My Fallen Angel

by Pamela Britton

She blinked, telling herself she hadn’t imagined it.“Your hand.”

  “’Tis fine,” he gritted, trying to jerk away.

  She wouldn’t let him, just held onto it like a lifeline to a ship.“Wait,” she said softly, slowly standing up. She’d misjudged the distance between them, though, for he was far closer than she realized. Their bodies brushed. She saw his eyes widen.Yes, she thought.There it is again.

  “I haven’t thanked you for yesterday.”

  “No need.”

  Almost, she closed her eyes. His voice washed over her like warm water, pooling in her very soul.

  “Yes,” she contradicted.“There is a need. If not for you, I might be dead.”

  He didn’t say a word, just stared down at her, his eyes so different when viewed up close. Color upon color blended within them—green, blue, silver, so complex they reminded her of a stained-glass window or the colors of the sea.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble.”

  He didn’t respond, just continued to stare down at her. She waited for a reaction, any reaction. Perhaps a slight lift to the corner of his mouth. Perhaps a minor softening of his remarkable blue eyes.

  She got nothing.

  Disappointment almost made her look away. Almost. Was she so hopeless then? Were her feelings so totally one-sided?

  And then she saw him tense. Saw him move an arm. A finger rose to her chin, tilted it up. Hope beat a rhythmic staccato in her breast like the flutter of a bird’s wings as it soared through the sky. Her breath caught, held, then released in a soft sigh as he gently stroked the line of her jaw.

  “You should be careful,” he murmured, his eyes scanning her own.

  He does feel it, she thought.He does, he does, he does. She hadn’t imagined yesterday. Hadn’t imagined a moonlit night and warm, mingled breaths.

  “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”

  She nodded slowly, hardly daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, wondering if she were imagining the words, the moment. And then his head began to dip toward hers.Yes, her heart cried out.Oh, gracious, yes. Thank you, Lord. I will never ask for another thing again. He likes me. He truly likes me. Her eyes closed. Anticipating. Waiting. Dreaming.

  Warm lips pressed against her on the forehead.

  Her eyes sprang open.

  He stepped back, then patted her on the head.“You see, I wouldn’t want Dear Harry to get angry with me.”

  And with that he turned away.

  Lucy watched him go, feeling wretchedly deflated.

  • • •

  It took Lucy nearly fifteen minutes to collect herself enough to fetch Tom. The stairs of her aunt’s home creaked as she made her way up them.

  She found the boy sitting on a window seat in his room, his knees tucked up under his elbows. His head—with its mop of unruly blonde curls—rested on his knees, the expression on his face as glum as she herself felt. He didn’t bother to look at her. Not even when she walked up behind him did he glance up, which was odd, for usually he loved to bait her with a lecherous grin, loved to tease her in that cockney accent of his—an accent she’d done her best to rid him of, and failed, over the past two weeks that he’d been in her care.

  “What’s the matter, Thomas Tee?” she asked gently, using the pet name both she and her friend Salena, Duchess of Warburton, called him.

  Tom turned to look at her, his violet eyes lacking their usual luster. He shrugged.

  Misery loves company, she thought, and so she patted him on the knees, indicating that he should make room for her on the seat.

  He sighed, then dropped his feet to the floor and scooted over.“I dunno,” he said at last.“I gots a feeling.”

  Lucy’s brows rose, for when Tom got a feeling it usually meant he’d eaten too many sweets.

  “What kind of feeling?” she asked warily.

  He shrugged again.“Like somethin’ bad’s about to happen.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened.“Bad? How do you mean?”

  He seemed to mull her question over.“Bad like last night.” He looked up at her, his normally cherubic face troubled.“You near ‘bout got killed.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Wolf.”

  Lucy’s brows rose. So he had met the boy? She wondered when. It must have been this morning, sometime before she’d gone downstairs.

  “I never asked to be no bleedin’ nobleman’s son,” Tom continued.“Always thoughts y’all a bunch’a crackpots, I did,” he mumbled to himself, then suddenly looked up, obviously realizing what he’d said.“Except for you an’ Salena an’ Adrian an’ Beth, o’ course.”

  Lucy contained a smile.“Of course.”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “I s’ppose I’m just afraids that next time you really will gets hurt.” He looked up at her in pensive admonishment.“You’re ‘bout as graceful as a drunken sailor, me loidy, you don’t needs ta push yer luck by snoopin’ around fer me.”

  Lucy tried not to take offense at his words. But it was hard. Especially when Garrick obviously felt the same way.

  “Tom, I can take care of myself. You needn’t worry. And now there’s Garrick to look after us. You’ll see. Things will be set to rights.”

  Tom worried his bottom lip, then took a deep breath and said, “I’ ope so.”

  “They will, you’ll see. Now, grab your things and head down to the carriage. I’ll meet you there.”

  A current of excitement raced through her at the thought of seeing Garrick again, no matter that he didn’tseem to notice or care about her existence. She could imagine him taking notice. Her imagination was good. So much better than reality.

  Tom’s face lit up.“Yer bringin’ the bird with ya?”

  Lucy nodded vaguely. And she could imagine him kissing her, too, like he’d done yesterday, before she’d given him a foolish display of disgust by shoving him backward.

  “Well, are ya?”

  Lucy blinked, forcing herself to concentrate.“Er, of course. He goes everywhere with me, although Aunt Cornelia has insisted he ride with the servants.”

  “Ah, Luce, why can’t he ride with us if I promise ta take care o’ him meself?”

  “Because me aunt—” She rolled her eyes at the boy’s contagious form of speech.“Because my aunt says he can’t.”

  Tom pouted.“That old battle ax is always gettin’ in the way o’ me fun.”

  “Tom,” Lucy chided gently.“My aunt is not a battle ax. She is a very kind lady who is going out of her way to help you.”

  Tom looked down at the floor, his expression turning contrite.“It’s just that I’ve been makin’ so much progress teaching Prinny new words. I thought it might be fun ta practice some more on the ride to London.”

  “And drive us all crazy in the process,” Lucy muttered, before her eyes narrowed suspiciously.“And just what have you been teaching him?”

  Tom stood up, then said jauntily, “Oh, this an’ that. You’ll sees.” With that he headed toward the door.

  Lucy watched his retreating back, her eyes narrowing even further. Unfortunately, the only words Tom would likely teach her African Grey were the unsuitable kind, and Prinny already had a vocabulary totally unacceptable for a lady’s pet. That was why she liked him.

  She shook her head, wondering when the little imp had sneaked into her room for Prinny’s “lessons,” and what she would do without Tom when he was gone. She’d miss him terribly, she admitted, a deep sadness settling in her bones.

  That sadness only grew worse when she spied Garrick outside. When Tom was gone, so would Garrick be. Then it would be back to her normal humdrum life. There would be no more swashbuckling heroes. No more dreams of being kissed by a fair prince. It was back to plain, silly, frumpish Dear Harry. The end of her adventure.

  And back to the man she knew she could never love, or marry.

  6

  They arrived at the outskirts of London as dusk fell, the sticky fog surrounding them as they rumbled over Westminster B
ridge. A few streamers of light poked golden fingers through the brown-gray haze, periodically illuminating the interior of the coach.

  Lady Cornelia’s town home was located on Arlington Street, near St. James Square, and as they drew nearer, Lucy felt her heart beat more rapidly. She’d been on edge for the duration of the trip, perhaps in response to Tom’s dire words earlier, but more probably because of the discouraging sight of Garrick on horseback when she’d stepped out of her aunt’s house that morning. She had no idea where he’d gotten the new horse, his other one having been buried that morning, but she’d been so depressed and hurt at his obvious attempt to avoid her company that she’d been tempted to tell him not to kill this one, too.

  She hadn’t, of course. Instead she’d held her tongue, telling herself he didn’t hate her, he just didn’t feel anything for her.

  She pulled her navy blue cloak more tightly around herself, as if it could ward off her somber mood, and focused on the reassuring sight of her aunt’s town home as it came into view. The brick house had always held special memories for her. Happy memories of times past when her parents had brought her to London for a visit. She missed her parents terribly, but she’d grown used to the ache of the loss.

  “It looks as if Lambert has been keeping things in hand.”

  Her aunt’s words jarred Lucy from her mental ramblings and forced her to focus on the scene through the carriage window. Light spilled from the town home’s front windows, a welcome sight indeed on such a chill and overcast day.

  The coach rolled to a stop and Lucy sat up straighter, shooting a look out the window. Garrick reined in his horse. The man so handsome. So, so … heroic-looking. She sighed. He’d insisted on staying with them, the better to protect them, he’d said. Would that it had been his own insatiable desire for her that had made him offer such a thing. A wistful feeling descended over her, the same wistful feeling she got whenever she thought of him near her. Her hand rose to her cheek. She closed her eyes; if she imagined hard enough she could still feel the soft touch of his finger, the warm kiss of his breath. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, a smile which faded when she opened her eyes and caught her aunt staring at her.

  Lucy jerked her hand away and tried to hide her consternation.

  A footman came forward to hold Garrick’s horse, but Garrick swung a booted leg over the horse’s neck and jumped down before the servant arrived.Goodness, Lucy thought, he even dismounts like a swashbuckling hero.

  Her reverie was broken when one of her aunt’s servants opened the carriage door, blocking her line of vision. Tom practically bounded from the coach, the coachman jumping back just in time to avoid being landed upon.

  “Thomas,” Lady Cornelia barked.

  Tom skidded to a halt, then turned back, a pained expression on his face as he jigged from foot to foot.“Gots ta empty me pisser, me loidy.” He crossed his legs to demonstrate his point.

  Lucy put a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. She glanced past Tom to Garrick, who had just walked up behind him. Garrick emitted a noise sounding suspiciously like a snort.

  “Well, goodness, boy. Be on your way,” announced Cornelia, waving her hand imperiously.

  Tom looked relieved, then turned and charged toward the door. Fortunately, Lambert opened it just as he reached for the handle, the butler doing a remarkable job of looking unfazed when the boy streaked by.

  Lucy looked back to Garrick, struggling to contain her amusement.

  He smiled, just a tiny bit of a thing that faded as quickly as the sun behind a cloud.

  Lucy felt as if the coach had overturned.

  Her heart fluttered. He looked away. Lucy wanted to cry, to scream out, Don’t! Don’t turn away from me! But she didn’t. She blinked, trying to understand the tumultuous emotions that made her belly flop like a landlocked fish, that made her wish for the hundredth time that she’d been born someone other than Lucy Hartford, the disgrace of Sanderton County. She glanced at her aunt, and gulped at the expression on her face.

  Her aunt glared, “I will speak to you about this later.”

  Lucy looked away. The coachman politely held the door. She seized the opportunity to escape.

  The smell of climbing roses assaulted her nostrils as she neared the doorway. The flowers splashed their color against the brick facade of the house. There were hundreds of blooms making one last stand against the approaching fall. The smell mixed with the odor of beeswax and lemons filling the hall. What remained of the evening light shone off the hardwood floors and wood panels of the foyer. Lucy glanced left, comforted by what she saw. Her mother’s picture still hung on the hall, a younger version of Aunt Cornelia. Her father’s still hung in the morning room to her right. She glanced up the stairs directly in front of her, knowing that her room would be exactly the same as she’d left it: lemon-colored drapes, fluffy lace coverlet.

  “Good evening, Lambert,” her aunt said as she sailed through the front door.

  “Good evening, my lady,” the butler replied, a bland expression on his face. But when he turned to Lucy, he smiled.

  “Good evening, Lambert,” Lucy said, smiling back. There was an answering gleam in the butler’s eyes, for the man was more like a family member than a servant.

  Lucy turned to Garrick, trying to control her breathing as she stared at him.“Lambert, this is a friend of Lady Warburton, the Marquis of Cardiff.” She ignored the frown her aunt shot in her direction for introducing a guest to a servant.

  “My lord,” the butler replied, and it was obvious he tried not to gawk. His eyes nearly boggled when he caught sight of Garrick’s earring.

  Completely oblivious to the assessing look, Garrick merely stared right back. Lucy looked between the two. All Garrick needed was a rapier and a red scarf and he’d be the spitting image of a storybook pirate. She stopped a chuckle midthroat. Garrick chose that moment to glance at her. Unable to stop herself, she smiled at him again. She didn’t expect one in return, so she was stunned when the right side of his mouth tipped up.

  She felt giddy. She felt like dancing. She felt like crying in delight.

  “My lord,” her aunt said, breaking the spell.“I dare say your staying with us will not be considered quite so improper if you share a room with Thomas.” She turned to the butler.“Lambert, please show his lordship to the boy’s room.”

  The butler nodded, and Garrick bowed toward the ladies before turning to follow the servant.

  “We dine promptly at eight, my lord,” Cornelia called, her eyes narrowing as she added, “Please do not.be late.”

  Garrick looked over his shoulder and nodded, but Lucy noted he didn’t look at her again, not even once.

  • • •

  “I will not have you developing a tendré for the man,” Lady Cornelia said as she paced back and forth in front of Lucy, the powder blue skirts of her evening gown rustling like the sails of a battleship.

  “But, Aunt, I’ve only known him for a day. How could I be developing a tendré for him?”

  Cornelia stopped to stare down at her. Lucy clasped the arms of the pink-and-white chair she sat in and tried to appear unfazed, but her aunt must have known better.

  “Don’t try to bamboozle me, young lady. I saw the way you looked at him. What’s more, I saw the way he looked back at you.”

  “You’re mistaken, Auntie.”

  “No, I am not.”

  Lucy wiggled in her chair. If only her aunt were correct, but she knew she wasn’t. The man didn’t even want to ride in the same carriage with her.

  “Lucy, I know how impressionable you are. It would be just like you to fall instantly in love with a man just because he came to your rescue.”

  Lucy’s head snapped up.“Aunt Cornelia, I am not that bad.”

  “Oh yes you are, my dear.”

  “I am not. Why, why … look at what happened with Lord Washburn. I didn’t become enamored of him.”

  “Really, Lucy, Lord Washburn is over twice your age and married
to boot. And a good thing, too, for I’d hate to think what a young man would have done if he’d found you hanging from that tree limb. When I think back to what youlooked like, your petticoats exposed, one slipper on the ground and the other dangling from your toes, I just cringe.”

  Lucy felt her cheeks flame with color. She really hadn’t had much luck with trees lately. To this day she still couldn’t believe her sash had supported her weight for so long, not to mention that tree limb. It had been a pity Lord Washburn had been the one to discover her, but at the time she’d been so relieved that help had arrived, she hadn’t cared that he’d spent at least ten minutes doubled over in laughter before he’d gone to fetch her aunt.

  “I assure you, Aunt Cornelia, I have not developed a fondness for his lordship.”

  Her aunt stared at her for an interminable minute, just stared at her. It was as if she looked at her through a spyglass, trying to see into the crevices Lucy tried to keep hidden. She’d never been any good at hiding her feelings, and it appeared she hadn’t gotten any better, for her aunt said, “Yes you are, my girl. I can tell.”

  Lucy didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

  Her aunt cupped her chin with an age-spotted hand. Lucy wished it were Garrick’s hand.

  “Lucy, my dear, sweet girl. You must face facts. A man such as Lord Cardiff is far beyond your reach. Don’t delude yourself into thinking you can catch him.”

  The crushing words made Lucy want to look away. But she didn’t. She ignored the sting in her eyes and looked her aunt square in the face.

  “I know I’m being cruel, but I couldn’t stand to see you hurt. Lord Cardiff will marry someday, I’m sure. And while you’re certainly his social equal in birth, you are not…” Her aunt struggled to find the words.

  “His type,” Lucy finished for her.

  “Exactly, my dear.”

  Lucy nodded, refusing to let her aunt see how deeply the words wounded.

  “Harry is a dear, fine man,” she said softly.“Dependable. Hard-working. Loyal.”

  “Perfect traits in a husband,” Lucy mumbled.“Or a hunting dog.”

  Cornelia frowned.