“I have no designs to ruin you, Lucy,” he whispered quietly.
“Why didn’t you share what you discovered about me, and this man you claim killed Knighton? Why do you still keep it hidden?” she asked, wondering aloud.
“It was not important.”
“You led me to believe it was when you returned the handkerchief to me.”
“I am still investigating the matter. When I am confident I know everything there is, I shall confide in Black and Alynwick. You may be assured of my discretion, I will not name you.”
“Your investigation will not lead you to the man you think I am connected to. Thomas would not kill another.”
“He carried your handkerchief. You agreed the man I chased bore a resemblance to the man you believed had died. Tell me, Lucy, how does one suddenly become re-animated?”
“If you think to tease me, your grace, about my interest in the occult, then you can be assured I do not find your barbs amusing. I allow that the similarities in their appearance is strange, but I am sure once I have a chance to speak with Thomas, it will all be revealed, and we will learn that the man you hunt, is someone else entirely.”
“You play a very dangerous game, believing in a man who has allowed you to believe him dead and gone.”
Lucy was aware the moment the energy in the room changed to something dark and dangerous—and barely contained. That energy, she realized, emanated from the duke, the man who was always in control, always proper. But he was no longer.
“Tell me, then, have you seen him? Has he visited you, written to you? Have you met clandestinely, an assignation at a ball, or the theater?”
He was being purposely rude—and hurtful. Stiffening her spine, Lucy tried to make herself appear taller—and stronger. “What business is it of yours, if we have met?”
He glared at her, and she noticed how a muscle in his angular jaw twitched. “I have every right to know—his existence, his presence, his every movement is my business.”
“If that is so, then you must already know the answer to your impertinent questioning. You are, after all, a Brethren Guardian.”
“Just answer the question!” he growled dangerously. “Has he come to you?”
“Your line of questioning shocks me, your grace. It tells me that you have had limited success in running your quarry to ground, and you seek answers about him through me.”
He laughed despairingly, the mirth not quite reaching his eyes. “I seek many things from you, Lucy, but answers to any questions about your past liaison with a murdering bastard are not among them.”
She flinched at his tone, at the unfounded statement that Thomas could have caused a man’s death. “You wrongfully accuse him! And I shall not hand him over to you until I know the truth.”
“Please do not trouble yourself. I prefer the chase, the hunt, if you wish to discuss it in such terms. Why should I wish to have him deposited on my doorstep? It would only deprive me of the pleasure of running him to the ground and skewering him like the reptile I believe him to be.”
Fisting her hands at her sides, she fought for control. “You are so gravely wrong about him, and I shall not stand by and allow it.”
He shrugged, cocked his head to the side. “How will you stop me?”
“By any means necessary.”
“Such steadfast loyalty,” he murmured. “One wonders what he did to deserve it.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“You are, of course, correct. It is not my concern, but it is a question that I cannot help myself from asking. I am always left wondering how he accomplished it, when I have been so unfortunate as to inspire in you nothing more than glares, and looks of disgust. He seduces you and leaves you alone, to bear whatever consequences might have arisen from your liaison—and he is awarded with your protection. I compliment you on your beauty, and wish to offer you an honest courtship, and you glare at me as though I were a rat nibbling on your hem.”
Thomas had promised her everything the duke hadn’t. Angrily, she tossed out the first thing that came to mind. “He was at least sincere in his compliments.”
His dark brow arched, his eyes darkening dangerously. “And I am not?”
“You are determined to press your suit, to further the plan you and my father have so coldly undertaken together. I believe you capable of saying anything if it suited your purposes.”
“You find me mercenary, then? The villain to his hero?”
“I do not find you anything, other than completely wrong for a choice in husband.”
“You’ve cast your lot with the wrong side, love,” he said, his voice softening, whispering evocatively with his upper-class accent. “I mean to destroy him—utterly.”
“So, you have decided, in your own words, to ‘run him to ground’ because I hold an affection for him, and none for you.” He flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but she saw it, and the way he recovered with remarkable speed. “That is really the issue in play, isn’t it? You’ve taken offence to the knowledge that I have, in the past, cared for someone—”
“Cared, not loved?” he asked, his gaze acute—watching.
She chose to ignore him, and continued on. “This is your way of bullying me, isn’t it, your grace? You have made plans with my father, and both of you assumed that I would comply like an obedient young woman should. But you have made a grave error—both of you. I am not complacent. I will not bow to the dictates of you or my father. This isn’t at all about your precious Brethren Guardians—this is about bringing me to heel by using my affection for another man.”
“It has everything to do with the Brethren Guardians.”
“And your pride!”
He glared at her. “And what of your pride? You purposely protect someone who callously took your innocence, then left you, only to reappear from God knows where to murder someone—and still you protect him. But only because your pride is hurt because your father arranged to have you courted by a man who would make you a duchess. The audacity,” he mocked, “such a brute your father is, wanting to see you settled and secure—and safe.”
Crimson rose to consume her cheeks, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. “You would make me nothing but miserable!”
“And he will make you happy, then, this furtive lover of yours, who comes and goes as it pleases him, taking what he desires, and leaving you with nothing but heartache and regrets?”
Her chin rose defiantly. “I have no regrets. Besides, you know nothing about him, about the truth of what has happened. He is innocent, I know it. I am a good judge of character, and his is the very best. He would never kill anyone, and he must have had good reason to do what he did. He wanted only my protection, he told me that. I believed him then, and I still do.”
“He won’t have you,” Sussex vowed, his voice nothing but a feral growl. “Of that I can promise you.”
“What shall you do, your grace? Blackmail me? Will you spare his life if I consent to marry you. Is that what you are trying to say?”
“No. I will spare him nothing.”
“And what then?”
“You’ll be mine. Of that I have no doubt.”
“I cannot believe that. You said we were enemies.”
“No. I said he would be my enemy. Never you, Lucy.”
“It is one in the same, is it not?”
“No, it is not.”
He finished his stroll and came to stand before her. Reaching for her hand, he gently uncurled her fingers, exposing the smooth skin of her palm, then he placed the pink lily he had plucked into her hand. When their gazes met, she noticed the duke’s eyes had warmed. The cool gray was now warm silver, the black pupil bigger, dilated as he stood so tall above her, his face angled down, creating a heated intimacy between them. When he released her hand she exhaled with a sense of relief, only to catch her breath as he cupped her cheeks with his large, warm palms.
“No, it is not the same, far from it. But if you insist that we must be enemies
, then I must be honest and inform you that I believe in the old adage, that one must keep his friends close, but his enemies closer. I know what I saw that morning on the rooftop—I saw what he did, and I intend to prove it you, to find him, to hunt him down and make you see him as I saw him, if it’s the last bloody thing I do.”
The tension in the room swiftly shifted from danger, to a mesmerizing intimacy, and Lucy was powerless to brace against the effect. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, barely a whisper. “How do you plan to do such a thing, your grace?”
Angling her face up to his, they were now eye to eye, mouth to mouth. She could feel the warmth of his breath—scented, not with tea, but the spicy hint of brandy, brandy he must have imbibed when he went to his study. It had a curious effect on her, making her stomach flutter, and her pulse speed up.
His gaze roved over her face, and when he began to talk, the deep, rich timbre of his voice and the feel of his strong hands wound deeply into her, causing the strangest sensation in her—a feeling of acute need, of recklessness. He was robbing her of thought, of breath, of the very dislike and disdain she had always believed she held for him. He was changing the rules of their little battle, this cat and mouse game they had somehow found themselves playing, and she didn’t like it, couldn’t take the control back to where it needed to be—in her hands.
“How will I accomplish such a thing?” he said, and her lashes fluttered closed as his bottom lip scraped gently up the curve of her chin. “I’ll be everywhere you are. Your very shadow.”
His voice was a whisper now, deeply masculine and erotic. His mouth… Good God, he was making her fall apart, with just a brush of his bottom lip and the warmth of his breath caressing her skin. Behind her closed lids, she could see him, dark hair in disarray, lush mouth parted as his lips covered her skin.
“Everywhere you are, I will be. Everywhere you go, I will go. I will follow you into your dreams, stay while you sleep, watch while you eat.”
That sinful bottom lip touched hers, then played with it, brushing it, tugging on it, parting her mouth as if he had all the time in the world to play and coax. “I will be the very air you breathe.”
Slowly she opened her lids, only to see the duke staring deeply into her eyes.
“You threaten with that which you cannot possibly carry out, your grace.”
His mouth brushed hers in a whisper of a kiss, barely a brush, the faintest touch, like the tips of a hummingbird brush the leaves of a honeysuckle bush.
“No. I promise. I vow. I pledge and commit myself to the task.”
“I won’t allow you to do this. To destroy my hopes. My dreams.”
“I only want to be part of them, Lucy.”
That telling sentence was far more intimate than his mouth against hers, his breath on her face, his palms on her skin. And she tried to fight it—his hold, on both her person and deeper inside, to the place where she had always felt cold and removed. A place where she had allowed no one, not even Thomas, to see or touch. But Sussex wanted more, he saw more, and he would ask for something she did not know if she could give—if she even possessed. She had buried her softer emotions, those girlish fantasies of love everlasting, and the white knight come to rescue her from the villains for so long she had forgotten she had ever believed in love.
She had indulged that dream once, until her father had cruelly destroyed it, taking it away from her. That was when she had learned that the pain that hit one’s heart was far more powerful and painful than the stroke of a leather strap.
It was then, after the tears had been shed and dried, that Lucy had somehow allowed her fanciful dreams of love to die, only to be resurrected as something harder, and less painful. It became a pursuit not of love, but of passion. Passion was a physical thing, separated from the heart, mind and spirit. When passion ran its course it was over, leaving only pleasant memories. Love, on the other hand, when it deserted you, it left your soul shattered, your spirit unrecognizable.
As she looked up into Sussex’s eyes, she was fleetingly thrown back to that moment, when she had believed in the fairy tale, that love lasted forever, that it endured all things, only to find its way back to her. And then it dissolved, leaving her with the sensation of a broken heart, and shattered dreams.
“Lucy,” he whispered, his mouth so close. “Let me in.”
And it was for that reason that she could never marry him. Passion—on her own terms—was the only consideration. For once, she was ruthlessly honest with herself. Part of her dislike of Sussex stemmed from the realization that she would never be in control with him. He would look deep inside her, into the secret places she hid, and refused to glimpse at. She had known, almost at once, that Sussex would not be satisfied until he completely broke down her defenses, leaving her that shattered and lonely girl, whose dreams had been dashed away by a father who dictated what her life would be.
Never again would she be that pathetic creature, forced to obey. She would rebel against his wishes, and his wish was an unfulfilling union with the duke.
“Let me go,” she whispered, struggling. But it was weak and ineffective, and Sussex would not obey. Only held her tighter, gazing down into her face with the same type of eyes that had once stared at her with the same disconcerting effect.
She tried to protest, to beg him to unhand her, but she was struck mute, and immobile. And then suddenly, he was releasing her, and she was left feeling, not grateful, or relieved, but slightly disappointed. The moment had been fraught with tension, with the temptation of a forbidden kiss amongst the flowers, and the distant trickle of water.
But the duke did not make use of it. His passion, whatever miniscule amount he possessed in his breast was locked up tighter than the crown jewels in the Tower of London.
“Good afternoon, Lady Lucy,” Sussex said, as he bowed before her. “I shall be anxiously awaiting this evening.”
“Well, I will not,” she snapped as she made a brilliant exit—full of feminine hauteur and indignation.
“Nevertheless,” he called after her, “I shall be there. Remember, the very air you breathe…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“MY HEAVENS, THAT was the oddest conversation with his grace, wouldn’t you agree? Highly peculiar and verging on improper, as well.”
“Hmm?” Lucy murmured as she gazed out the carriage window. It was late afternoon, and Grosvenor Square was bustling with carriages. Through the window, she saw the familiar faces, women who had once been friends with her mother.
Even though the Season was completed, many families with unwed daughters stayed in the city, and the pale faces of those daughters stared back at her. These were the same girls who should have been Lucy’s friends, but were not.
She didn’t have friends, not in the true sense of the word. At least not until Isabella and Elizabeth had come into her life.
“I said, verging on improper, cousin. The duke…being improper? Queer, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Issy, my mind is wandering. You were saying?”
Lucy saw the way Isabella was watching her—studying her, more like.
“The duke.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I would rather not talk of him.” Infuriating, perplexing man!
“I’m worried. That discussion of gossip was rather opportune, don’t you think? Do you believe his grace overheard us talking of Alynwick?” Isabella asked, her voice laced with concern.
“I don’t care if he did,” she replied irritably. “His grace can go hang for all I care.”
“Lucy!”
Reluctantly Lucy tore her gaze from the rain-streaked window to where Isabella sat in shadow, the brim of her feathered bonnet casting dancing shadows across her pink cheeks. Even after marriage, there was still an air of innocence about her cousin. Lucy marveled at it, and wondered what Isabella saw when she looked upon her. Unbearable sadness, in all likelihood.
“About Sussex—”
Lucy thought back to their brief encounter in the conservatory, and the same strange—and perplexing—feelings flared once again. She would not think of Sussex. She would not attempt to understand him, or to recall those seconds, when he had held her face, and stared down into her eyes. She would not recall how she had stood helpless—breathless—waiting for him to kiss her. Instead she said, “I hope this is not the point in our conversation where you attempt to change my feelings about the duke, Isabella.”
“Well, it would serve you right, especially since it was not quite a month ago you forced me to think about Black, and his scandalous pursuit of me. If you ask me, I owe it to you, a little taste of your own medicine.”
“Ha! Lord Black was perfect for you, as you have only discovered.”
“And his grace is not, is that right?”
Lucy scoffed at the absurd notion. “Of course he is not. He is a pompous prig, and I want nothing to do with him.”
“One cannot help but notice how much he looks at you, Lucy.”
“It is only to pick me apart, to discover the bits he finds lacking.”
“He kissed you once.”
“It was like kissing a fish dragged out of the Thames,” she sniffed.
“What happened between you two?” Isabella asked. “It was not like this before. This…simmering tension between you. Lucy?” Isabella watched her from beneath her bonnet brim. Her head was tilted so she could study her through the gloom of the carriage. “Please tell me what is wrong. I know something is. You are not yourself. I know you’ve been heartbroken by the loss of Thomas, but I cannot help but believe it goes deeper than that. There is a melancholy to you that wasn’t there weeks ago.”
“Too many séances,” she said, trying to make light, but she could tell that Isabella would not let up her line of questioning. She was in earnest, and concern and love shone in her eyes.
“Perhaps,” Issy answered quietly. “The occult is an invitation to darkness, as far as I am concerned, and you’ve been dabbling in it for months now.”
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