My Fallen Angel

by Pamela Britton

  “But I understand, Aunt. And I thank you for the warning.”

  Her aunt let go of her chin, then stepped back and stared down at her.

  Don’t let her see, Lucy thought.Don’t let her see that it is already too late, for it was. As impossible as it sounded, she had already developed a tendré for Garrick Asquith-Wolf.

  “I’m glad you understand, my dear. Very glad indeed.”

  Lucy looked away.

  “Shall I see you at dinner?”

  Lucy nodded, still not looking her aunt in the eyes. Aunt Cornelia stood in front of her, almost as if she sensed her deceit. Then she turned. Seconds later, the door clicked shut.

  Lucy didn’t move. Her heart knocked in her chest like the fist of an angry prisoner. Slowly, she got up from her chair, walking almost blindly toward the window.

  How had it happened? she wondered.When had it happened? Was it the first time he’d touched her? When he’d kissed her?

  She sighed, supposing it didn’t matter. There was no use denying it. What she felt for Garrick was like chocolate compared to vanilla, like an orange compared to a lemon—so very different. She closed her eyes, rubbing her hands up her arms. An image of Garrick’s face rose in her mind. So handsome. So … troubled.

  Was that what drew her to him? Maybe the tendré was nothing more than compassion for a troubled soul.

  She turned away from the window. She’d had more than her fair share of troubles in her short life, and she could empathize. It must be that which cried out to her. She sensed a kindred spirit in Garrick, his heart calling to hers like the keen of a lonely gull.

  She would help to solve his troubles, she decided, and in the process perhaps win his heart.

  7

  Several hours after the confrontation with her aunt, Lucy realized how difficult a task she’d set herself.

  The cold Garrick was back.

  He didn’t even glance her way as he entered the dining room, pulled a chair out, then took a seat; while she—an admiring breath leaked past her lips—couldn’t pull her gaze away. Gracious heavens. If she’d thought him handsome in pirate garb, he was twice that dressed all in formal black. The color made him appear more bronzed, his eyes more blue, his hair more golden. No wonder Mary Crew had fallen all over herself when relaying the tale of how she’d spied him on the street last year. At the time Lucy had dismissed the girl’s ramblings as slightly delusional, even going so far as to call her a twit. Indeed, Mary had only caught a brief glimpse of him, but if anything, Mary had severely understated Garrick’s charms.

  “Ahem.”

  Lucy started, then reluctantly tore her gaze away. Aunt Cornelia stared at her as if she’d been caught with her petticoats down. Lucy looked away.

  The seating arrangement for dinner had been chosen by her aunt, thereby putting Garrick on the opposite end of the table, Tom to her right, her aunt to her left. Cornelia’d thrown a tall epergne bearing roses and white tulips between them for good measure. It wouldn’t be so bad except that even with all the table’s leaves removed, the table still resembled a cricket field. She looked down its long length and tried not to squint. A spyglass would be helpful.

  It was a sentiment which was to repeat itself as she strained to listen to any fragment of conversation which happened to drift on lazy air currents her way. She leaned forward, tilting her head to catch Garrick’s response to her aunt’s latest question.

  “What … like to know … lady?” was his faint reply.

  “Well, for one thing I’d like to know how you propose to find out if Mr. Barrow is actually the countess’s solicitor. The sooner we return home, the safer I will feel.”

  Lucy heard her aunt’s response clearly enough, which was why she thought she might have misheard Garrick when he replied, “… going to ask him.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Cornelia asked, setting her fork down with a clink.

  “I’m…surprise the man into telling …”

  “Capital idea,” Tom pronounced, nodding in approval.

  Lucy clenched her fork in frustration. She turned to Tom.“What did he say?”

  “He’s gonna visit the solicitasator tomorrow and pretend to be a runner.”

  Lucy relaxed a bit.“It’s solicitor, Tom.” She looked down the length of the table, the beginnings of a plan occurring.“That is a wonderful idea, my lord,” she bellowed.

  “Lucinda, please,” her aunt snapped, “don’t scream.” She turned back to Garrick.“Well, I wish you luck. When will you visit the man?”

  “Morning,” came the faint reply.

  Lucy turned to Tom.“When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Lucy nodded, excitement buzzing through her veins. She could do this. All she needed was an excuse.

  “Lucinda,” her aunt snapped, and the look on her face would have done a magistrate proud.“You are not to go with his lordship, nor are you going to pester, connive, or bribe him to take you with him. Do I make myself clear?”

  Lucy returned her stare, forcing a serious expression on her face.“I promise not to go with his lordship.”

  And she didn’t.

  She left before Garrick.

  Which, as she would explain later, was not actually going with him.

  She wiggled in her seat, firmly shoving aside the niggling sense of guilt flickering through her mind. Yes, indeed, desperate times called for desperate measures. She just knew she could help Garrick, and if she coulddo that, maybe, just maybe, it would help soften him up a bit.

  “Do ya thinks he’ll be surprised ta see ya?”

  Lucy glanced at the boy, her “excuse” for leaving the house, Tom having been more than willing to come along. She bit her lip to stop a laugh from escaping.“Oh, I think he’ll be very surprised.”

  The two shared a private smile. Lucy leaned forward and peered outside of the carriage. The clouds that had hung overhead had burned off, presenting a glorious day. Warm beams of light flickered in and out of the carriage like the flashes of a smuggler’s lantern as they passed between the brick buildings. They would arrive soon, she thought, settling back in her seat and trying to quell her sudden nervousness.

  Moments later they turned onto Catherine Street. A haze of dust rose up as their hired hack rumbled to a halt. Lucy pulled the hood of her black velvet cloak over her head in an attempt to keep the flecks of dirt out of her hair. When the coachman opened the door, she stepped down, then waited for Tom, checking the frogs on her cloak and insuring herself they were firmly fastened.

  She walked with her head down, avoiding the eyes of passersby; the sound of the busy London street was a steady drone. She and Tom stopped in front of the next building down, a bakery, judging by the heavenly smell; even so, they both kept well into the shadows.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Less than two minutes had gone by when a coach drawn by a familiar pair of matched bays rounded the corner. She watched as heraunt’s coachman pulled back on the reins, drawing the carriage to a flamboyant halt practically right in front of them. The hooves of the horses kicked dirt onto the walkway. One of the passersby had to take a step back when a lackey jumped off the coach directly in his path, opened the door, and all but bowed as Garrick stepped down.

  But Garrick was oblivious to it all as he nodded to the servant and stepped down, mentally rehearsing what he had to say.

  He straightened the cuff of his sleeve that hung just past his dark gray jacket, so engrossed in his thought he was positive he imagined the sweet voice that sounded in his ears, a voice that reminded him of soft flesh and moonlight.

  “My lord?” the voice repeated.

  He stiffened. God’s balls. It couldn’t be.

  “Oh, Garrick.”

  It was.

  He turned. She stood near the windows of the solicitor’s office, red hair peeking in wispy tendrils from beneath a black cloak A smile bright enough to be seen by passing ships was pasted upon her pixielike face. Worse, she had a partner in crime. Tom stood gleefully
by.

  Garrick cursed silently. He clenched his fists. He tightened his jaw. He did everything he could to keep himself from encircling the elegant, ivory column of her neck with his hands. Bloody hell. She was the mostshameless hoyden he’d ever met. Still, he had to squelch a little stab of admiration for her tenacity.

  “Get into the carriage, Lucy.”

  She looked a bit startled by his words.“I… What?”

  “I said get into the carriage.”

  “But we want to help.”

  “The only way you will ‘help’ is if you get into the coach.”

  She looked momentarily hurt, but didn’t move.

  He lost all patience with her then.“Lucy if you do not get into that coach within the next ten seconds I shall tell your aunt you broke your promise to her.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  “Are you going to tell me you and Tom just happened to be on this street?”

  “No. We left before you. So, as you can see, I did not come with you, nor did I follow you. I just…preceded you.”

  He stiffened. Clever. He’d give her that. But that didn’t stop him from turning toward the coach. When he halted at the carriage door and looked back to her, she smiled. He swept his hands toward the inside. The smile faded a bit, but she stayed put nonetheless.

  “Get into the carriage,” he repeated. His gaze shot past her to Tom who stood behind her.“You, too.”

  “Right away, mate,” the boy retorted.

  Garrick watched in satisfaction as Tom jumped into the open doorway. He looked at Lucy.

  She stared right back.“Garrick,” she said, determination coloring her emerald eyes, “please let me stay. I have an idea, you see.”

  “Which is exactly what terrifies me.” Her shoulders stiffened.“Well, I never. There’s no need to be rude—”

  “Get into the coach or I will put you in it myself.” Anger began to punctuate her stance. Her eyes began to flash like the queen’s jewels. Her jaw looked as stubborn as a mule’s. Good. Maybe if she was angry she’d stay away from him.

  “If you force me, I will scream my head off” “Fine.” He strode forward, braced himself for the jolt that always accompanied contact with her skin, then clapped a hand over her mouth and half lifted, half shoved her into the coach. If touching her was Purgatory, convincing himself to let her go was hell.

  Her scream of frustration died a swift death when he slammed the carriage door in her face.

  Silly chit, he thought, turning toward the solicitor’s door. If he weren’t so irritated with her he would have applauded her cunning. He paused before the solicitor’s front door. His whole body tingled from his contact with her, his manhood suddenly as hard a fishing rod. His frown deepened. Hell, he’d lost his own wits.

  The door jingled when he entered; after the brightness of the street, momentary blindness dimmed his sight. Garrick stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust and inhaling the smell of day-old bread and the musty odor of long-fallow books. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. Three windows lined the front of the shop, the blinds drawn to allow for wide bars of light to stripe the floor. A man sat behind a desk, his balding head beaded with sweat, his corpulent girth crammed into a too-small chair. He looked Garrick’s fit body up and down, his eyes narrowing.

  “What do you want?” he grumbled.

  Garrick pinned him with his most commanding stare, a look that had sent grown men scurrying to do his bidding, a look that was guaranteed to intimidate.“I’m here to see Mr. Barrows.”

  The man’s watery blue eyes narrowed.“Oh? Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then go away.”

  Garrick’s stiffened. Leave? Who was this little pea-ant to tell him to leave? Obviously, Mr. Barrows.“Sir,” he snapped, “what I have to ask will only take a moment.”

  “I don’t have a moment.”

  “Make one,” he growled.

  “Not if you were the King of England.”

  Garrick was just about to reach his hands across the desk and place them around the little rodent’s neck when the door jangled.

  He turned.

  Lucy stood there, a Lucy who had removed her cloak to reveal a dress so tight he was sure she wore nothing beneath it. The fabric was red—red as sin, red as her painted lips, red as her cheeks as she stared right back at him. She straightened, pulling that pride of hers around her as if it were her missing cloak. Her breasts thrust out, big breasts, Garrick noted, lovely breasts. Their creamy skin bulged over the low neckline. He wanted to touch them, to see if they felt as soft as they looked.

  And like a hound, he caught a whiff of her. His manhood tingled. Roses.

  Bloody hell.

  “May I help you?” Mr. Barrows asked.

  Garrick glanced at the little rat, his fury increasing when he noticed the leer on the man’s face.

  “Why, yes, you can,” Lucy said in a small voice that picked up strength at the growing look of admiration in Mr. Barrows’s eyes.“I’m looking for Mr. William Barrows.”

  Mr. Barrows smiled.“I am he.”

  Two things irritated Garrick. One, Mr. Barrows had apparently forgotten his presence. Two, Lucy had apparently forgotten his presence, too. Not only that, but when she finally did recall it, it was to shoot him a look of satisfaction mixed with…hope?

  “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed.

  Mr. Barrows nodded proudly, his eyes never straying from her cleavage as he slowly rose from his seat.“Can I help you?” he asked, coming around the front of his desk, his belly preceding his arrival.

  “You certainly may,” Lucy crooned.

  Garrick wanted to shake her senseless, except he was afraid of dislodging the pea she had for a brain, or her nearly exposed breasts. When he eyed the low décolletage of her dress, his fury increased. She moved and the sweet swell of her breasts jiggled tantalizingly; the scent of roses filled the air to tease his senses. Unfortunately, he remembered all too well the feel of her flesh. He glanced at the solicitor again. The little weasel smacked his lips.

  It was too much.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Garrick roared. How dare that little worm stare at Lucy in such a way? How dare she let him? He reached into his jacket, crossed the room to her side, and without even thinking about his actions, stuffed his handkerchief down the front of her dress.

  Lucy gasped.

  Mr. Barrows choked.

  “How dare you, sir!” she spat, pulling the cloth out, her face reddening—if that were possible—even more.

  Garrick tried to grab the fabric back so he could shove it home once again. She wouldn’t let him have it. He pulled harder. She hung on to it as if it were the tiller of a ship.

  Mr. Barrows looked between the two.“Do you two know each other?”

  “No,” they both exclaimed in unison, their battle having evolved into a full-fledged tug-of-war until, suddenly, Garrick let go. Lucy’s eyes narrowed as he began to unbutton his jacket. She rested her hands on her hips and gave him a “try and put it on me” glare.

  He answered her with a look meant to tell her he damn well would. He swung out of his jacket, having to clench his jaw to keep from bellowing at her. Little fool. Little idiot. Didn’t she realize what a dress such as that did to him?

  He took a step, determined to cover her up and put himself out of his misery. But just as he lifted the jacket, something popped. He paused. Lucy stiffened. They both looked down at the same time.

  “Good God!” Garrick roared.

  “Oh dear,” Lucy moaned.

  The dress had ripped, just peeled down the middle like an overripe banana. Lucy tried to clutch it closed. A flash of pink flesh caught his attention.

  His eyes widened. Bloody hell. She was naked beneath.

  Garrick glanced at Mr. Barrows. The sight of the corpulent man gawking at Lucy’s naked flesh was the absolute last straw. He hauled back and punched the oversized rodent right between his ratlike eyes.
<
br />   The man wilted toward the floor like a piece of dank rigging.

  “You’ve killed him,” Lucy screamed.

  “Good!” he roared back.

  She looked back up at him and swallowed.

  Garrick stared back, fuming. He had the damnedest time refraining from touching her, whether in anger or some twisted form of self-torture, he didn’t know. The sight of her standing there, her tousled hair framing her face in a wispy halo, her arms crossed in front of her like some sacrificial virgin, was nearly too much for his already over-taxed libido to handle. He turned away from her, ostensibly to check on the solicitor, but in actuality to stop himself from doing something foolish, such as pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Damn fool.

  “Cover yourself,” he snapped, tossing her his jacket. He bent to ensure that the leech was alive. He was, more’s the pity. When he stood back up he refused to turn around until he was positive she’d covered herself.

  It was a few minutes later before he heard Lucy mutter, “You can turn around now,” in a small voice.

  Tom obviously sensed the tension between them, for he remained unusually quiet, right until the moment the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Cornelia’s town home. And then, with his usual aplomb, he asked, “Ya gonna thrash her?”

  “Thomas Tee,” Lucy huffed.

  Garrick ignored the child, stuffing the documents he had purloined from the solicitor’s office into his coat pocket. When his eyes strayed to hers, they burned with anger.

  Oh dear.

  The moment they entered the house, Lucy tried to escape to her room, but a restraining hand on her arm stopped her. She looked up at Garrick and gulped.

  “May I take your, er, coat?”

  Lucy pulled her gaze away to glance at Lambert. She blanched at the wry look on the butler’s face as he spied the latest addition to her wardrobe.

  “Ah, no, Lambert, thank you. It’s a bit chilly in here.” She wiped the perspiration from her upper lip.

  Lambert’s brows rose, but he turned to Garrick nonetheless.“Would you like me to ring for some tea, sir?”

  Lucy thought she heard him mutter something about a neck before he said, “No,” in a tone of voice that made the butler’s eyes widen.