfect in every way.
Cyrus was rich and beaut
iful. But he was also very alone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I must go home,” Lucy said. She was feeling a little frightened. It would be so easy to love Cyrus, and yet it seemed to her quite possible that he was wooing her—if that was what this was—for the wrong reasons.
If not from competition with his cousin, then because he couldn’t bear to lose any competition, ever. He hadn’t answered that part of her question, she noticed.
He took her hand and, without asking permission, began to remove her riding gloves. “You owe me a last question,” he said, looking at her hands and not at her face.
“It will have to wait,” Lucy told him. “I can’t think of anything in particular I’m interested in knowing about you at the moment. You mustn’t assume that everyone finds you as fascinating as you do yourself.”
He glanced up, smiling, and her heart thumped at the sight. “That hadn’t the force of your insult last night. I do not find myself fascinating at all: quite the opposite.” He poked her gloves into her coat pocket and took her hand again.
“All right, I have one final question,” she said, trying to ignore the weakness she felt in her knees at his touch of his fingertips on her bare hand.
They began walking down the street.
“What are you most afraid of?” she asked.
“Scandal. The very idea of a scandal that comes anywhere near what my mother caused by running off with my father makes me feel half-cracked.” His mouth tightened.
“They married in Gretna Green, didn’t they?” Lucy asked. She was trying to pay attention, but she couldn’t help thinking about the way his large hand curled around hers. She had held hands with no one since Beata died.
“Yes.”
He said nothing more.
Lucy could hardly pretend ignorance of the scandal, given her mother’s inability—or refusal—to mask her feelings in Cyrus’s presence. “Why would your parents’ love affair make you avoid all the beautiful women the ton has to offer?” she asked. “Were you afraid that you’d be overcome by passion and run off to Gretna Green?”