Lucy unrolled some red velvet cording from its spool in her sewing box and snipped it into three lengths. It was soothing to cross the strands over and under, and before she knew it, she had a nice, tight braid. She fixed it to the edge of the brim with tiny, even stitches. The color would bring out the ruddiness of Percy’s cheeks.
She heard the front door slam below—Percy had never been subtle—and waited for him to come upstairs. Instead she heard an altercation below, with MacTavish taking umbrage that Percy had let himself in, as always. Lucy tossed the hat aside and popped her head over the banister.
“It’s all right, MacTavish. Lord Ferguson is used to making himself at home here.”
The butler sniffed. “Most irregular, Miss Dellamar. I shall have to report this to Sir Simon. Your key, please.” He held out a long, work-worn hand.
“My key?” Percy asked, his voice rising.
“Your key, my lord. Miss Dellamar is no longer in your—er, employ. It is one thing to visit at calling hours, ringing the bell and awaiting admittance like a gentleman. Sir Simon would not be best pleased that you have access to this establishment at any hour of the day. Or night,” MacTavish said darkly.
“Are you implying I’m not a gentleman?” Percy was now as red as the braid on his new hat. The color on his cheeks clashed with his purple and green plaid cape.
“I am doing nothing of the kind, my lord,” MacTavish said, unperturbed. His hand remained outstretched. “You are indeed a peer of the realm, the—the flower of English manhood. But it is my understanding that Sir Simon wishes Miss Dellamar to be protected in her home.”
“Protected!” cried Lucy. “Locked up, more like! Percy is my oldest friend, MacTavish, and he may come and go as he wishes. As I wish.”
“I’m afraid Sir Simon’s instructions preempt your wishes, Miss Dellamar. The key, Lord Ferguson.”
“Devil take it!” Percy mumbled, but handed it over to the implacable butler.
“Come upstairs, Percy.”
“Miss Dellamar, if I may be so bold—”
“No, you may not, not that I can stop you.” Lucy gritted her teeth in frustration.
“It is improper for you to entertain a gentleman upstairs in your boudoir.”
“I am not entertaining Lord Ferguson. We are simply talking. We are friends. We talked in the garden. Now we are going to talk upstairs.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to report that to Sir Simon as well.”
“Report away!” Lucy snapped. “Station yourself outside the door so you can eavesdrop!” That was the last thing she needed, but if necessary she and Percy could write notes to each other. She could read his handwriting.
The butler’s neck stiffened. “I never eavesdrop, Miss Dellamar. I know my place.”
“Hmph. Are you coming?” she called down to Percy irritably. This was becoming like a Romeo and Juliet farce with exceptionally star-crossed lovers.
“Yes, Lucy, but I can’t stay long.”
“May I take your cape, Lord Ferguson?”
Percy struggled with the silver clasp. MacTavish clearly intimidated him—he was indeed a lily-livered coward. Lucy turned on her heel and went back into her sitting room. She had half a mind not to give Percy his hat.
He finally entered, blushing.
“Well? What happened? You were gone long enough!”
Percy removed a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Do you suppose MacTavish suspects? That bit about the flower of English manhood was a bit much. And an insult. I’m as Scottish as he is!”
“Bugger the damn butler! Stick to the subject, Percy!”
Percy pulled out his handkerchief and gingerly blotted his brow. He hated arguments of any kind, and the scene with MacTavish had discomposed him. But Lucy was not going to let him off the hook. “Out with it!”
“Your Senorita Castellano is a very vivacious young lady. She insisted I have a drop of wine, and one thing led to another.” He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket, and Lucy saw a wisp of black lace.
“Oh, God, Percy. What’s that in your pocket?”
Percy covered the bulge in his waistcoat. “I didn’t steal it. She gave it to me.”
Lucy covered her face. The image of Percy prancing around in a black mantilla was disconcerting.
“Don’t worry—I told her it was for Mama. She doesn’t suspect our little arrangement was not what it seemed. Vicky listened quite carefully to your predicament—sympathetic little soul, she is, all liquid dark eyes and mournful mouth. If Mama had not made me give up painting, I should have liked—”
“Enough about your mama! What did—Vicky, is it?— say?” Lucy was rather put out. She’d never been asked to call Victorina by her diminutive.
“She’s agreed to open the door in the wall. She would have done so at once, so taken was she by the tale of the brutish Sir Simon keeping you here against your will.”
“He’s not—I’m not—never mind.”
“The door will be opened at noon, and she’ll be ready to escort you through her domicile. She’s sleeping in, what with her protector expected later tonight.” Percy’s fingers crept into his pocket. It was obvious he could not wait to get home and cover himself with lace.
“Noon. Noon is fine.” Lucy began to pace again. “Can you get me money by then, Percy? As much as you can?” If Victorina was walking her through the house, there would be no opportunity for Lucy to filch anything else from her. It wouldn’t be sporting anyway.
Percy straightened his shoulders. “I’ll try, buttercup. I’ll try. I’ll send Yates around first thing in the morning. What will you do? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”
Percy shook his head, looking a bit mournful himself. “I feel responsible for you, Lucy. Is this really what you want—running away from a man who can keep you in style?”
“Sir Simon’s style is vastly overrated.” A lie, from beginning to end, but she had to get away while she still had a shred of independence. A few more nights in Simon’s arms or wherever he put her was bound to lead to insanity.
“He’s rich as Croesus, Lucy. Are you sure you cannot come to terms with him, especially if he is, as you suggest, a very fine figure of a man?”
“I’m positive.” She picked up the capote and stabbed it with a needle. “I’ll have this finished for you before I go.”
Percy reached across the table and stilled her hand. “I don’t care about the hat. I care about you.”
“Then bring me money. Steal from your mama if you must.”
Percy turned parchment-white, but he nodded in solemn acceptance. “For you, my dear, I might even consider it.”
Chapter 13
Simon had had a hellish day. He’d spent the afternoon and evening holding the hand of a reluctant investor who could not see the benefit of sinking his fortune into a passenger railway system. Hauling coal and iron he could understand—inanimate objects could not complain over rough terrain and belching smoke. No civilized persons would consent to being loaded aboard a train like cattle, and so he had said. Over and over. Simon had plied the man with drink and a rich dinner, but had failed to part him with his money. Add to that this morning’s fight with Lucy and the worrisome news MacTavish gave him as he crossed the threshold, and Simon was in sore need of comfort.
And not apt to receive any from his mistress, who was still, apparently, carrying on with Lord Percival Ferguson.
Faugh. What had Lucy ever seen in the earl?
The answer was distressingly obvious. Even though Ferguson had lost the money he had lured Lucy with, she still had feelings for him. According to MacTavish, she’d embraced him in the garden and let him wipe her tears away—tears of misery that she was forced to be with Simon now, no doubt. Then she’d taken the man up to her cozy sitting room and closed the door. Who knew if they’d slipped into the bedroom through the connecting door? MacTavish had timed the earl’s visit, and perhaps its brevity was a function of Lucy’s sk
ill or Ferguson’s lack thereof.
Damn it all to hell and back. Simon was jealous—jealous of the flamboyantly-dressed dandy. Percy the Peacock. Simon’s own clothes were good quality, the first stare of fashion, but they were conservative—a man of his background could not afford to risk impropriety. He wondered if Lucy would like him better if he wore a scarlet waistcoat and too many watch fobs.
Six years was a long time to be one man’s mistress. Some of the men Simon knew picked up and discarded women with alarming alacrity. He had to give Percy credit—the man knew how very special Lucy was.
Could Ferguson love Lucy? Worse, could Lucy love him back?
Och. There was no point to fash himself. Lucy belonged to him now. He would make her see reason and marry him. He would ask her. Tonight. There was no point in waiting—they’d waited thirteen years.
Of course, he had asked her once before, although Simon could not recall his precise words. It had been assumed by both of them that they would wed once their financial circumstances improved. He seemed to recall that Lucy had wanted him to stop stealing first, and he would have—he just never had the opportunity to quit until he ran away into the arms of the army. Now he had more money than he knew what to do with, although not quite enough to finance his ambitious railway project on his own. He didn’t want to beggar himself again, either. As a frugal Scot, he had money tucked away for a rainy day. For a snowy one, too.
Aye. He’d propose. He should have brought a bouquet of flowers. Or a ring. Simon pictured Lucy tossing either item at him—she was so snappish when he wasn’t fucking her.
That’s how he’d do it! Get her wet and hot beneath him, bring her to the brink, then whisper in her ear. She’d scream yes before she knew what she was saying.
With a growl of satisfaction at a problem solved, Simon began to unwind his neckcloth as he mounted the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom. He wouldn’t jump on her right away at this late hour, although God knows he longed to. Nay, he’d woo her a little. Wake her slowly with feathery kisses along her swan-like white neck. Warm the gentle swell of her breast in the palm of his hand. Circle a tender pink nipple with his tongue.
With every step he stiffened, aching for Lucy in a way he couldn’t explain. Simon was not a poetic man by nature, much better with his hands than his words. But Lucy—her flaming hair and alabaster skin and brandy-colored eyes—unlocked something within his humble heart.
He paused at the sitting-room door. The room was in darkness, but a flickering light beneath the connecting door told him Lucy was still awake. He moved quietly, trying not to bump into the odd collection of furniture Lucy had crammed into the space. He almost made it when he tripped over a stack of books piled next to a crewel-work chair. He reached for purchase, but the chair toppled right along with Simon. He landed awkwardly on his chin and his cock and heard the unmistakable crack of breaking bone.
Damn him for a clumsy oaf—once he’d been like a cat in the dark, climbing trellises and trees, nimble and stealthy. Now, if he wasn’t mistaken, he had snapped his left wrist because Holy Mother of God and all his Saints the pain was excruciating.
Lucy flung the door open. “What are you doing on the floor?”
Simon swept the blood from his tongue. “Inspecting the carpet.”
“Well, get up and let’s get this over with. I’m tired.”
“What an enticing invitation to your bed. Just what a man wants to hear.” Perhaps he wouldn’t propose tonight after all. He rolled onto his back, the corner of one book biting into his shoulder blade. “Lucy, would you please ring for MacTavish?”
“What for? From the smell of you, you’ve had enough brandy. No wonder you’re falling on your face.”
“It was the damned books,” Simon ground out. “I am not drunk.”
“Ha. I suppose you’re going to tell me it was only a business dinner.”
“It was only a business dinner. I admit I had a brandy. One.”
Now he wished he’d had more. Simon closed his eyes, willing the spiraling stars away. He heard Lucy take a long sniff, and couldn’t resist looking up at her to see her lovely nose twitch. She had some nerve being so judgmental when she was dead drunk that first morning he found her in bed.
“Lucy, I’m sorry if the smell of my breath offends you, but you must get MacTavish. I believe I’ve broken my wrist.” Simon’s stomach flipped and he wondered if he was going to puke on the carpet. He devoutly hoped not.
“What?” She stepped closer and bent over, a long braid dangling above Simon’s face. “Your chin is bleeding!”
“My tongue, too.” He hoped his cock was in one piece. “I landed funny. Broke my—dignity.”
“Devil take it! Let me see your wrist.”
Simon realized he had been squeezing it with his right hand. Good thing it was only the left, although he was ambidextrous. He’d made his fortune with his hands, and damn him if he was out of commission for any length of time.
Lucy was on her knees now, a lovely sight, backlit from the firelight of her bedroom. She was all copper wire and porcelain, her eyes narrowing as she examined him without touching. “Does it hurt?”
Simon considered telling the truth. But he was a man, and men did not complain of pain. “I’ll be all right.”
“Of course you will! It’s only a broken bone. Maybe just sprained.”
He wanted to tell her there was nothing ‘only’ or ‘sprained’ about it, but held his bloody tongue.
Lucy bit her lip in concentration. “It doesn’t look right.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m telling you. Fetch MacTavish.”
“Don’t you trust me to splint it?”
Simon considered. Lucy would probably love to torture him as she wrapped his wrist, wiggling and waggling it until he’d want her to cut his hand off. On the whole he thought he’d rather have MacTavish. Or a doctor. Or, if it came to it, a priest. The priest could marry them and then give him extreme unction.
Lord, but he was being missish. It was, as Lucy said, ‘only’ a broken bone. He was nowhere near to dying, just wishing he was.
“MacTavish has experience with this kind of thing. He raised two boys.”
“Yes, boys are known to be daredevils. I remember you.”
“I’ll not be scaling any walls tonight. Please, Luce, get MacTavish.”
It was all he could do to screw his eyes up and not cry. The pain was shooting to his elbow now, like sharp shards of glass pricking up under his skin. He’d escaped injury in the war—he’d been hustled off the battlefield once his superiors recognized he had a brain to go with his brawn, and had lived a relatively charmed life. One broken wrist was not going to get the better of him.
“Don’t move.”
As if he could. He watched the flounce of Lucy’s nightgown flutter around the doorjamb. He wished he’d asked her to remove the book out from under him before she left.
What rot. He didn’t have to lie there like a beached whale on wool carpet. Simon struggled to sit up, the room spinning unhelpfully. He looked down at his cuff, suddenly much tighter than it had been. Clumsily he unfastened the small knot of gold that pierced the linen of his shirt and tossed it aside. His hand was swelling and turning red. Blast.
Lucy returned with MacTavish in tow, holding a leather satchel. The butler had donned his nightwear after delivering the bad news about Lord Ferguson, and he had apparently stuffed his nightcap into the pocket of his dressing gown. The tassel flicked forward as he bent to Simon.
“What have ye done now, lad?”
“You needn’t make it sound like finding me on my arse is a regular occurrence. Miss Dellamar will think I’m a bull in a china shop.”
“Hush. Can you move your fingers?”
Simon gritted his teeth and tried. The shards of glass united into one giant pane of pain.
“I see not. Aye, it’s likely broken. Miss Dellamar, if you will be so kind as to step out of the room?”
Lucy looked very pale above him, lik
e an angel, or what Simon thought an angel should look like. He wasn’t really anxious to go to heaven anytime soon and find out for sure. He had plenty of time left on earth to atone for his faults, and the first order of business was to make Lucille Elaine Dalhousie his bride, even if she’d been sinful enough for both of them. He’d speak to God, explain. Build the Old Fellow an engine if words wouldn’t work. Good Lord, he was losing his mind and was very much afraid he was about to lose his expensive dinner.
His future wife twisted her braid between nervous white fingers. “Will he be all right?”
“I’ll see to it. Dinna fash yourself.”
Simon watched her swallow, her long neck a lovely thing. She should have diamonds around her throat, bright stars that proved his love for her. He would see to it tomorrow—not stolen jewels, but a set from Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. If the firm was good enough for Prinny—King George IV now—Simon supposed he could find something that suited his Lucy.
“Don’t worry about me, Luce. I’ll be fine. It’s only my left hand, after all.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lucy slipped from the room. “A chamber pot, Mac. Or a vase. Anything will do.”
“That’s the way of it then.”
For an older man, MacTavish stepped lively and supplied Simon with an empty receptacle into which he promptly vomited. “Sorry. Tried to keep it in.”
MacTavish nodded, pitching the vile contents down into the garden through a hastily opened window. “Trying to look the hero for your lady. If you ask me, you’ll use this mishap to your advantage.”
“I’m not asking you,” Simon said, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. “What do you mean?”
“Anyone with an eye in his head can see you’re head-over-heels for the woman. And women like to play nurse. Let her take care of you and you’ll work your way into her heart.”
“It’s only a snapped wrist, Mac. It’s not a mortal wound.”
MacTavish knelt beside him, rummaging through the satchel for a splint. “Aye, I know it. You’ll soon be good as new. But think, man, you won’t be able to button up your own breeches.”
Improper Gentlemen Page 16
