by Tessa Dare
Jeremy finally looked down at her. “We’re getting married,” he repeated. His voice rumbled through her body, sending little shivers along her skin that had nothing to do with cold.
“Married?” Lucy felt all the blood rush from her head. The more he insisted on repeating this ridiculous notion, the easier it became to imagine. But that didn’t make it right. If only they could speak alone, she could explain that the letter was all lies and claret. Sophia’s reputation, Toby’s engagement—nothing stood to be damaged, save Lucy’s dignity. And surely Jeremy wouldn’t think that a cause worth proposing marriage.
Not that he had exactly proposed anything.
She dug her fingers into his arm, clutching the idea desperately. “But … But don’t I have something to say about it? Shouldn’t we have a moment alone? I don’t recall accepting any proposal!”
“It’s a bit late for romance, Lucy.” Henry held up the folded letter and fixed her with a reproachful look. “It would seem you’ve already granted your consent.”
Say something, Lucy prodded herself. This was the moment to tell the truth. She had only to tell Henry, and everyone else, that the letter implied nothing more than two fanciful girls drinking too much wine. Sophia certainly wasn’t going to come out and say it—she probably thought this turn of events would make Lucy ecstatically happy.
But it didn’t. Did it? Surely “ecstatically happy” would feel more like summer sunshine, or a shower of rose petals. Not like a hedgehog digging burrows in her stomach. Happiness wasn’t the reason Lucy felt herself melting against Jeremy’s arm. It was just that the night was cold, and he was warm.
Warm. And strong. Oh, and distractingly handsome. Her gaze climbed the edge of his jaw, shadowed with night and stubble. His full, strong lips, dusky in the moonlight. She watched his breath curl into vapor where it met the cool air. Like a kiss dissolving into the night.
Lucy shook herself. She had to object. The very idea was nonsensical. Whatever misplaced notions of duty or propriety had spurred Jeremy to claim that letter—what had they to do with her? She wasn’t a lady. Certainly not the sort of lady an earl would marry. She wasn’t elegant or accomplished or wealthy. Her only tenuous claims to beauty were wide eyes and straight teeth. If she hadn’t come downstairs with that letter, none of this would have happened. He would have left Henry his note and then …
And then he would have left entirely.
His belongings were already packed. She shivered anew, the memory of those two valises chilling her to the bone. If she protested now, there would be no second chance. He would leave. And by the light of day, he would surely realize the absurdity of this very scene. He would shudder to think he’d nearly married a dowerless hoyden.
Say something, her mind screamed. But her voice just wouldn’t obey. Lucy’s grip tightened over his arm. She wasn’t ready to let him go.
Looking askance at the others, Henry approached Jeremy and lowered his voice. “You’re certain this letter belongs to you, Jem? It wouldn’t do to let a simple misunderstanding decide the rest of your life, you know. For God’s sake, you’re an earl.”
“Yes,” Jeremy replied, his own voice firm. Firm, and deliciously dark and determined, and strong enough to drive all objections straight from Lucy’s mind. “I’m an earl. And Lucy will be a countess.”
Silence.
Lucy felt everyone staring at her. No one said a word. Really, she thought. It was more than a bit rude. From the way they all gaped at her, one would think he’d announced something truly shocking. Something like, “Lucy is a spy for Napoleon,” or “Lucy only has six months to live,” or “Lucy has decided to take up the harp.”
She forced her chin out. Well, now she couldn’t possibly protest. Now it was a matter of pride.
Marianne recovered first. “Two engagements in one night. How exciting!” She rose from the edge of the fountain and crossed to Lucy’s side. “How wonderful,” she said, kissing Lucy on the cheek.
The others mumbled words that sounded vaguely congratulatory.
“And when will the blessed event take place?” Henry asked.
“Friday,” said Jeremy.
“Friday! This Friday? Two days from now?” This outburst would have mortified Lucy much less had it not come from her own lips.
“Friday,” he repeated, eyes still fixed on Henry. “I’ll ride to Town in the morning for the license.”
Henry wore an expression Lucy had never seen cross his face. Not mocking, not doubting, not cynical or wry. Simply blank. “Very well.”
“I’ll need an early start, then,” Jeremy said, looking around the group. “If you’ll excuse me.” The men nodded.
Jeremy unlatched Lucy’s hand from his arm and turned to her. Determination carved a deep furrow in his brow; his eyes shone so sincere, they were heaven’s own blue. And Lucy suddenly realized that without saying yes—without even being asked—she’d somehow become engaged. To be married. To him.
The whole of her life up until this evening, the enormity of her future—all of it clamored for admittance to this brief swatch of time, resonated in the tingling heat of his skin against hers. Lucy’s breath caught in her chest. Her pulse pounded a dull roar in her ears, and every beat echoed a lifetime. This one thrilling, terrifying moment stretching into forever.
“Take care, Lucy.” Jeremy bent his head and brushed a warm kiss against her fingers. “I won’t be long.” Then he let go of her hand and walked back toward the house, leaving her alone.
Lucy realized, too late, that she ought to have said something in the way of farewell, or at least met his eyes before he turned away. She ought to have watched him go and cemented the memory in her mind. But she hadn’t thought of any of those things. She’d been too preoccupied staring stupidly down at her hand. The hand he had kissed.
And when at last she was back in her bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing she’d pulled from him some kind of reassuring glance, or said a single word to him a bit kinder than “Friday,” she blew out the candle, rolled onto her side, and laid her cheek against that hand. And then she did the most silly, girlish, ridiculous thing imaginable.
She kissed it back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two days passed.
Very slowly.
There were a few hours that rushed by in a rustle of silk and sewing pins. The task of packing her belongings filled a half-dozen trunks and most of an afternoon. But even when her hands were occupied, the frantic workings of Lucy’s mind stretched each second into an eternity. Past, present, future—her brain tried desperately to grasp all three at once and bind them together into something that resembled certainty.
She relived every minute she’d spent in Jeremy’s company—every argument, every glance, every meal.
Every kiss.
She tried to imagine what he might be doing that very moment—riding to London, procuring the license, meeting with his solicitors.
Soaking in his bath.
Then her mind ventured forth into the uncharted void of the future and wandered there for hours. Springtime in London, summer by the sea, winters at Jeremy’s estate—the location of which Lucy dearly wished she could recall.
A year’s worth of nights in bed.
Every minute—waking or asleep—Lucy guessed and second-guessed everything that had occurred in the past week and everything that lay ahead. In her memory Jeremy looked so improbably handsome, she feared disappointment when he actually appeared. He’d been so determined that night in the garden, but would his resolve survive two days’ separation? She expected his return any moment and imagined that event in a thousand ways, wonderful and not.
When she went out for her Thursday morning ride, she knew he couldn’t possibly be coming back yet. But searched the horizon for his figure anyway. She imagined him galloping toward her on his stallion, man and beast moving as one. Power, grace, and purpose—intent on one destination. Intent on her.
Then at breakfast, she imagined him rou
nding the doorway and fixing her with that same cold blue stare of disapproval he’d worn the morning after they’d kissed. He looked over her olive skin and her ill-fitting gown and her mother’s earrings and saw her for the impostor she was. Then he turned on his heel and left.
Later, Lucy stood on a stool in her bedchamber while her maid pinned the hem of a borrowed gown. In her mind, Jeremy burst through the door, ripped the dress from her body, and tumbled her onto the bed without speaking a word. Lucy’s involuntary gasp at this vision drew concern from the maid, but a straight pin conveniently shouldered the blame.
And that afternoon, as the sunlight began to fade, Lucy strolled through the orchard. She leaned back against a pear tree and shut her eyes. Long minutes she stood there, waiting for him to come find her. Waiting for his kiss.
Then afternoon became evening, and Lucy began to worry that he wouldn’t come at all. She suffered silently through dinner. Afterward, she declined to play cards and repaired to a corner of the drawing room instead, to hide behind a book. She tried to imagine what might have kept him away. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to procure the license. Perhaps he’d changed his mind entirely—come to his senses and realized he couldn’t make an awkward, penniless hoyden his countess. Perhaps his horse had stumbled in the dark and he lay in a ditch by the side of the road, staring up at the stars and whispering her name with his dying breath.
Lucy snapped her book shut and shook herself. That third “perhaps” was a horrible, horrible thought to have. And it was horribly, horribly wrong of her to prefer it to the second.
Then she looked up, and he was there. Standing in the doorway wearing a rumpled greatcoat and polished Hessians and his usual inscrutable expression. For the first time in two days, the whirring gears in Lucy’s mind ground to a halt. And the churning fire in her belly roared to life.
If he had looked improbably handsome in her memory, he looked impossibly so now. Oh, but handsome wasn’t the word for it. A handsome face, one could gaze upon for idle enjoyment, simply admiring the ideal features and pleasing symmetry. And although his features were as strong and well-balanced as ever, this—this was something altogether different than handsome. There was nothing pleasing or idle about it. One glance at him, and her stomach began pitching and rolling like a cork tossed about in a stream. She could scarcely stand to look at him, but she could hardly turn away.
And surely he hadn’t grown four inches taller in two days. Surely it was only the fact that she was sitting and he was standing that made it seem so. But he looked so tall and broad-shouldered he nearly filled the doorframe; so solid and strong he might just be the cornerstone of the whole blasted house. Lucy blinked and bit the inside of her cheek, just to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.
After nodding his greetings to the card players, Jeremy approached her where she sat by the hearth. He was fresh from the stables, she could tell. When he bent over her hand, she could smell the cool wind that lingered in his hair and his clothing. His hand felt chilled as it lifted hers; his lips a curious mixture of frost and heat as he kissed her fingers. His eyes held hers for only a brief moment. Just long enough for Lucy to read the same strange combination of coolness and warmth mingled there.
“Lucy,” he said simply. As if only to confirm that he had not wandered into the wrong drawing room on the wrong manor and kissed the wrong lady’s hand.
Then he released her hand, straightened, and turned away. The instant he turned, she wedged her hand between her thigh and the cushion of her chair. But her elbow still trembled, rattling against her ribs in the most mortifying manner.
Henry rose from the table and tugged on his waistcoat. “I’ve spoken with the vicar. He’ll be here tomorrow at ten.”
“Good,” Jeremy replied. “I had my solicitor draw up the papers. But I’d rather discuss them in the morning, if it’s all the same to you. It’s been a long day, and I’m wanting a bath.”
“And a stiff drink, I’d expect.” Henry sat back down and picked up his hand of cards. “We’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Jeremy took his leave of them quietly, then turned back to her. “Lucy,” he said again, nodding curtly. Then he was gone.
Lucy crossed her arms over her chest and sank back into her chair. What had just happened? She’d spent a full two days alternately dreaming of and dreading this moment, and now it had come. And passed. And aside from a little kiss that had turned her arm to jelly, it seemed she would receive no further insight into Jeremy’s state of mind until he showed up in the morning to marry her. In her best and worst imaginings—whether he rejected her or fell at her feet or pinned her to the bed—at least she had known where she stood with him.
And what did she know now? It was confirmed, twice, that he remembered her name. He still intended to marry her, she gathered. That was all.
Another night of rumination and conjecture stretched endlessly before her. If there were any answers to be found in the cracks of her ceiling, Lucy knew she would have divined them by now. She would surely go mad by morning.
His bath drawn, Jeremy divested himself of his coat and cravat before setting to work on his cuffs. He heard the door swing open and turned his head to glimpse a familiar swirl of crimson velvet and chestnut curls. Lucy shut the door, turned, and flattened herself against it, clutching her dressing gown closed at the neck.
“I need to tell you something.”
Jeremy’s hand froze. He had been in the process of rolling up his shirtsleeve, but he began to roll it back down. “Do you want to call it off, then?” Damn. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
Her brow wrinkled. “Do you?”
“I asked first.”
“Yes, but you brought it up. Have you changed your mind?”
“Lucy, I’m here. I have the special license and the marriage settlements. I rode three hours in the dark. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Oh.” She softened against the door. “I didn’t come to call it off.”
Relief flooded through him. Muscles knotted from hours of riding and days of uncertainty began to work loose.
Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck, slowly shaking his head. She wanted to know if he’d changed his mind. How could he change his mind, when his mind had nothing to do with this? He was not thinking. He was acting. He was claiming. And most distressing of all, he was feeling.
He could have returned that afternoon. He’d finished business with his solicitor that morning, procured the license the day before. The letters he’d spent all afternoon writing could just as well have been written from Waltham Manor, or a week later for that matter. But he’d dawdled over them, waiting to leave until the sky was dark and the day nearly gone.
And when he’d arrived, he’d needed to see her immediately. Once he had, he’d felt equally compelled to leave. She hadn’t said a word to him, and that suited him fine. Because if he didn’t give her the chance to speak, she couldn’t have a chance to say no.
But now she was here, and she didn’t want to call it off, and how Jeremy was going to keep from kissing her senseless that instant, he didn’t know. Good Lord, it had been hard enough to keep from doing so in the drawing room, with six people looking on. Now here she was again in that damned red velvet robe, and they were all alone. In his bedchamber. A ragged sigh escaped his lips.
She heard it. “Perhaps I should go. You must be tired.”
“I am tired,” he answered honestly. “And you should go. But before you do, I have something for you.”
“Really?” A surprised smile spread across her face, and she stepped away from the door.
Jeremy reached into the pocket of his coat where it hung over the back of a chair. He pulled out a small velvet box and held it out to her. She stared at it, but made no motion to take it from his hand.
“What is it?”
“Well, opening it would be a certain method of finding out.” He picked up her hand where it dangled at her side and turned it palm-side up. He placed the box flat in
her palm. She simply stared at it, then looked up at him with eyebrows raised.
“For pity’s sake, Lucy. It won’t bite you.” He took the box out of her hand and opened it himself. “It’s a betrothal ring. I thought you should have one.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “Although, considering there are only eleven hours remaining in our betrothal, it now seems a bit silly.”
She stared at the ring nestled in its box. A single, round-cut ruby glowed like an ember against the black velvet, flanked by flashing diamonds. Still she made no move to take it. Finally Jeremy plucked the thick circle of gold from its bed and cast the box onto the table. He picked up her hand again and pushed the ring over her finger. “I suppose I should have chosen an emerald to match your eyes. But for some reason, the color red stuck in my mind.”
He released her hand. Lucy took a step toward the fire and lifted the ring before her face. She slowly twisted her hand back and forth, inspecting the stone in the firelight. The crimson sleeve of her dressing gown pooled down around her bare elbow. Jeremy’s blood pooled down to his groin. “If you don’t like it, I’ll buy you another,” he said.
“Another?” She looked up at him, eyes wide. “And you would, wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged. “One for every finger, if you wish.”
“I don’t need any others. I don’t even need this.” She smiled and arched an eyebrow. “But you’re never getting it away from me now.” Looking down at her hand, she waggled her fingers again. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
Nor I, Jeremy thought. The firelight gilded the lines of her profile and filtered through her hair, dusting a rubyred halo over her curls. Her neck curved gracefully over the ring as her eyes sparked with pure delight. She looked one part magpie, one part Madonna.
She glanced up at him suddenly. “Sophia doesn’t have a lover.”
