by Eloisa James
“No,” he said unhesitatingly. “And you are beautiful.”
“Did you think that only a much-besought woman would have the opportunity to elope, the way your mother did?”
His jaw tightened.
She said it because it needed to be said. “Women’s hearts are not ruled by how appealing they are to men. And I can assure you that even those of us on the margins of the room are able to find men who would ruin us, if we wish.”
“My father did not ruin my mother. I was born ten months after their wedding,” Cyrus said. His voice was hard.
She twisted her hand in such a way that she was holding his, rather than the other way around, and then she gave it a squeeze. “My older brother wasn’t born until two years after my parents married.”
He nodded. “I thought perhaps I wouldn’t consummate my marriage for a few months.”
Lucy could just imagine the reaction of the woman whom Cyrus married. What if it had been her? She snorted even thinking of it, and then discovered that he was looking down at her with a rather startled expression.
“Pompous ass again, am I?”
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “If the glove fits . . .”
“Bloody hell.”
“I wasn’t pointing to the respectability of my brother’s birth. In truth, my parents did not consummate their marriage for over a year; my mother told me about it last year – preparing me for my debut on the marriage market, I suppose. ”
“What?”
“They discovered during their betrothal that they didn’t care for each other.” She stopped. “That isn’t the right word. I suspect that they enraged each other. Yet over time they did come to love each other. And I think that until Beata died they were reasonably happy. But after that, they couldn’t . . . manage it.”
Cyrus nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“So,” she said, aiming at a cheerful tone and nearly succeeding, “would you prefer a version of my parents’ marriage over scandalous nuptials?”
His face didn’t change as he thought about it. He still looked as distant and handsome and too-much-for-her as ever.
“No,” he said, only after she realized that she was holding her breath. Then: “You’re baring all my secrets. What are you afraid of?”
“Many things.”
“What sort?”
“Oh, that I will never marry. Or that I will marry a man who doesn’t make me happy because he loves someone else, or loves no one at all.”
“I think,” he said dryly, “that a man who marries you will not have room in his life for another woman.”
“I’m a woman who has never commanded attention from men,” she said, rather uncertainly—because the night before she had commanded attention.
“Once your husband looks at you across a pillow, he will never look at another woman.” He said it so flatly, so definitively, that even she couldn’t question it.
She turned her head away and looked down at the cobblestones at their feet. The sun was out and had burned away the fog.
With a deft twist of his wrist he laced his fingers through hers. They walked all the way to the end of the street like that, without another word, and turned into Grosvenor Road.
“Your mother and father have not awakened,” Cyrus said, glancing at her house. It was quiet and still, all curtains drawn. Scandalously, he put his arms around her, on the walkway before her own doorway. “You’ve ruined my plan.”
She could feel respect, and possession, desire and even love, in the way he held her. Or the start of love. Or something like love.
“You look suddenly anxious,” he said, dropping a kiss on her lips.
“Don’t assume that I will marry you simply because you took me for a ride in the woods,” she told him. “I am no longer desperate.”
“I know that.”
“Rathbone will likely ask me to marry him,” she added, feeling defensive. “He likes poetry, you know. And he likes me a great deal.”
“As do I. But I am wooing you as well. I will do it right this time, Lucy.”
She sighed. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”
Caution flashed through his eyes. “Yes.”
“No plans,” she said firmly.
“No?”
“If you want to win me, you’ll have to do exactly as you feel without relying on a plan. Some things cannot be planned.”
He was still for a moment, and then his arms tightened around her and he bent his head. His mouth was hot and sweet, and within a minute she found herself clinging to him.
“What if we do whatever you want instead,” he whispered against her lips.
“Cyrus,” she said, fighting to clear her mind, “someone might see us here. You are kissing me on my parents’ doorstep. And it’s morning. If someone saw us, he would come to the worst of conclusions.”
His only response was to kiss her again, slow and sensuous, until she found herself on her toes, pressed against him as hard as she could.
“I am not very impulsive,” he said a moment later, raising his head again.
“Oh,” Lucy gasped. She looked down Grosvenor Road again. Thanks be, it was still dreamy and silent. “Let go of me, Cyrus. You must leave.”
He stood over her, dark and brooding and beautiful. And the look in his eyes . . . she never imagined any man would look at her like that.
Not true. She had seen that look in a pirate’s eyes, but only in a dream.
“Go,” she whispered. “You’ll cause a scandal.”
A thoughtful look came into his eyes.
“Scandal,” she repeated. “The one thing you’re most afraid of, remember?” She gave him a little push. “Off. Go. Goodbye.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Perhaps we—we could go riding again tomorrow morning,” she said, almost babbling because his voice was husky and it made her feel feverish, like a woman who was about to lose her head and push a man into the shrubbery.
He shook his head. “You said I couldn’t follow my plan.”
“So?”
“That was my plan. I meant to go riding with you every morning until you succumbed to my charms.”
She snorted. “You don’t ride well enough for that.”
“Do I kiss well enough for that?”
Lucy couldn’t not smile. “Perhaps.”
He stepped back and swept a magnificent bow. “Miss Towerton, it has been a pleasure to escort you to Hyde Park.”
She curtsied. “Good morning, Mr. Ravensthorpe.”
By the time the butler answered the door, he was just a broad-shouldered man, walking briskly away, in the distance.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Duke of Pole paid Lucy a formal visit later that afternoon, bringing a handful of hothouse roses. Lord Rathbone called too, and brought a charming posy made up of violets. Cyrus did not reappear, although several fortune hunters, of various heights, did.
When visiting hours were over, Lucy bottled all the irritation she felt and said, “Mother, I will never marry the Duke of Pole. He’s a horrid little man, like a bluebottle fly. I’d like to swat him.”
Her mother blustered, but gave in surprisingly quickly.
Within the hour Lady Towerton was planning Lucy’s wedding to Lord Rathbone, contingent on a future proposal, of course.
It began raining again that evening, a much lighter rain this time, the kind that mists one’s hair and dampens the garden path, but never resolves into drops with the weight to fall properly.
Lucy had her bath and saw her maid off to sleep, and then bundled herself into a robe and set out through the garden. She had been five years old when she first wandered out into the night, after the household was asleep, chasing fireflies and desperately lonely for her sister. Over the years, she’d grown to love the hushed nighttime garden.
Tonight she followed a path she knew by heart, and could navigate even on the darkest of nights: through the garden to the low wall that separated the formal
garden from the kitchen garden.
The gardener had built her a little seat atop the wall, where the night air was sweet with flowers on the one side and mint on the other. Neither smelled as good as Cyrus. She was sitting with her knees pulled up, thinking of him, when that very aroma came to her: clean man, lemon soap, a whiff of horse.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she said, turning her head just as a hand brushed her shoulder.
“I went to a musicale and you weren’t there. So I left and went to Lady Purdrow’s ball, but you weren’t there either.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against his chest.
A silly smile curved her mouth. “Did you give your cousin the pleasure of seeing you in purple?” she asked, allowing herself to relax into the circle of his arms.
He shrugged, and her cheek slid against cloth so smooth that it must have been woven on French looms. “I have allowed my cousin to rule my life for far too long. Next time I see him I’m going to knock him into the next county,” he added, with a note of distinct anticipation in his voice.
Lucy thought about that and mentally shrugged. Pole was loathsome, and deserved every knock he got. “What are you doing in my garden, Cyrus?”
“Not following a plan. As you commanded.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “And what would your plan have you doing, other than riding with me tomorrow morning?”
“Formal visit,” he said, pressing a kiss against her temple. “I would allow your mother to glare at me for a few more weeks. I would dance with you, ride with you, send you flowers, write you a poem. Well, perhaps not write you a poem, but I could tell you one.”
“You know poetry?”
“Of course.” He sounded insulted. “I studied poetry, if under duress. And just because I think Byron is an ass doesn’t mean that I don’t remember poems by other people.”
“By heart? Would you recite me a poem now?”
“No.” His voice was liquid temptation. “I quote poetry only in bed.”
Jealousy flashed through her heart like harsh lightning. “I don’t want to hear any verse that you’ve quoted to another woman.”
“I have never quoted any. When I begin, it will be in our bed.” His arms tightened, and then one hand stroked slowly down her arm. “You will be the first.”
Lucy swallowed. “So . . . you do remember what a scandal is, do you not? Because that is exactly what will ensue if anyone sees you here.”
“I want to be here,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “I had to see you tonight.”
His voice made her feel hot and liquid, as if her body was simmering with light and warmth. “How could you possibly have known that I would be in the garden?”
“I didn’t. Fate did the rest.” His arms tightened around her again. “Give me a kiss, Lucy.”
She shook her head, ignoring the stab of sensual pleasure she felt at his command. “Fate? That’s rot.”
“You did tell me that your bedroom opened onto the garden. It was practically an invitation.”
Lucy stiffened. “You were planning to come to my bedroom?”
“I still am.”
“No, you’re not.”
In reply, he gently pushed her chin back, so her head tilted and she could see his face. “I want you, Lucy.”
“Then ask me to marry you,” she said, bold as brass, leaning back on his arm so that she could see him clearly.
There was a tenderness in his eyes that she never thought to see, tenderness together with deep possessiveness. “Will you marry me?” he asked, and all teasing fled his voice.
“I haven’t decided,” she replied, frowning a bit to make it clear that he wasn’t the lord of all he surveyed. Not yet anyway. The night shadows made him look even more elegant, like a prince from some foreign land, all cheekbones and dark eyes.
“That’s because you are not able to trust me,” he stated. “When we first met, my every action was driven by fear of scandal. Everything. Every item on the plan, including the way I responded to my cousin.”
“All right,” she said cautiously.
“So why should you believe that I love you?”
She made a startled little sound. “You . . .”
“I do love you. I chose you on first sight, you know. I thought my decision was for all the right reasons. Still, the fact is that I took one look at you and knew that I had to have you.”
“Why?” she whispered. “If not for my birth, I mean.”
“You were seated by the side of the room,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nose and then on her lips. “You were poised as if for flight, and yet you held your head high. You looked as if life would never beat you down. And you looked as if you were waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“For me,” he concluded, with a wicked grin.
“I’ve never heard of anything more arrogant,” she said, but without much heat. She had indeed been waiting.
“Arrogant and pompous,” he conceded. “I know. I started out all the wrong way, and now I must prove that I truly want to marry you.”
He could pretend that he didn’t have a plan, but obviously lists were integral to his way of thinking. Why should she believe that he loved her?
Because the naked longing in his eyes wasn’t the sort of thing that could be faked. Still . . . he had acted like an ass.
She smiled, feeling a thrill of delicious power, and said, “Just how are you going to prove that?”
His mouth landed on hers at the same moment that he pulled her smoothly up and around. Then he sat placing her in his lap and kissed her like a pirate: dangerous and irresistible.
“Not good enough,” she said, when she could manage it. Her voice came out low and husky.
“I know,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “I know what I have to do.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you to Gretna Green.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open. “No, you are not!”
“I am.” He looked happy, the fool that he was. “It’s the only way to show you that I care more about you than I do about any of the rest of it . . . the title, any of it.”
“Title?” She shook her head. “Tell me later. I am not going to Gretna Green.”
He brushed a kiss across her lips and she shivered. But still she said it, fierce and low, because it had to be said. “I’m not going to Scotland, and you cannot force me, Cyrus.”
His body went suddenly rigid. “Because . . . you don’t want to go.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah.” The tone of his voice changed absolutely, turned cool and lifeless. “I misunderstood. I apologize.”
Then, for the first time, she reached up and pulled his head down to hers. He came stiffly. She put her mouth against the elegant curve of his lips and breathed in the smell of him. It made her hungry. And happy.
“I refuse to travel to Gretna Green,” she whispered. Then she licked his closed mouth.
“Why not?” His voice was back to normal, if a bit hoarse.
“Because you didn’t ask me; you simply commanded it.”
“Please, will you accompany me to Gretna Green?” he asked without hesitation.
“No.” It was going to be hard to refuse him whatever he asked, she realized, storing the information away for another day. Yet she had to thwart him regularly, for his own good. “You don’t need to cause a storm of gossip in order to marry me,” she said, running a hand through his silky hair. “The only scandal we need is one that convinces my parents—and that only because my mother will never give up her dream of a title without being terrified by the prospect of disgrace. We needn’t tell the whole world that we want to marry, let alone do it in such a reckless fashion.”
“We must create a scandal for the benefit of your parents,” he said slowly. “And I must beg you to join me, rather than command you.”
Cyrus learned quickly. She schooled her face to seriousness. “Precisely.”
He stood up and placed her on the seat. Then, his eyes holding hers, he slid onto his knees.
Lucy’s heart stuttered.
“I love you, Lucy Grace Jane Towerton,” he solemnly stated. “You are a passionate, daydreaming mathematician, sister to Beata, and the only woman I shall ever love.”
Tears prickled her eyes.
“I think,” he said, his eyes endearingly anxious, “that the more important question is whether you love me. Because I’m a pompous ass and a fool, and I didn’t understand what a treasure I had when I found you the first time.”
Her arms curved around his neck and she let all the yearning and love that she felt fill her eyes.
“Oh,” he said. “You—”
“Yes. I do. I will.” She leaned forward and pressed her mouth onto his, begging for entry with her tongue.
With a low growl he opened his mouth and let her in. A hungry ache spread slowly, sweetly, through her body and settled between her legs.
She kissed him, delicately tasting him, their tongues dancing, until some sort of leash slipped in him and suddenly he was ravaging her, hands on either side of her cheeks, holding her tight so that he could kiss her as if he were a starving man.
Somehow they were back on the seat again, and then, with one sharp pull, Cyrus untied her robe and it fell open to the cool night air. Lucy gasped with a combination of shock and pleasure. His hand moved unerringly to her breast.
One rough caress and she arched against him with a whimper, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Your bedroom,” Cyrus said, his voice aching with the same hunger she felt. His lips slid along her throat and she let her head fall back. He ran a hand through her hair and then nipped the curve of her jaw with his teeth.
“You’re mad,” she muttered.
But he was licking her now, stroking her throat, and the hand at her breast was rubbing her nipple so that she squirmed, sensual heat making her feel an ache in her most vulnerable part.
“I agree,” he said, his voice terse. “This is unplanned, in case you’re wondering.” Then he picked her up in his arms and walked toward the house, toward the open door that led directly to her bedroom.