by Lee, Jade
“What duties?” his father snapped. “You’re my heir, and you’re obliged to me.”
“Actually, Father,” Lucas said in equally clipped tones, “right now, you come in a distant third.” As if to prove the point, one of his men came into the room. He was dressed as one of her footmen, but he was clearly a soldier reporting to his commanding officer as he waited, hat in hand, for a moment to speak. Lucas turned immediately to Diana and gave her a quick nod. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said.
“Of course.”
All three watched as he crossed the room to confer with his man. They spoke in low tones that Diana could not hear, but his mother’s remarks were loud enough.
“Did you see that?” she remarked to the earl. “He doesn’t even look at me. Such abominable manners. And did you see his hand? It’s like a crow’s foot.”
Her husband didn’t respond; neither did Diana, which apparently was normal for the countess. She just kept speaking as if everyone was fascinated by her observations.
“He needs to cut his hair in a more fashionable style. One that hides that scar along his face. A little paste would cover it up as well, but the haircut is vital.” She lifted her chin. “We shall tell everyone that we have known from the beginning but that we remained quiet out of respect for his delicate health.”
Diana meant to be quiet, but a snort of laughter burst out. And at the countess’s outraged expression, she quickly apologized. “I do beg your pardon, but surely you see that no one will believe a word of that.” She gestured back to where Lucas stood strong and tall. His muscular figure was on display. Indeed, Diana had just been admiring it.
“Of course, they will,” the lady responded. “With that scar on his face and whatever has happened to his hand.” She shuddered. “It’s repulsive.”
Diana’s humor faded. “It’s what happens to men during a war. He was at Waterloo, you know. That’s where he was wounded. I haven’t learned much more except that he’s a formidable fighter.” That much she had seen when she was attacked.
“We were told he’d died,” the earl said, awe in his tone as he stared at this son.
“I wore mourning for months,” the countess added.
Diana had no response to that, so it was fortunate that Lucas dismissed his man and strode forward to speak to her. “I need to go. Do not leave the house. I have a man watching Geoffrey and several here inside the house. If you—”
“I can’t go anywhere. I’ll need to receive visitors all afternoon. There are many who will want to pay their respects.”
Lucas nodded as if he expected that. “I don’t expect this to work. The news is unreliable at best, but I need to check it out nonetheless.” He looked back as another one of his men stepped into the room. “This is Caleb Matthews. I trust him. You’ll be safe, provided you keep him with you whenever you’re outside of your bedroom.”
She looked back to see Mr. Matthews square off as if saluting her. And she didn’t miss the sheen of pride that came over him when Lucas said he trusted him. It was a sharp contrast to Lucas’s parents’ attitude. In that soldier turned footman, she saw true feelings for Lucas. He loved him in the purest, brotherhood sense of the word, and from what she could tell, Lucas returned the emotion in full measure.
Meanwhile, his mother was just now gaining her feet. “Whatever this business is,” she said with disdainful tones, “pray it ends quickly. We must reintroduce you to society.”
Lucas turned to his mother, his expression grim. “Shall we open a ball together, Mama? Perhaps I shall lead you out for a quadrille.” He extended his maimed hand to her as if inviting her to dance. He wasn’t wearing his customary glove, and so the scarred, crab-like digits hovered in the air between them while she visibly recoiled. He waited a moment, then a second, before pulling on his glove with sharp movements. “Perhaps we should wait a bit until you are more in command of your emotions.”
Diana winced. In that one exchange, she saw years of damage inflicted from mother to son, back to mother in an endless cycle of anger. And standing off to the side was Lucas’s father, who watched with an air of helpless despair. If she had to guess, she would say that he had not caused the problems between the two, but he certainly hadn’t helped. It all lay before her like a tapestry of pain, and she found herself grabbing Lucas’s deformed hand in her own. He had the glove half on by then, and she tugged it back off with a firm jerk of her wrist such that she held his bare hand.
It is the first time that she had touched his scarred flesh, and he seemed to freeze at the contact. She gentled her touch, doing her best to caress his scars, even as she tightened his fingers over his.
“You have not rested in two days,” she said to him. “Surely you can trust someone else—”
“I cannot. If there’s a chance to prove Geoffrey’s villainy in court, I will find it.” He left the rest unspoken, but it was there in his eyes. If he couldn’t find a way to end Geoffrey’s threat legally, he would do it by any other means available to him. He would see her safe, even if she didn’t like how he chose to do it.
“I trust you,” she said, and she watched her words settle into him. His shoulders eased down for the first time since she’d come down the stairs. She even noted some softness in him, if only around the very edge of his mouth.
“See that you listen then. Let Caleb protect you.” His gaze cut to the footman.
“I will.”
Which is when he slowly drew her hand up to his mouth. He kissed it with a courtly elegance befitting a future earl. But he was nothing like a dandy gentleman. He had harsh edges and a family that hated him so much that he’d played dead for years rather than reveal himself to them. He dressed more like an impoverished soldier than as a gentleman, and when he moved, it was with the sharp purpose of a soldier.
He couldn’t have been more attractive to her if he were a royal prince. And as he pressed a kiss to her palm, she saw in his eyes something she’d never seen before—herself as reflected in a worthy man’s eyes. He seemed to worship her, while her mind was caught up in how amazing he was. He disregarded everything, including his own parents and title, in order to save her from Geoffrey. Just as he’d tried twelve years ago to give up everything in order to save her from her marriage.
He was an extraordinary man, and for whatever reason, he felt she was worth saving. For twelve years, she’d fought for respect from her servants, her husband, and her stepchildren. Odd how something she’d sought all her life was now gifted to her from a man who was much more powerful than her. Lucas could easily dismiss her as he pursued his own life. And yet, he gazed at her as if she were everything to him.
The walls around her heart crumpled. In that moment, her heart gave in, gave up, and gave herself over to him. She loved him.
She loved him.
Then he left.
Just as he’d done so long ago. She knew he’d come back. If it were at all possible, she believed he’d return to her. Because that’s what great men did when protecting the women they valued above all else. And that knowledge was enough to keep her strong throughout the hellish hours that followed.
Hours that turned into days. And days to a very long week.
Damnation! Where was he?
Chapter Nineteen
Ireland, Two Weeks Later
Irish mud smelled ten times worse than London’s mud. Such was Lucas’s thought as the wet from the ground seeped into his clothes. He heard the distant bark of a dog and smelled the pungent scent of sheep that could only be found in the country, and he cursed the weeks he’d spent skulking about in Irish mud, English mud, and London muck.
A week in Ireland! Two weeks since he’d last seen Diana. And now he reeked of Irish mud while he wondered if he’d made a very bad choice somewhere along the way.
He’d thought he was being clever. He decided to hide away from Diana, disappear on the search for Fisher, the missing footman. In truth, he had other men on that task while he skulked about waiting
for Geoffrey to attack Diana. He’d guessed—obviously incorrectly—that Geoffrey would be more likely to make his move when Lucas was in the wind.
Except there had been no attempts on Diana’s life that he could see. None in England as she greeted mourners for several days in their London home. Nothing on the trip to Ireland where the now-deceased Oscar had his titular estate in all its crumbling ruin. And none yesterday after the service and burial in the family tomb. He’d remained nearby, failing completely to hide from the locals given that he wasn’t Irish, didn’t speak with an Irish accent, and had no reason to be loitering about. Fortunately, English coin spent very well in famine-ravaged Ireland, and he’d managed to remain relatively undetected, he hoped. Or maybe not, given that Geoffrey certainly hadn’t shown his hand. Lucas was a soldier, not a spy, and he feared that he was ill-equipped to discover Geoffrey’s plans.
With the funeral over, the Beddoes left, and good riddance to the shrew and her husband. Geoffrey never arrived, clearly uninterested in giving any respect to his father or viewing the ramshackle disaster that was his castle inheritance. So now all who remained were Diana and a small staff, all staying at the dower cottage that was not part of Geoffrey’s inheritance. It was a comfortable property, easily able to hold Diana, her maid, and the two bodyguards he’d sent along with her—Caleb and Egeus. Everyone had retired now, except Diana, who leaned out her window as she turned her face to the moon.
Lord, she was beautiful. A true English goddess with her flaxen hair, blue eyes, and sweet, bow-shaped lips. At least that’s what he’d say if he were writing poetry about her. In truth, as beautiful as she was, his mind lingered on other aspects. He’d heard from a tenant this morning how his lordship had saved everyone from famine by forgiving rents and even paying for hard cheeses for every tenant. He’d bet anything that Diana had done that, not Oscar.
He also thought about how she’d kept her head in Vauxhall. Certainly, she’d become terrified afterward, but during the attack, she’d been an asset, and that was rare indeed among women of her set. But what his thoughts returned to over and over was the moment when she had touched his scarred hand. He’d shown it to his mother, knowing the woman would recoil in horror, but Diana had taken his fingers in hers and held on. Her touch had been light. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched his deformity.
The memory still rocked him to his very foundations.
That’s what he dwelled on as she gazed up at the moon—the caress of her hand and the aching desire for her to do that again. He wanted her to touch him everywhere. It wasn’t what he said, though. Instead, he hissed at her and gestured her back.
“Diana! Get back from the window!”
Anyone with good aim and a passable weapon could have ended her. And even the worst marksman got lucky every now and then. What were his men thinking, allowing her to lean out an open window?
And right there was the measure of how weary he was. He forgot that she didn’t know he was there. For him—she’d consumed his waking thoughts and inhabited his dreams every second of the two weeks they’d been apart. For her—she thought he’d disappeared with no word. So it was no surprise when she looked down and saw him that she gasped in surprise. Far from pulling back from the window, she leaned over and peered into the darkness.
“Lucas?” she asked.
Damnation, he was an idiot. But there was no help for it now. With a muttered curse, he slipped around to the back door and made his way inside. He identified himself to Caleb in the kitchen, then used the water there to quickly wash himself. “She was leaning out the window,” he said before he ducked his head straight into the bucket.
Caleb sighed as he handed over a towel. “I told her not to.”
As if that made the least bit of difference, and so his glare said. But he didn’t stop to debate the issue, especially as Diana came rushing downstairs.
“Lucas? Lucas! Where have you been?”
“Hush,” he said as he pulled her back up the stairs. She wore a dressing-gown of light blue, a dull sight compared to her eyes. And her hair was falling down her back in a disorderly braid. She should not be seen in such immodest attire, but he was too busy drinking in the sight of her worried expression to comment. She had been afraid for him. Enough that she was now growing angry the more she reassured herself that he was safe.
“You look exhausted. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Upstairs. You need to stay away from the windows.”
“Where have you been?”
“Right beside you from the beginning—”
“What?”
“I never went anywhere.” He shrugged. “I was trying to draw Geoffrey out.”
“He hasn’t been around. Didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been here?”
“Within a hundred feet of you always.”
“The whole time?” Outrage was creeping into her tone. “I’ve been worried sick!”
“You’re a terrible actor, Diana. I couldn’t let you know.”
“I am no such thing! No one knows what I’m thinking. No one!”
“No one saw your wan face? Or that you jumped at every knock on the door? No one knew that you rub your arm when you are thinking of the attack at Vauxhall or that your hands shake when you serve tea now?”
She flushed as they made it into her bedroom. “How do you know that?”
Because he’d watched her constantly. He knew the tempo of her breath when she slept because he’d spent the night beneath her open window. And what he hadn’t seen, his men had reported to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I needed Geoffrey to think you were abandoned.” He studied her face, praying she understood.
She smiled at him, though the expression still held some irritation. “I never thought you abandoned me on purpose.”
That was something, he supposed. He ought to go back out on patrol, but now that he was finally talking to her, he needed to know how she was really doing. Especially now that he saw telltale redness in her eyes.
“Why were you crying?” He shut her bedroom door quietly, then turned to study her.
“What? Oh.” She pressed her hands to her face. “No reason, really.”
He arched his brows, challenging her with his expression.
She shrugged. “I was thinking about melancholy things. And worrying about you.”
He gave her a weak smile. “I am safe. What melancholy things?”
Her gaze grew abstract as she wandered about the room. It was large for an Irish cottage but small for what she was used to, and he wondered if she felt cramped. She didn’t look uncomfortable as she dropped down onto the edge of the bed and looked at her hands. “Oscar and I had a normal marriage,” she said. “Despite the way we began, we learned to rub along well enough.”
He winced. He did not like thinking of her in a marriage with anyone other than him, normal or not. And he absolutely did not need to hear the details. But she appeared to need to talk, and so he would stand and listen, no matter what it cost him.
“You miss him,” he said when she fell silent. “You were married for twelve years. That is only natural.”
“He fell ill nearly three years ago. And though he would get better for a time, he never fully regained his strength.” She took a breath and exhaled. “Do you know, I have not been touched in three years? His skin became so sensitive, you see. At times he could not tolerate even the slightest brush of the sheets.”
He shuddered. That sounded horrendous.
She looked at him, her eyes bright in the moonlight. “I have only kissed two men in my life. Him and you.” Her smile took on a mischievous bent. “I am a wealthy widow now. I begin to wonder what that means for me.”
He jolted, very shocked. He knew what becoming a widow meant for many young women. Free of the restrictions placed on them by their husbands, they indulged many immodest appetites. Indeed, he’d seen several such women
at the gaming hell where he’d been working. The women’s side of the building catered to all kinds of sins. The idea of Diana—this goddess—descending to debauchery left him physically ill.
He took a hasty step forward. “You cannot know what you are saying.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Why can’t I? Men indulge themselves from the moment they hit adolescence until the day they become too infirm. Why do you think a woman has no appetite?”
Women did have appetites. He knew that very well. He just had not thought that she… That Diana would… He swallowed and looked away. “You’re a proper lady,” he finally said.
“I have been,” she admitted. “But I find time and experience have changed me. Maybe I don’t need to be so very proper anymore.” She stood up until she came close enough to touch him. She didn’t, and he didn’t reach for her. But his skin prickled at her nearness, and his breath heated as his heart sped up. “I am a woman finally free,” she said softly. “My elderly husband is gone after being ill for years. Why shouldn’t I experience a man’s touch if I want to? Someone I choose.”
He wanted to do it. He wanted to take her in all the ways a man fantasizes. But in his mind, she was a lady and a goddess, as holy for him as the Madonna. To possess her now as a matter of appetite felt profane. And yet she stood before him in a dressing gown light enough for him to see the outline of her nipples, tight and perfect. Lust surged through him, lifting his cock to attention.
But he did not move. He couldn’t. It wasn’t right. She was a new widow, and he was supposed to be protecting her, not seducing her, and…and…what kind of man took advantage in a situation like this?
She waited a moment. A very long moment, then she sighed and wandered away. This time she went to the window, which still stood open to let in the evening breeze.
“Keep back—” he rasped.
“I know.” She stayed far enough away from the window that she would be difficult to see from outside. But he saw every part of her outlined by the moonlight. Her sweet curves, her full hips, and the way her hair tumbled into the fabric of her gown to create a kind of veil. It made him hungry to slowly reveal that which was already filling his thoughts.