by Anna Bradley
“What’s this?” Lucy sipped from her glass, frowning at the letter.
“It’s from my sister. Read it.”
Lucy turned the letter over in her hands, then shook her head and held it out to him. “No, Ciaran. It’s not addressed to me, and you haven’t even opened it.”
“I already know what it says.”
She hesitated, but when he didn’t reach to take the letter back she shook her head and broke the wax seal. She read a few lines, then glanced up at him. “She begs your pardon for not writing back at once. She and her husband were in Kent, and have just returned.”
“I thought so. Go on.”
She looked down, and Ciaran watched as her gaze moved farther and farther down the page. It was a short letter—one side only in Isla’s neat script—but its effect on Lucy was profound.
Her breath grew short, and she pressed one hand hard against her lips. When she reached the last line the letter fluttered from her slack fingers and drifted to the floor.
Her gaze met Ciaran’s. “It’s—it’s about the first Countess of Godfrey.”
“Alice Trentham.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “You know about her?”
“I found out tonight. Lord Henley’s country estate is in the same neighborhood as Godfrey’s. Henley repeated the story to Vale, and Vale told me. That’s why we came for you tonight, Lucy. I was worried.”
Worried. No, he hadn’t been worried. He’d been bloody terrified, panicked he’d be too late. That he’d arrive in Portman Square and find Jarvis and Godfrey had gotten there first, and taken Lucy away.
“She, ah…the Countess of Godfrey. She died very young.” Lucy’s hands were trembling.
“She did. Far too young. I won’t let that happen to you, Lucy.” Ciaran leaned forward and steadied her hands in his. “We’ll go to Buckinghamshire and marry at my brother’s estate the day after your birthday.”
Lucy drew her hands away and rose unsteadily from the chair. Ciaran’s gaze followed her as she wandered the room, and somehow, even before she said a word, he knew.
She’s going to refuse me again.
When she turned to face him, her expression was bleak. “I’ll go with you to Buckinghamshire, but I can’t marry you, Ciaran.”
“If you come to Buckinghamshire with me and we don’t marry, your reputation will be ruined.” Ciaran spoke through gritted teeth. He was holding onto his control by the thinnest thread.
Lucy shook her head. “I’m the Earl of Bellamy’s daughter, Ciaran. My reputation was ruined long ago.”
“Stop it, Lucy.” Ciaran shot to his feet, his hands clenching into fists. “Stop saying that. You’re not mad. You’re smart, and sweet and funny, and beautiful—”
“Don’t.” She held up a trembling hand. “Don’t make this harder for me. Please, Ciaran.”
But Ciaran didn’t stop. He couldn’t. “I care about you, Lucy. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Lucy smiled faintly, but her dark eyes were sad. “People don’t marry their best friends, Ciaran.”
Her voice was soft, but it cut through him, puncturing his chest, slashing across his heart. He couldn’t explain why it hurt so much, but her words silenced him at once. For long, aching moments they simply stood there, staring at each other across a deep, empty chasm—far deeper and emptier than anything Ciaran would have believed could open between them.
Lucy was the first to break the silence. “I—I’m tired.”
He nodded, reaching to take her arm, but his hand dropped to his side before he touched her. He led her back toward the entryway, the dull thud of his shoes echoing in his head as they approached the door.
Travers was waiting for them there. “The coach is in the drive, sir.”
“Thank you, Travers.”
“I wish you a safe journey, sir.” Travers bowed, and then Ciaran and Lucy were alone in the shadowed hallway.
Ciaran reached for the door, but before he could open it, Lucy stopped him with a hesitant touch on his arm. “Wait, Ciaran.”
He turned to face her, but said nothing.
“Are you…” Her voice was shaking, and tears once again filled her eyes. “Are you angry with me?”
He was angry, but it wasn’t the anger that was tearing him apart. The anger was only floating on the surface of something much deeper, and much more painful.
It felt like…heartbreak.
He drew a deep breath and shook his head. “No. I’m not angry.” He opened the door, flinching as the cold night air sank sharp claws into his skin. “Come, Lucy. We can’t stay here any longer.”
* * * *
Ciaran took her to Cheapside, to a small, obscure inn called the Swan and Anchor.
It was a good choice for two people who wished to disappear. No one, least of all her uncle, would think to look for them here.
It was very late by the time they arrived, and Lucy was shivering, either from the cold or the shocking events of the evening. All she wanted was a bed to curl up in, and she was grateful when Ciaran made quick work of securing the rooms.
Or room, as it turned out. As in, one room. It appeared they were sharing.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s awkward,” Ciaran muttered, looking everywhere but at her. “I think we’re safe enough, but I’d just as soon not leave you alone.”
He looked so tortured Lucy found herself rushing across the bedchamber to reassure him. She touched his hand. “It’s fine, Ciaran. We’ll manage.”
Ciaran glanced at her hand on his and cleared his throat. “I’ll sleep there.” He nodded toward a chair in the corner of the room.
Lucy stared at it for a moment, then turned back to Ciaran, taking him in from head to toe. It was a very small chair, and Ciaran was a very large man. “I don’t think you’ll fit.”
Ciaran tensed under her gaze, and eased his hand away from hers. “It’s just for one night, Lucy.”
Lucy suspected it would prove to be an excruciatingly long one for him, but she didn’t get a chance to say so before he turned to the door. “I’ll just let you…” He waved a vague hand in her direction.
It took her a moment before she understood he was gesturing at her ball gown. “Change into my bedclothes?”
“Yes.” Ciaran swallowed. “That.”
Was he blushing? “Ciaran—”
He was gone before she could finish, scurrying out the door like a naughty schoolboy fleeing a caning.
Lucy stood in the middle of the room for a while after he left, staring blankly at the closed door. Why was he so nervous? Given the circumstances, shouldn’t she be the skittish one?
Perhaps she was too exhausted to be skittish. So exhausted she wouldn’t have bothered to change out of her clothes at all if she hadn’t been wearing a ball gown. The puffed lace sleeves were itchy, the bodice too tight, and she didn’t fancy being suffocated under layers of heavy satin once she fell asleep. It took her some time to wrestle her way out of the thing, but at last she was tucked into the bed, the coverlet pulled up to her neck in deference to her maidenly sensibilities.
Or to Ciaran’s gentlemanly ones. He seemed to be far more agitated about her shift than she was.
Lucy closed her eyes, but they instantly popped open again.
Blast it. After all the drama of the evening she’d at last managed to find a bed, and now, of course, she was wide awake.
So, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering where Ciaran had gone.
Wondering, and wondering, and wondering…
The bedchamber was pitch dark before he returned. Lucy lay quietly, listening as he fumbled around the room. She heard a thud, and then another—Ciaran’s boots dropping to the floor. The soft creak of the chair, and then…
Nothing.
Once a gentleman had removed his boots, weren’t his br
eeches next? Was Ciaran sleeping in his breeches, then? What of his shirt? She hadn’t heard even the faintest rustle of cloth that might hint at items of clothing being discarded.
He must be mostly dressed still, then. It couldn’t be pleasant, sleeping in such tight breeches. Not that his breeches were any business of hers, of course. It was simply a matter of being concerned for his comfort.
“Are you quite comfortable, Ciaran?” Lucy winced at how loud her voice sounded in the quiet room.
There was a moment of frozen silence before Ciaran muttered, “Comfortable enough.”
Lucy lay in the dark, biting her lip. “How can you be comfortable? You’re stuffed into a chair two sizes too small for you.”
Ciaran grunted, but didn’t reply.
Lucy plucked at the coverlet. “May I bring you a blanket? I have more than I need here.”
Ciaran groaned. “Go to sleep, Lucy.”
Yes, that would probably be best, wouldn’t it? Lucy obediently squeezed her eyes closed, but now the thought had occurred to her, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Ciaran’s breeches. Why would he choose to sleep in them? Did he imagine she’d leap from the bed and ravish him if he dared remove them?
Lucy’s eyes flew open.
I could leap from the bed and ravish him.
She sucked in a breath, half-scandalized, half-intrigued.
No, no. It was absurd. Where would she start? She hadn’t any idea how to ravish a gentleman, and Ciaran wasn’t acting at all like a man who wanted to be ravished.
Except…
Lucy pressed her fingers against her lips. Except there’d been that kiss, this evening in the carriage. A kiss that had left her breathless, aching. Ciaran had been the one to put an end to it, but he hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her any more than she’d wanted to stop kissing him. Lucy didn’t have any previous experience kissing gentlemen in dark carriages, but he’d seemed very much like a man struggling to subdue his passion.
He’d been just as desperate as she’d been, his panting breaths drifting over her skin. The memory of it made her shiver even as her body heated and warmth pooled between her legs. She pressed her thighs together and tried not to squirm, but all at once the bedchamber was too hot, the sheets too rough against her tingling skin.
Lucy smothered a whimper, and kicked one of the coverlets aside.
Ciaran stirred in the chair, but he remained silent.
That kiss had changed everything. The thing was, she was in love with Ciaran, so of course, she wanted him. Wherever a lady’s heart led, her body followed. But if it hadn’t been for that kiss, it never would have occurred to her Ciaran might want her. He didn’t love her in a romantic sense, but a man experienced desire differently than a woman did. His friendship for her, his deep affection—perhaps they were enough to spark his passion.
Lucy turned over onto her side and rested her cheek against a cool spot on her pillow. She was under no illusions about all she’d chosen to give up when she’d made the decision not to marry. Physical love, desire, passion—she yearned for them as much as any other woman did.
Many women who didn’t marry took lovers. She could do the same if she chose, but somehow, in the deepest part of her, Lucy knew she never would. For her, physical love would only ever be an expression of emotional love. She couldn’t give her body without her heart, and she’d given her heart to Ciaran. Her love for him had been as inevitable as the waves rolling onto the beach in Brighton.
Inevitable, and final.
Now by a strange twist of fate, she was alone in a bedchamber with the man she adored, the man she wanted above all others, and there was nothing but her own fear stopping her from rising from this bed and taking him into her arms.
Lucy had never been one to succumb to fear.
She loved him, and she ached to give herself to him. Who would it hurt if she went to him now, took him by the hand, and brought him back to the bed? It would devastate her to lose him after sharing a night with him, but the only heart she’d be breaking was her own.
Lucy pushed the blankets aside and slid quietly from the bed. The floorboards were cold beneath her feet as she crossed the bedchamber. The room was so dark if it hadn’t been for the fire Ciaran might not have noticed her coming toward him, but the glow of the flames caught at the hem of her fluttering white shift.
A sound fell from Ciaran’s lips, a sound unlike any Lucy had ever heard him make before. A strangled breath, a gasp, and a groan all at once, ragged and desperate.
“Lucy.” He rose, holding out his hands as if to stop her.
But Lucy wouldn’t be stopped. One step, another, until she stood before him, her heart racing in her chest. Slowly, she reached for him, and twined her arms around his neck.
And waited while he decided whether to touch her, or push her away.
Chapter Twenty-one
As if in a dream, Ciaran raised his hand and brushed his fingertips over her cheek. It was a ghost of a touch, so soft he might have believed he’d imagined it but for the flush that rose to Lucy’s skin in its wake.
Her skin slid like silk under his fingertips. Her dark gaze roamed his face, her rosy flush deepening as it settled on his mouth.
She’s thinking of our kiss.
He was thinking of it, too. The incredible softness of her lips, the hitch of her breath when he’d stroked his tongue against hers, her warm fingers sifting gently through the hair at the back of his neck.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. He hadn’t planned it. All the while his lips had been devouring hers he’d kept telling himself to stop, that they were friends only, and he had to release her.…
But he hadn’t done it. He hadn’t been able to let her go. Now they were alone in a quiet bedchamber, the fire crackling and a large, soft bed only a few paces away.
There was nothing to stop them—nothing but his honor, which was giving way to desire with every rasping breath into his lungs.
He had to get out of this room, now.
Ciaran dropped his hand and stepped away from her. He’d sit up all night in the hallway, or at the top of the stairwell—anything, anywhere—to keep himself from touching her.
She wasn’t his. She would never be his. He had no right to take anything from her.
He cleared his throat. “I, ah…it’s late, Lucy. You need to rest.” He kissed her forehead, then set her away from him with unsteady hands. “Sleep well.”
He’d already opened the bedchamber door when she caught his hand in hers.
“Don’t go, Ciaran.”
Ciaran closed his eyes as that soft, inviting voice brushed over him, firing his blood and igniting sparks over every inch of his skin. “I have to, sweetheart.”
Lucy reached around him, still holding his hand, and eased the door closed. She took a step toward him, then another, until the hard wood met his back, and warm, soft, fragrant woman filled his arms. “No, you don’t. You don’t have to go anywhere, Ciaran.”
He swallowed. “I—I should—”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she whispered, her lips right next to his ear. Her breath drifted over his heated skin, and then she was kissing him, those soft, red lips teasing gently across his jaw and down his neck.
He’d dreamed of her lips…
Ciaran never made a conscious decision to touch her. The moment her lips touched his skin, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but feel. Everything went hazy around him until there was only Lucy and her soft, coaxing kisses, the seductive slide of her fingers into his hair.
Someone groaned, low and breathless and desperate.
Him. It was him.
Lucy caught one end of his cravat. He arched his neck for her as she loosened it, the smooth fabric sliding across his throat as she tore it free. His head hit the back of the door, but he hardly noticed, he was so desperate to feel the
maddening slide of her mouth against his bared throat.
Her kisses were sweet, hot, the lightest caress against his skin until he could stand her teasing no longer, and he took her lips hard. She opened for him at once, her tongue darting eagerly into his mouth to stroke against his. Ciaran kissed her and kissed her, until her lips were plump and swollen and the only sound in the room were her soft whimpers and their ragged, panting breaths.
“Is this what you want, Lucy?” He took her earlobe into his mouth, tickling it with his tongue before scoring it lightly with his teeth. She let out a soft cry, so he did it again, nibbling at her delicate flesh until she was shivering against him. “Do you want me?”
“Yes. Please, Ciaran.” She slid her hands under his shirt, her fingernails grazing the skin of his back as she frantically tore the linen from his breeches.
Her tender scratch against his skin ripped an urgent moan from his throat. God, he couldn’t get his clothes off quickly enough. He dragged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
“Oh,” Lucy breathed, and Ciaran had to close his eyes against the hot tease of her breath drifting across his bare chest. Her soft sighs and whimpers made him wild, driving him right to the edge of his control. He wanted to drag his mouth over every inch of her, devour her.
Did she even know what it meant, to want a man? To have him? She’d been sheltered her whole life. If ever a woman was innocent, it was Lucy—
“Warm.” She dragged her hands from the base of his throat down his chest, pausing to sift those maddening fingers through the smattering of dark hair. “I like this.” She leaned forward and pressed her mouth where her fingers had been, her lips stroking the center of his chest.
“Ah.” Ciaran sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back. She was innocent, yes, but naturally passionate, a red-haired seductress in the making.
And now, at last, she was his.
“More, sweetheart. Kiss me there again.”
Lucy looked up, her gaze finding his. What she saw there made her lips curve in a smile of such pure, feminine triumph he groaned again. He cupped the back of her head and gently urged her face toward his chest.
