For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  Lucy froze. She’d expected the question—of course, she had. The marquess was only speaking aloud what they were all thinking.

  Beside her, Ciaran stiffened. “No.”

  The marquess and Ciaran’s other brother, Lachlan, exchanged glances.

  “Married, then?” Lachlan asked in hopeful tones.

  “No.” Ciaran growled, but neither of his brothers seemed to notice the warning in his tone.

  Both handsome faces grew darker and the marquess flushed, as if he were a moment away from falling into a temper. “You mean to say you’ve traveled all the way from London with Lady Lucinda—that you’ve taken her into your protection—and you’re neither betrothed, nor married?”

  “Finn!” Lady Iris, the Marchioness of Huntington, gasped. “For pity’s sake!”

  Her exclamation came too late to save Lucy, however. Heat washed over her, so intense she was certain she’d burst into flames in the middle of the Marquess of Huntington’s carriage drive.

  Ciaran’s sisters-in-law noticed her embarrassment. They both stepped toward her, but Ciaran was already there, drawing her close, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. He faced his elder brothers, his expression warning them not to say another word. “This isn’t the place to discuss it.”

  The marquess’s glance lingered on Ciaran’s face, then dropped to the arm Ciaran had wrapped around Lucy’s waist. He exchanged another glance with Lachlan, this one puzzled, then nodded. “Very well. My study, then. Iris, will you and Hyacinth please take Lady Lucinda upstairs and see her settled?”

  “Yes, of course. You must be exhausted, Lady Lucinda.”

  Lucy managed one last wide-eyed glance at Ciaran before Lady Iris eased her gently out of his embrace, and she and Lady Hyacinth led her away.

  * * * *

  She was whisked upstairs to an elegant bedchamber. They bustled about until the bed was aired and the fire lit, then fussed and soothed a dazed Lucy into a soft, warm night rail, and tucked her under the covers.

  They were kind to her. Too kind to ask any questions, though Lady Iris did pause on her way out the door and turn back to Lucy, her expression thoughtful.

  Lucy waited, resisting the urge to dive under the coverlet.

  “We trust Ciaran,” Lady Iris murmured, her deep blue gaze holding Lucy’s dark one. “If he’s brought you here, Lady Lucinda, he’s done so for a reason.”

  Then she was gone, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

  Lucy stared at it for a moment, then flopped back onto the bed and tugged the coverlet up under her chin. Ciaran had his reasons, yes, each one more noble than the last.

  She was his best friend. She needed his protection. He’d compromised her.

  So many reasons, but not one of them the right one.

  He’d never said a word about love.

  He’d held her in his arms last night. She shivered as she remembered how his warmth had surrounded her, the strong, steady thump of his heart echoing against her cheek. It had felt so real—so close to being what she’d always imagined love should be.

  She’d felt as if she belonged there, wrapped in his arms.

  The entire ride from Windsor to Huntington House, her head had been trying to convince her heart it was enough.

  It almost worked.

  Almost.

  Lucy let her eyes fall closed on a deep sigh. She expected sleep to prove elusive, but for once, her body overruled her mind and heart. The faint crackle of the fire faded as sleep stole over her, gathering her into its soothing embrace.

  Tomorrow. She’d think about what to do tomorrow…

  She woke with a start some time later. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep, but the bedchamber was lost in shadows. Still nighttime, then. She blinked into the dark. Why had she woken?

  There’d been a noise—

  “Lucy.” Ciaran’s voice was the quietest whisper, but he was so close she could feel him, the softest tickle of his breath against her face.

  Lucy struggled to sit up, but Ciaran stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Lie back down, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart.

  His voice was so soft when he said it, almost reverent, and a delicious shiver drifted down Lucy’s spine. He’d never spoken to her in quite that tone before, his voice like fingertips dancing over her skin.

  It didn’t occur to her to wonder why Ciaran was in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. She simply reached for him, her fingers slipping into his hand. “Ciaran? Is everything all right?”

  He stared down at her without answering, then he sank onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Well, I’m still breathing. My brothers haven’t killed me yet, so I suppose that’s a good sign.”

  Lucy winced. “I imagine they aren’t pleased.”

  “They’re concerned, and they have reason to be. I’m concerned too, Lucy.”

  “Me, too.” Not about the same things Ciaran was, though. She was concerned about heartbreak, loneliness, a lifetime of being haunted by the man sitting beside her, the faint glow of moonlight on his beautiful face.

  Ciaran was concerned with honor, duty, friendship, obligation. All worthy things, but none of them enough, no matter how much she loved him. She’d spent years of her life locked inside a gilt cage, all in the name of love. She knew the truth.

  You couldn’t trap love inside a closed fist.

  She sighed. “What did you tell them? Your brothers, I mean.”

  To Lucy’s surprise he reached out to trail a finger down her cheek. “The truth, Lucy. I told them the truth.”

  Lucy’s lips ached to kiss his fingertip. “What is the truth, Ciaran? I hardly know anymore.” She knew her own truth, but she wasn’t sure she knew his. “Tell me what you told your brothers.”

  The moonlight caught a glint of humor in his blue eyes. “I told them we met on a beach in Brighton, that I saved you from drowning, and the only thanks I got for it was a broken nose.”

  Lucy let out an outraged squeak. “I wasn’t drowning! And I didn’t break your nose. Only bent it.”

  “Then I told them about how you wandered into a bare-knuckle bout to do some sketching, and were nearly trampled in a brawl,” Ciaran went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I explained how I saved you from certain death a second time, and all I got for that was another kick, this time to the chest.”

  Lucy’s mouth dropped open. Dear God, she’d never be able to look his brothers in the eyes again. “That’s not how it—”

  “I told them despite your numerous assaults on me, we somehow became best friends. I told them we met on the beach every morning afterward, and watched the sun rise together. That we talked for hours.” He was quiet for a moment, looking down at their entwined hands, but then he looked up. His gaze caught hers, and there was something there—something she’d never seen before. “I told them you brought me back to life, Lucy.”

  A sound broke from Lucy’s lips—a sigh, a gasp, a sob. Oh, how could she refuse him, when he looked at her like that? He was stealing her will, melting her heart.

  “I told them if it hadn’t been for you, I’d be in Scotland right now. They didn’t care for that, especially Lachlan. So, I begged their pardons for nearly betraying their trust. Then I told them I was grateful, Lucy—so grateful I hadn’t gone. Grateful I was still here with the people I love.”

  Lucy caught her breath. That look on his face, the break in his voice when he’d uttered that last word. She could almost imagine he’d meant it…

  For her.

  “Ciaran—”

  “No. Let me finish.” He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his warm lips over her knuckles. “I told them you disappeared from Brighton without a trace soon afterward, and I followed you to London because I was worried for you. I must have known, even then, that if anything happene
d to you, I’d never forgive myself for it.”

  Words crowded onto Lucy’s tongue, words of love and fear and hope, but she didn’t speak them yet. Instead she lifted his hand to her mouth and returned his kiss with a press of her lips to his palm.

  Ciaran’s eyes darkened to a stormy blue. “I didn’t explain much about what happened with Jarvis and Godfrey, but I did tell them I stayed in London to court you, because the idea of Vale doing it made me wild with jealousy.”

  Lucy’s eyes went wide. She recalled Ciaran had been inexplicably angry when she’d told him her plans for Lord Vale, but she’d never guessed it was jealousy.

  “My brothers found that part hysterically funny.” Ciaran gave her a wry smile. “It seems I may have boasted in the past about never being such a fool as to be jealous over a woman, but I never have been before, Lucy. Not even with Isobel. Only with you.”

  Lucy didn’t realize she was crying until Ciaran brushed a tear from her cheek. “I told my brothers you’d refused to marry me. That you didn’t want to marry at all, and that I—I couldn’t make you change your mind. Not even for me. I told them…I told them you’d broken my heart.”

  “I—I’ve broken your heart?” If she’d broken his heart, that meant…didn’t that mean…

  His heart was hers?

  “Shattered it. I’m in love with you, Lucy.” Ciaran tried to smile. “But I’m still your friend. I’ll always be your friend, no matter what else happens.”

  “But Scotland, and…and Isobel Campbell. I thought…you told me—”

  “I told you I wanted to return to Scotland. I told myself that, too.” Ciaran raised her hand to his lips again. “I was wrong. I haven’t thought about Isobel in weeks. Not since I met you.”

  “You don’t love her anymore? You were wrong?”

  “I was wrong. Can’t a man be wrong?” Ciaran let out a shaky breath, and then he started speaking very quickly, the words pouring out of him in an incoherent stream. “Isobel is my past, Lucy, but you…you’re my future. There’s only one reason I want to marry you, and it has nothing to do with our friendship, or your uncle, or because I’ve compromised you, or because I think I have to save you. How could it be, when it’s you who’s saved me?”

  Tears were flowing freely down Lucy’s face now. “W-we saved each other, I think.”

  Ciaran took her face in his hands. “I want to marry you because I’m in love with you, Lucy. I’ve been in love with you for weeks, ever since you kicked me in the face.”

  “If I’d known that’s all it would take to make you fall in love with me, I would have kicked you in the face a dozen more times by now.” A broken sound left her lips, and then she was in his arms. “I love you too, Ciaran. I’ve been in love with you for weeks, ever since that morning on the beach when I broke your nose.”

  “You didn’t break it. My nose, or, thank God, my heart. Say it again.”

  She twined her arms around his neck, laughing even as tears flowed down her cheeks. “I love you, Ciaran.”

  A smile quirked his lips, but his blue eyes were serious when they met hers. “You told me once you never wanted to marry. Is that still true? I’d never try to take your freedom away from you, Lucy. I only want to give you things—to make you happy. I want to give you everything.”

  Lucy laid a tender hand on his cheek. “Give me yourself, then. You’re all I need to make me happy. I love you, Ciaran. I never wanted anything but you.”

  His eyes drifted closed, as if he needed a moment to gather her words into himself, to lock them inside his heart. “You love me enough to marry me, then?”

  Lucy rested her forehead against his. “Will you come swimming with me, and take me to bare-knuckle bouts, and teach me the quadrille?”

  His warm mouth covered hers, and he kissed her until they both were breathless. “I’ll do anything you ask me to,” he murmured, when they finally drew apart. “Though you won’t mind if I keep my nose out of the way of your foot, will you?”

  She laughed softly, and leaned forward to kiss his perfectly imperfect nose. “Not as long as I have your heart.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later.

  Le Pantalon, L’été, La Poule…

  They were the same steps Lucy had despaired of mastering during her brief, eventful season, but this wasn’t like any quadrille she’d ever danced before.

  There was no music, no Monsieur Guilland, and no fan with incoherent instructions written in cramped letters on the sticks.

  There was only Lucy and Ciaran. They’d long since abandoned the proper steps, and were simply swaying together in the middle of the empty ballroom at Bellamy House, their arms wrapped around each other.

  “Ciaran?” Lucy’s fingers curled into the broad shoulder under her hand. “Are you certain you’re teaching me to dance the quadrille? Because I don’t remember Monsieur Guilland holding me quite so tightly when he partnered me.”

  “No?” Ciaran dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. “How strange.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I also don’t recall him nuzzling my neck, or nipping at my ear. If I didn’t know you to be the Wallflower’s Gallant and an honorable gentleman, I might suspect this wasn’t a proper quadrille at all.”

  Ciaran pulled back slightly to look down at her, his lips quirking in a slow, seductive smile. “Not proper for a dancing master, no, but perfectly proper for a husband.”

  “Hmmm.” Lucy let her head fall to his shoulder with a contented sigh. There was nothing in the world she loved more than being held in her husband’s arms, and she might have drifted along in this dreamy state for hours if Ciaran’s hands hadn’t started to wander.

  When he paused in a very improper place to give her a gentle squeeze, Lucy squealed. “Ciaran! I’m certain Monsieur Guilland never did that!”

  “Damn good thing for him he didn’t.” Ciaran’s other hand slid from between her shoulder blades down to the arch of her back to urge her more closely against him. “He seems like a decent enough fellow. It would have been a pity if I’d had to challenge him to a duel for laying his hands on the lady I love.”

  “You didn’t love me at the time.” Lucy attempted an indignant look, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the teasing glint in her eyes.

  “Yes, I did,” he murmured, drawing back again to look into her eyes. “From the first day I met you, there has never been a moment when I didn’t love you, Lucy.”

  He’d said as much to her many times since that memorable night at Huntington House, but Lucy never got tired of hearing those words. She was tempted to sink back into his arms, but she held back and offered him a sly grin instead. “Yes, but you didn’t know it. Perhaps I should have encouraged Monsieur Guilland to flirt with me. It might have brought you to your senses sooner.”

  He smiled and swept her into a graceful turn. “It worked for Markham.”

  It had, indeed. So well Lady Felicia had become the Countess of Markham a few months after Lucy and Ciaran had married at Huntington House. Lady Felicia had never been happier, and Lord Markham’s sternness had given way to an enraptured expression Ciaran and Lord Vale found endlessly amusing.

  “Odd, how Vale was the only one of us who had any sense. He even guessed the truth about Lord Nash and Miss Fisher.” Ciaran chuckled. “I never would have thought he’d turn out to be so wise in the ways of love.”

  “Wise enough to choose Eloisa as his bride.” Lucy nestled her head into the hollow of Ciaran’s shoulder. Whenever she thought about Eloisa and Lord Vale, the same contented smile rose to her lips. Just as Lucy had predicted, Eloisa made a lovely countess.

  Ciaran and Lucy had traveled from Huntington House to Lord Vale’s estate in Lewes for the wedding. Afterward, they’d gone off to Brighton, where they’d spent every morning on the beach together, watching the sun rise over the ocean. The gouty old gentlemen and phlegmatic old
ladies had been scandalized, but neither Lucy nor Ciaran cared a bit what anyone thought.

  Indeed, they might have stayed in Brighton longer, but Lucy had been anxious to return to Devon. She had grand plans to update Bellamy House, but since their arrival three weeks earlier she and Ciaran had spent most of their time in their bedchamber.

  Ah, well. They had all the time in the world to make Bellamy House their home.

  A lifetime, in fact.

  “Has Eloisa written recently?” Ciaran trailed his lips down Lucy’s neck, dropping tiny kisses over every inch of bare skin he could reach.

  “Yes, she…ah, I had a letter from her just yesterday.” Lucy’s breath caught as he paused to nip at the curve between her neck and shoulder. “She said…she, ah…I can’t think when you do that.”

  Ciaran laughed softly. “She and Vale are still coming here next month, aren’t they?”

  “Coming here?” Lucy sank her fingers into Ciaran’s hair and tilted her head to encourage him to kiss her throat. “I mean, yes. Yes, of course. I remember now. Eloisa, Lord Vale, and my aunt will arrive at the end of next month, and my aunt will remain through Christmas.”

  Aunt Jarvis was rarely at her home in Berkshire these days. She traveled a good deal, dividing her time between Lewes and Devon. Her nerves were doing wonderfully well. She credited her improved health to judicious doses of Dr. Digby’s Calming Tonic, but Lucy suspected Uncle’s Jarvis’s absence was the real reason for her aunt’s miraculous recovery.

  “Jarvis remains in Berkshire?” Ciaran asked, as if he’d read her mind. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven Lucy’s uncle for his treachery, and he’d made it clear the man wasn’t welcome in their home.

  Which seemed to suit Aunt Jarvis just fine.

  “He does, indeed.” Lucy lay a palm on Ciaran’s cheek. “In Berkshire, where he can’t cause any mischief.”

  After that ugly business in Kent, Ciaran and his brother Finn had put a swift end to Jarvis’s machinations. Uncle Jarvis had slinked back to Berkshire with thousands of pounds of debt still hanging over his head. Lord Vale had paid the debt, and since then he’d kept tight control over Uncle Jarvis’s purse strings.