by Anna Bradley
Lucy turned to her new friend and tried a cautious smile. “Only think of the odds against us meeting twice, and under such unusual circumstances. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”
“That’s not how I’d describe it.” He raised one dark eyebrow at her, sat back against the squabs, and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t say another word, but fixed Lucy with a stare that had her squirming against her seat.
She frowned. He wasn’t much like the dashing Scottish heroes she’d read about in Sir Walter Scott’s novels. That is, she didn’t deny he’d acted bravely, but he wasn’t a bit gallant or charming. It was a pity, because he had the look of a hero. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, strong jaw and chin, and, of course, those blue eyes.
Surely, no man with such pretty eyes could be so utterly unappealing. She gave him a hopeful smile and tried again. “Fate has made herself clear on this matter, sir. She demands we become friends.”
For a moment she would have sworn a corner of his lip twitched, but the flash of humor was there and then gone. He didn’t respond, but continued to stare at her. The dim light in the carriage chased the blue from his eyes, leaving them a deep, shadowy gray.
As lovely as his eyes were, Lucy didn’t care to have them fixed on her with such damning intensity. “We may not like it much, but I don’t see we have any choice in the matter.”
Not a word fell from those stubborn lips. The silence in the carriage dragged on until Lucy couldn’t bear it any longer. “You look rather like a rakish sort, but that doesn’t concern me. I’m certain rakes make the most amusing friends.”
He let out an irritable sigh, jerked his hat from his head and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “Is that why you came here today, lass? For amusement? You nearly got a good deal more than you bargained for. Whoever is responsible for you should never have let you out of their sight.”
Lucy lifted her chin and met his stony gaze with a defiant look. “I’m responsible for myself.”
Legally speaking, that wasn’t quite true. She wouldn’t reach her majority for several weeks yet. Until then her Uncle Jarvis was responsible for her. Her, and her fortune. He was her guardian, he administered her trust, and he’d continue with both until she turned twenty-one.
Bitterness coated her throat, just as it always did when she thought of the terms of her father’s will. His affection for her was equal parts fear and love—too much of both, perhaps. It smothered her even now, nearly a year after his death.
The Scot ran a hand through dark hair matted with sweat. “If you’re so responsible, how did you end up in the midst of a brawl?”
Lucy bit back her retort and settled for an angry twitch of her skirts instead. It was provoking indeed to be accused of carelessness when she’d be safely tucked away in her villa even now if it weren’t for his tedious heroics. “I had a perfectly good plan in place to protect myself from harm, but you were so determined to rescue me you dragged me right into the middle of the chaos before I had a chance to execute it.”
His dark eyebrows shot up, and he let out an incredulous laugh. Now he’d found his tongue, he had plenty to say. “Ah, so it’s my fault you were nearly trampled to death, is it? Plan or no, I can’t think of a single good reason why you’d be—” He broke off as his gaze fell on the sketchbook and pencil still clutched in her hand. “Were you drawing?”
Lucy looked down. She was so used to carrying her notebook about she’d forgotten she was still holding it.
She’d only had time to make a series of quick, bold strokes on a blank page of the small sketch book, but a few more rough lines—a gaping mouth here and a clenched fist there—and it was done.
She was no artist, but long ago she’d gotten into the habit of scratching out rough sketches on little bits of paper. It amused her father, who’d been a great admirer of James Gillray’s satirical prints. Her sketches were unremarkable. She lacked skill, and she’d never had much in the way of inspiring subject matter.
But this sketch was different.
Two sweating, bloody combatants at the center of the ring and the jeering crowd surrounding them…yes, she could already see how it would take shape on the page.
“You were drawing a sketch of the bout,” he repeated, his voice flat.
She turned the page toward him with a tentative smile. “Well, yes. You see, I’ve never been to a bout before, or to a brawl, or anywhere, really, and there’s no telling if I ever will be again, so I thought I’d better seize my chance while I had it.”
It seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation to her, but he didn’t seem to agree. His mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he shook his head. “You must be mad.”
Lucy stiffened, and resentment rose like a dark cloud in her breast.
Mad. Dear God, how she detested that word.
She turned her head away as her face heated with a painful mix of shame and embarrassment. Half of England likely did think her mad, or they would soon enough.
As soon as they knew her name.
Her father’s name.
No one ever said the word “mad” in her presence. Not her father, not the servants, and not the few friends they’d had left at the end. Indeed, they’d all done their utmost never to say it.
Mad. Daft. Insane. Dicked in the nob. Bedlamite. Lunatic.
To hear this handsome, blue-eyed Scot say that word so boldly, right to her face…
Lucy knew he didn’t mean anything by it. He couldn’t know that of all the things he might have said, it was exactly the wrong one. She didn’t blame him, really, but at the same time any urge she’d had to befriend him faded into nothingness.
She drew in a deep breath and turned from the window to face him. “I’m quite sane, I assure you. Stop here, please. I’d rather walk.”
The villa was still a little way down the road, and her companion hesitated. He looked as if he was about to refuse her, but her expression must have made him change his mind. He reached up and pounded his fist on the roof of the carriage.
It jerked to a halt. Lucy opened the door, prepared to scramble out, but she hesitated, then turned reluctantly back to him. She wanted nothing more than to escape this carriage, but once she did, she’d rather not have a reason to reproach herself for her behavior. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. Once again, I’m grateful to you. Good day.”
She pasted a sweet smile on her lips, then leapt out onto the road before he had a chance to say anything at all. She closed the carriage door in his startled face, and set off down the rutted pathway in the direction of the villa.
Mad.
Well, let him think it, if he chose. He wouldn’t be the only one, or even the only one to say it aloud. Anyway, what did it matter what he believed?
There were hundreds of people in Brighton. He’d soon be on his way back to London—or wherever it was handsome, blue-eyed Scots spent their time. With any luck, she’d never lay eyes on the man again.
It wasn’t until much later, when she was tucked safely into her bedchamber at the villa, that she examined the pocket of her cloak and found it empty. Her notebook, with its dozens of sketches, was gone.
Chapter Five
Three days later
“Well, well, Ciaran Ramsey. Here you are, out of your bed before dusk at last, and you look to be in as black a humor as I’ve ever seen you. What ails you, boy?”
Ciaran turned from the glass to face Lady Chase. A sarcastic retort rose to his lips, but he choked it back with one final, vicious tug on his cravat. She wasn’t one to indulge his darker moods, and in any case, it wasn’t her fault he was such a wretched devil. “Musical evenings put me in a temper.”
That much was true, but it wasn’t the reason he was in a black mood.
No, it was that damned redheaded chit.
He patted at his chest, where he’d tucked her notebook into the inside po
cket of his coat. He’d flipped through every page of it. Not very gentlemanly of him, but after the beach and the bout he was too curious about her to resist. Her sketches were rough, but she treated her subjects with a sly humor that brought a grin to his face.
His favorite was the one she’d taken of the bout that day. Aside from a hideously detached eyeball, she’d drawn the two boxers in the ring realistically enough. But she’d exaggerated the bloodthirsty appearance of the crowd surrounding them, so it looked as if the real battle was taking place outside the ring. She’d scrawled a line at the bottom of the page. “The Famous Battle between Dozens of Unknown Scoundrels, Fought at Brighton in Sussex, May 1818.” The title was a take on Gillray’s celebrated print of the “famous battle” between Humphreys and Mendoza in Hampshire. Ciaran couldn’t deny the clever reference amused him.
He’d been carrying the blasted notebook around for three days, hoping to return it to her. He’d searched for her in all the obvious places—the Pump Room, the Assembly Rooms, the promenade—but he hadn’t laid eyes on her since the bout.
It wasn’t surprising, really. What would such an unruly chit want with the Pump Room or the promenade? Damn shame there wasn’t a duel or a public hanging to hand. No doubt he’d find her there.
Once or twice he’d been tempted to return to the beach, but he’d resisted. It wouldn’t do her any good to be seen in his company. She was doing an efficient job of ruining her reputation on her own, without any help from him.
Not that he imagined she wanted his help, or anything else from him. He’d been a horse’s arse to her at the bout. Now, three days later, he was more miserable about it than he would have thought possible. He didn’t give much of a damn about anything these days. He couldn’t think of any reason why she should be the one to pierce the haze of listlessness that surrounded him, but whatever it was, he couldn’t shake her loose. It was bloody frustrating. He didn’t want her there, but she was like a flea burrowing into his skin. No matter how much he clawed, he couldn’t get her out.
Maybe it was only that she’d surprised him. God knew a bare-knuckle bout was the last place in the world she should have been. Or maybe it was that kick she’d dealt the scoundrel who’d grabbed her. One didn’t often come across a young lady with such impressive reflexes. Then there’d been the precision of the thing. She’d left a heel print on the villain’s chin. Ciaran couldn’t help but admire such a well-executed blow.
Maybe it was her red hair. He’d had a weakness for red hair ever since he was a lad. He’d never seen her shade of red before, and he’d grown up in Scotland, where gingers were as common as sheep. Or maybe it was because ladies with such fiery red hair generally had blue eyes, or green.
She had neither. Hers were a deep, velvety brown. Wide, long-lashed, and glinting with mischief.
“If you please, Mr. Ramsey!” Lady Chase rapped her cane on the floor to get his attention. “Lady Atherton and I intend to leave Brighton at the end of this week. You could return to Buckinghamshire with us, but you’re sure to be as bored there as you are here. Why not go to London? A change of scenery would do you good.”
Ciaran frowned. First Vale, and now Lady Chase. Why did everyone keep trying to send him to London? “Why would I want to go there?”
Lady Chase gave him a shrewd look. “The season’s begun. I daresay some of your acquaintances are already in town. That awful Lord Vale is going, isn’t he? I don’t approve of Lord Vale, as you know—he’s a perfect scoundrel—but between the two of you, you should be able to stir up enough trouble in London to keep yourselves amused.”
Good Lord. Was Lady Chase sending him off on a debauch? “I must be dismal company indeed, ma’am, if you’re fobbing me off on Vale.”
“Hush, you wicked child. I’m doing no such thing. Still, London is bound to be more entertaining for a young, foolish rake like yourself than either Brighton or Buckinghamshire.”
Ciaran shook his head. London, Brighton, Buckinghamshire—it was all the same to him. What his family didn’t seem to understand was his lethargy hadn’t a damn thing to do with his location.
It had to do with him.
“You’d stay at Huntington House, of course,” Lady Chase added, when Ciaran remained silent. “You’d be doing your brother a favor if you went. The house is undergoing some repairs. He wants someone there to keep an eye on things, but he and Iris don’t intend to go this season.”
Ciaran’s sister-in-law Iris, wife to his eldest brother Finn, the Marquess of Huntington had recently given birth to a baby girl. Georgiana Elizabeth Knight, otherwise known as Georgie. She was a plump, pink and white little lass, with a gummy smile destined to render every man she encountered her willing slave, starting with her Uncle Ciaran. The happy little family planned to stay tucked snugly up at the country estate for the time being.
Ciaran scraped together a half-hearted smile. “I’ll think about it.”
But he knew damn well going to London wouldn’t solve anything. Short of a return to Scotland nothing would, yet there was no point in going there, either.
That was the trouble. There was no point in being anywhere.
Lady Chase frowned. She was an astute old thing, and she knew an empty promise when she heard one. Ciaran braced himself for an argument, but before Lady Chase could get a word out, she was interrupted by a murmur of feminine voices coming down the stairs.
Lady Atherton and her lady’s maid stepped onto the first-floor landing. “Here we are, my lady.” The maid led Lady Atherton down the final flight of stairs and turned her over to Ciaran with a bright smile. “Why, you’ll be the envy of Brighton with such a handsome escort.”
Lady Chase peered up at Ciaran and let out a dry huff. “Handsome, is he? With that sour face? Humph. He looks like he just swallowed a bug.”
Ciaran grinned in spite of himself. He was a jaded, selfish rake and Lady Chase was a bad-tempered harridan, but they kept each other amused. He doted on her, and though she would have died before admitting it, he knew he was secretly her favorite.
He offered her an exaggerated bow. “Not a bug, my lady, only a nip or two of port. You don’t object to an escort who’s in his cups, do you?”
“Eh, whatever keeps the smile on your face, my boy.” Lady Chase wrapped her skeletal fingers around his arm and turned to Lady Atherton. “Shall we go? Come along, Albina.”
Ciaran ushered his two elderly companions out the door and into the carriage. He didn’t expect to get much pleasure out of the evening, but thanks to Lady Chase at least the start of it had proved more amusing than he’d expected.
As it happened, the rest of it turned out to be…if not pleasurable, certainly more interesting than most musical evenings. It started when they reached the New Assembly Rooms. Since the day of the bout, Ciaran had gotten into the habit of searching for a headful of shining red hair wherever he went, and tonight was no different. As soon as they entered, he glanced from one corner of the room to the other, looking for a glint of copper.
He hadn’t expected to actually find her. He’d half-reconciled himself to the possibility she’d left Brighton altogether.
She hadn’t.
He came to a complete stop, gawking at her like an utter fool. It was certainly her—there was no mistaking that hair—but what with being kicked in the face and bleeding all over himself, he hadn’t really gotten a proper look at her before.
Now, he went still and just stared at her.
She was wearing a pale-yellow gown that brought out her vivid hair, and Ciaran realized with a start her delicate face was the most perfect example of refined, ladylike English beauty he’d ever seen.
Except for her mouth. That stubborn tilt, the full lower lip—it was too sensual to be considered respectable. A trickle of sweat inched down Ciaran’s neck. Jesus, that mouth was almost indecent. How the devil had that escaped his attention before?
; He had an absurd urge to rush over to her before she could vanish again, but they hadn’t been introduced, and then there was that tiny problem of his unforgiveable behavior at the bout the other day.
No, he’d have to bide his time for now, and hope for a chance later in the evening. “This way, ma’am.” He led Lady Chase and Lady Atherton to chairs just to the right and a few rows back, where he could keep an eye on his redhead.
Then he simply sat back and watched her. She held her bright head high, her face directed toward the front of the room where an ensemble of glee singers gathered around a lady seated at a pianoforte. When he’d first come upon her on the beach, there’d been a spark in her dark brown eyes, and he imagined it there now as she absorbed everything around her, alive to every note, every vibration of the music.
Just…alive.
Maybe that was why he’d resisted the idea of a friendship between them. Half-dead things tended to resent live ones. Live things were, after all, a great deal of work. She’d already irritated him into giving a damn again. What was next? Laughter, hopefulness, a returning interest in life? Because it sounded exhausting—
“Pretty thing, isn’t she?” Lady Chase nudged him in the ribs.
“Who?” Ciaran asked, dragging his gaze to her.
“Who?” Lady Chase snorted. “Do you suppose I’m blind? The young lady you can’t take your eyes off, of course.”
Ciaran swallowed. No use denying it. “Do you know who she is?”
Lady Chase raised her quizzing glass to her eyes. “Hmmm. That red hair…unusual, isn’t it? She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place her face. I’m certain I’ve never laid eyes on her companions before.”
Ciaran had been so preoccupied with his redheaded lady he hadn’t noticed her companions, but now Lady Chase mentioned it he saw she was sitting next to a pretty, dark-haired girl about her own age. He’d never seen the girl before, and he also didn’t recognize the pinch-faced matron on her other side.
