“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.
He withdrew his mouth and looked up at her, his face flushed, his eyes glazed. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
“No,” she cried out, breathlessly. “No, my lord.”
In an instant, his mouth found her breast again, his teeth lightly nipping at the puckered flesh. He reached for her hand, drew it to his trousers, and she gasped when she felt the length of his manhood straining against the woolen fabric. She couldn’t contain her curiosity, and was shocked to find herself stroking his arousal, amazed at the frightful size of him.
He drew his mouth away and tipped his head back, his eyes half lidded. “By God, Lucy. Do you feel what you do to me? You mustn’t, I can’t...” He pushed her hand away. “I can’t promise not to take you right here in this carriage if you keep touching me like that.”
She dropped her hands to her lap, her cheeks burning.
“Do not be embarrassed, Lucy, not for my sake.” His eyes roved over her body. “Have you any idea how very beautiful you are?”
She knew she should be mortified by her state of half dress, but she looked into his face and saw nothing but frank admiration—almost reverence—in his eyes. How could she be ashamed? She felt like the most beautiful woman alive.
“So lovely,” he murmured as he dipped his head toward her once more. She closed her eyes as she felt his tongue move between her breasts and down toward her stomach—caressing her skin through the fabric with featherlight strokes—then back up again to lave her nipples. He was feasting on her like a starved man, and she was loving every last sinful sensation.
With a lurch, the carriage swayed to a halt. Lucy’s eyes widened as she looked out the window and saw that they had arrived at Rosemoor House. Henry quickly reached across her and drew the curtains.
“Dear God,” Lucy whispered. She clutched her bodice in front of her breasts, which were bare except for the thin material that clung wetly to her skin. With shaking hands, she reached up and felt her hair tumbling down in a tangled mass around her burning face. “What shall I do?”
“Wait, don’t move.” He quickly opened the door and stepped out. She could hear the low rumblings of his voice as he spoke to the driver. Moments later he reappeared, and as soon as he shut the door behind him, the carriage lumbered off again. “I told the driver to take us twice around the block. It’ll give you time to make yourself presentable.” He lowered himself across from her, his gaze averted.
In seconds, Lucy had her dress pulled back into place. She reached behind but found she was unable to fasten the tiny buttons. She turned to stare wide-eyed at Henry, horrified by what she had to ask him to do.
“My...my dress,” she stammered, barely able to form the words with her mouth.
Without a sound, he moved to her side as she presented her back to him. She felt him fumbling for what seemed like an eternity before he returned to his own seat opposite hers. Retrieving a handful of pins from the carriage floor, she did her best to re-create the hairstyle Bridgette had produced earlier that evening. Luckily, she was used to dressing her own hair—she had no lady’s maid at home. If only her hands weren’t trembling so.
“I suppose that will have to do,” she said, her tongue thick in her mouth as she patted her hair in place. She nervously raised her gaze to Henry’s face and was stunned by the stricken look darkening his features.
At once the strain of the night was too much for her to bear. First that horrible scene with Sinclair, then her missing locket, now this. Her composure melted and she burst into tears.
Through her tears she saw Henry look up at her in surprise. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed wordlessly, awash in guilt and shame. The floor of the carriage creaked as she felt his weight beside her, then his fingers lightly stroking her hair.
“Please don’t cry, my sweet. I...” His voice caught. “I don’t think I can bear it. Here, dry your eyes like a good girl.”
She reached for the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes, silently cursing the man for awakening such stirrings—such longings—in her. Of all the men, all the thousands of men in London, why did he have to be the one to make her feel things she’d never before felt, never dared to hope for?
Henry winced at the sight of her tears, still damp upon her flushed cheeks. Never before had he acted so impulsively, so coarsely with a lady. It was unthinkable. He’d broken his own code of honor—he’d compromised her, risked her virtue and her reputation when he knew full well he could never offer her marriage. His lack of control sickened him, and he bit back the sour gall of self-loathing. “By God, Lucy, I’m sorry. Truly I am. Damn it, I’m no better than Sinclair, taking advantage of you in the worst way.”
She swallowed hard before looking him squarely in the eye. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I...I’m afraid I’m as much to blame as you, Lord Mandeville.”
“Must you still call me that?” he said, bristling. “Can’t you call me ‘Henry’? I’ve given you permission to do so, you know.” He couldn’t help the hard edge in his voice.
“No, I cannot, my lord. I’ve told you so repeatedly. And I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘Lucy’ either. It isn’t proper,” she said primly. “What are we to do, my lord? We can’t allow this to happen again.”
She was right about that. He couldn’t risk it, couldn’t trust himself in her presence. “We mustn’t see each other any more, that’s all that can be done. You must understand, I can’t let it happen. I’m a marquess, and certain obligations come with the title. I’ll make certain our paths don’t cross. Besides, I’ve no interest in the Season’s entertainments. I’ve more important things to focus on.”
He could still go to Almack’s. As he had predicted, those closed-minded, dour Patronesses had denied Lucy access to the hallowed hall. Much as he despised Almack’s and all it represented, it was certainly the place to cultivate the right associations. He would force himself to suffer through it.
She hiccuped as she nodded in agreement. “Very well. I, too, have more important things on which to focus.” He could see her spine straighten, her eyes take on that familiar glow of determined intensity. Her gathering resolve was visible, palpable. Devil’s eye, what a woman she is. It made his chest swell with pride. If only the circumstances were different.
The carriage rolled to a halt again in front of Rosemoor House. Lucy leapt to her feet and opened the door, taking the footman’s hand and stepping down to the walk. Henry followed her out stiffly, not quite ready for this encounter—which might be their last—to end.
“Lucy,” he said hoarsely, and reached for her hand. He saw her reluctance, the indecision flitting across her features, before she allowed him to take it. He raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against her knuckles. He held it there a moment too long, desperately wishing it didn’t have to end this way, that he could say something, anything, to make things right. Finally she pulled her hand from his grasp.
“I thank you for escorting me home,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “Good night.” She turned and walked away from him without a backward glance, disappearing into the fog that appeared from nowhere and rose from the sidewalk like eerie wisps of smoke.
Chapter 12
At dinner Lucy was still brimming with excitement from the day’s activities. At exactly two o’clock she and her aunt had arrived at the gates of the college. A half-hour later Mr. Wilton had appeared and taken her to meet his mentor, while Aunt Agatha remained in the waiting carriage, occupying herself with her needlework. Her first session had been wonderful, far exceeding her expectations.
Professor Williams was patient
and attentive, explaining how the laboratory equipment was used and then allowing her to try her hand. They’d discussed her stable ventilation theories at length, and he had seemed genuinely intrigued by her ideas. Then she’d followed the professor out across the grassy quadrangle to the infirmary, and together they examined and treated a racehorse’s lame leg. A bowed tendon. She could tell he had been surprised and impressed by her skills, amazed that she’d treated such an injury before.
If only she could convince him to let her sit in on a lecture or two. He’d given her some notes to study, but it just wasn’t the same as sitting in the small theatre he’d shown her, listening to the discussion firsthand. She absently pushed her food around her plate. There must be some way...
Lucy’s thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the butler.
“My lady?” he said to Lady Rosemoor, wringing his hands.
“Yes, Penwick?” Lady Rosemoor put down her silver and turned toward the man.
“Lord Mandeville is downstairs, quite insistent that he see Miss Abbington right away.”
Lucy looked up sharply.
“At the dinner hour?” Lady Rosemoor asked. “Does he say whatever for?”
“He has some sort of wretched creature wrapped in a towel. He says it requires Miss Abbington’s immediate attention.” He cleared his throat and dropped his voice a measure. “His lordship is quite agitated, my lady.”
Without waiting for permission Lucy rose to her feet, her napkin falling to the floor. “I must go.”
Lady Rosemoor nodded. “Yes, Lucy, go at once. I’ll accompany you.”
Jane and Susanna’s surprised expressions barely registered as Lucy rushed wordlessly from the room.
“Thank God, Lucy.” Henry hurried to her side, and Lucy saw Lady Rosemoor’s eye’s narrow suspiciously at the casual use of her given name. The marquess thrust a bloody towel toward her, his face white and pinched. “This pup, I... I was returning home in my curricle when it dashed into the street. There was nothing I could do to avoid him. I think he’s terribly hurt, and I couldn’t just leave him there to suffer.”
“Oh, dear.” Lucy unfolded the towel and peered anxiously inside. The pup, no more than a few months old and scrawny from malnutrition, barely stirred. “He’s in shock, poor thing,” she said softly. “One leg is broken, for certain.” She needed to check for internal injuries; it was likely worse than it looked. “Let’s get him into the kitchen. I’ll need some boiled water, clean towels, and a box of some sort right away.” Lady Rosemoor nodded and hurried off toward the kitchen.
Henry grasped Lucy’s wrist. “I did the right thing, didn’t I, bringing him here?” The raw anguish in his eyes touched her deeply to her core, made her tremble with emotion.
“Of course, Lord Mandeville,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’ll do everything I can. It may not be enough, I’m afraid. The kitchen is this way. Can you carry him? I need to fetch a few supplies.”
“Of course,” he said with a nod.
As she led him toward the kitchen, Lucy mentally listed additional supplies she would need. She was relieved to see that Cook had started the water boiling. Lady Rosemoor returned at once with a housemaid bearing a stack of thick towels. Lucy indicated for Henry to set his bundle upon the long trestle table.
The pup began to stir, and wailed pitifully. Lucy went to him and laid a gentle hand upon his muzzle. He appeared to calm at once, his frightened brown eyes looking up beseechingly. The kitchen staff gathered in curious silence as she set to work. She didn’t look up from her task, refusing to allow herself to become distracted. Yet she was keenly aware when Lady Rosemoor led the marquess out of the kitchen.
Almost an hour later Lucy felt sure the small dog would live. She’d set his leg and cleaned his wounds, mostly superficial. The poor pup must have only been grazed by the curricle’s wheel and then thrown aside before any fatal damage had been done. What good fortune he hadn’t been mortally wounded, that Lord Mandeville had brought him here. Fortune, her mind repeated. Why, that’s what she’d call him. She’d nurse Fortune back to health and then find him a home. Her papa would be furious if she came home with yet another stray.
Hastily, she washed up and went to find Lady Rosemoor, to ask her to send word to Lord Mandeville that the pup would indeed live. With a weary smile, she skimmed down the stairs, pausing at the sound of voices drifting from the drawing room. Curiously, she peered in. Lady Rosemoor was pouring tea for Lord Mandeville, who sat stiffly on a chair across from Jane and Susanna.
“Oh, Lucy! There you are. How is the pup?” Jane rose and hurried to her side.
Henry stood, a steaming teacup in one hand, his brows drawn together.
“Thankfully, he was not so badly injured as it appeared. I’m happy to report that, once his broken leg has healed, he should be quite well.”
Henry sighed and set down his cup. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Miss Abbington.”
Lucy’s heart skidded as he stood gazing at her with grateful eyes. She felt a flush rise up her neck. Good God, she’d nearly tossed aside her virtue the last time they’d met. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the wondrous feeling of his hot mouth against her skin, the exquisite taste of his mouth, the blatant evidence of his arousal...
“I’m afraid I couldn’t convince the marquess to leave us until he was assured of the pup’s well-being,” Lady Rosemoor was saying. She held a cup out to Lucy. “Join us for tea, dear.”
Lord Mandeville reached for his hat. “I should be on my way. I appreciate your good grace, Lady Rosemoor, and I apologize for insinuating myself as I did.”
“No, Lord Mandeville, I quite understand.” Lady Rosemoor nodded solemnly.
“My lord, you must stay and finish your tea,” Susanna entreated, her cheeks stained a delicate pink.
But Lucy knew he would go. He must.
“No, I’ve intruded as it is, but I thank you ladies for distracting me with your pleasant company. Miss Abbington, it seems I am in your debt once more.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy said, confused by her churning emotions. Most gentlemen would have left the pup without a second thought. But Lord Mandeville wasn’t like most men. Bringing the pup here had proven him exceptionally compassionate, kind beyond doubt. True, he exuded a casual air of diffidence, a gruff and cynical exterior, but clearly a tender heart beat in his chest. It also proved he believed in her abilities—he believed in her. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. “Thank you, Lord Mandeville, for bringing him here, for not leaving him there to die.”
She watched as he shifted his weight and averted his gaze. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “I bid you all a good night.”
And he was gone.
***
Henry’s heels tapped smartly against the walk as he made his way toward White’s, the Edinburgh Review tucked under one arm. He reached up to rub his throat with his palm, conscious of the raspy ache. He shook his head in amazement as he turned onto St. James’s Street.
He’d spoken for almost three hours straight, outlining an educational reform act that would create free schools for the children of London’s lowest classes. His chest swelled as he remembered the way it had felt, standing in his long robes amidst the red and gold grandeur of the House of Lords. A sea of faces in powdered wigs had swum before him, some chatting with their neighbors as he spoke, but others—far outnumbering the former—listened raptly. His father’s teachings had served him well; he’d quoted Plato and Sir Thomas More—both advocates for educating the masses—and he’d woven an airtight argument for his case. More than any other time in his life, he’d felt as if he belonged, as if he’d found his place.
As he stepped up to Number 37 and entered the club, his satisfied smile deepened. Henry felt...proud. That was it. He was proud of himself, and it was a bloody good feeling. He handed over his walking stick and hat to the porter and headed up the great staircase, his step light, a smile danc
ing upon his lips.
He took a seat at the far end of the room, opposite the large bay window, and unfolded his newspaper. Raucous shouts gained his attention, and he looked up to see Colin Rosemoor engaged in a tense game of cards with several other young bucks. No doubt the stakes were high. Mr. Rosemoor seemed to possess a near-fatalistic penchant for losing large sums at the gaming tables. Henry shook his head with a scowl, wondering when the viscount would put a stop to his son’s excesses.
Not for the first time, he wondered at young Rosemoor’s relationship with Lucy. She claimed they were nothing more than friends, yet Henry detected a bit of jealousy and possessiveness in the demeanor of Mr. Rosemoor—Colin, as Lucy so intimately called him—that belied her assurances.
Lucy. He sighed heavily. He couldn’t help but wonder how she was faring.
The corners of his mouth dipped into a frown. He missed her company. His pulse quickened just envisioning her face, and he shook his head. No use thinking about her, especially with things going so well for him today in Parliament. They came from worlds far too different. He was glad they’d met, that he’d had the opportunity to know her. If nothing else it had, in small measure, restored his faith in the fairer sex. But now they must follow the divergent paths their lives would lead. It was too bad, really. She was the most intriguing woman he had ever known. Yet he wouldn’t make her his mistress. He couldn’t. She was far too intelligent, far too accomplished and engaged in her own life to accept being a diversion in his. No, there was nothing more to be done. He felt a sharp pain shoot through his gut. Regret? No, it must be hunger. He hadn’t eaten all day. Signaling for the waiter, he ordered a light repast along with his port and then turned his attention to the paper.
Moments later he felt a hand clap him smartly on the shoulder. He turned to find the Duke of Corning before him, shaking his head with a grimace.
“Well, my boy, now you’ve gone and done it,” the duke said.
Unlaced (Undone by Love Book 1) Page 14
