Pride & Passion (16 page)

“What are you dreams, Luce? I don’t think you’ve ever spoken of them.”

It must be the exhaustion that was making her tongue loose. Or maybe she was tired in another way—the way the spirit and soul fatigue from years of coldness and isolation.

“I’ve given up on them,” she whispered, unable to speak in her normal tone for fear Issy would hear her voice break. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t it?” Issy forced Lucy to look her in the eye. “I think it’s never been more important, Luce. You’ve dragged this piece out of hiding for a reason.”

Smiling sadly, she looked at the comical, misshapen bed. “It gives me comfort, I think. Makes me think back to a time when I was truly happy, when I believed that I…mattered to someone.”

When she looked up it was to see Issy’s eyes filling with tears. “You do matter, Lucy. You matter so much to me, and it is killing me, absolutely destroying me to see you in so much pain. Find your dreams,” she whispered. “Resurrect the old ones, but please…find that place that brings you peace. The past cannot be undone, I know that. But the pain of it can be healed.”

Swiping at her eyes before the tears could fall, Lucy looked down at their locked hands. “I used to dream of a garden, filled with roses and wisteria, and a lavender path and a lovely fence made of stone, with a white gate that creaked when you opened it. And beyond the gate was a white gabled cottage, made of ancient stones, and large windows that overlooked the rolling hills of the countryside. I used to imagine myself puttering in the garden, while children dressed in white dresses and white short pants played merrily around me. And then I would glance up and see him standing there, watching me…and I…and I saw the love shining in his eyes. The acceptance of his place alongside me. Silly, romantic drivel,” she sniffed, as she waved her hand before her eyes. “Such a girlish, nonsensical dream.”

“To wish for a husband who loves you? Children, made with the man you love? A home that feels warm and inviting, cozy and lived in, instead of a showpiece in the heart of Mayfair?” Issy asked. “Luce, it’s not nonsensical, it’s simple and warm, and it’s the furthest thing from what you had as a child.”

“It is the dream of a country-bred miss,” she muttered. “Ladies of my class must aspire to a dukedom, a monstrosity of limestone and long galleries decorated with portraits of dead relatives. It is separate chambers,
separate social schedules, separate lives, except for the matter of the heir—then we might meet and join in conjugal relations until I am with child. And then, after, my husband will amuse himself with his mistress until the next time a child is desired, leaving me to spend my days and nights alone, a lonely bird in a gilded cage. But I would live in a dirty old stoop if I could have a mate who regarded me with a little more than just a sense of duty.”

“Oh, Luce, you will have that!”

Lucy smiled sadly. “No, I will not. I’ve gone cold inside, I had to. When you’re cold, the pain doesn’t penetrate, the sense of loss cannot break through. There are no dreams. Only realities. But I learned something that day, when my father broke my heart and shattered everything that I used to dream of in the night—I learned that I would not allow him to control me entirely. I know my duty, and I will perform it, but I will not just give up my life to a man he deems perfect. I won’t give him that, allowing him to choose who I will wed, who I will lie in bed with and who will father my children. I will appease some of his dictates, but not all.”

Issy bit her lip. “And the duke, Luce? Where does he fit into all this?”

She thought of Mrs. Fraser for some strange reason, and the eyes she had seen flash before her during the trance. She thought of her friend, standing in the door, crushed when her father had stormed into the kitchen and mocked the gift—then mocked her friend. She thought of Thomas, and what she had not shared with him—then allowed herself to think of Sussex, and what she had experienced with him.

No answer came, only confusion and the mad thumping in her heart. Reaching for the wooden piece, she cradled it carefully, allowed the peace and calm it always gave her to infuse her soul.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I…I don’t want to know, really.”

The door opened, and Sybilla barged in, carrying a letter. She was out of breath, Lucy realized, and she stood up abruptly, wondering if it was about her father. Why she thought that, she had no idea.

“A message boy just brought this around,” she gasped, clearly out of breath from running up flights of stairs. “It’s urgent, I’m told.”

Reaching for the letter, Lucy scanned the contents, then felt her blood boil. “Sybilla, come along. I need you.”

Oooh, he was not going to get away with this.

B
LOODY HELL, HE’D
done it now, lost his head. Groaning with the realization of it all, he wiped his palms down his face, trying to collect himself, and forget about those incredibly arousing moments when he was rocking his body against Lucy.

Lost his head, and then some, he thought. How could he have let it go so far? It was just bloody good luck he had happened to have an extra set of trousers at the house because his… Well, he just couldn’t have escorted Lucy home in the state he had been in. He hadn’t handled matters well. Hell, he hadn’t even talked to her, but he hadn’t trusted himself. He had wanted to hold her for longer, to sit her on his lap and whisper that he would take care of everything, that they would be married. Something had made him keep his mouth shut—tightly. Telling Lucy that they were going to marry wouldn’t win her over to him—despite what they had shared. And asking…well, she hadn’t looked in the mood to entertain an offer. She looked perplexed by the whole thing.

One thing he had been certain of was that
Thomas
hadn’t bothered to pleasure Lucy to climax. Bastard! She’d been utterly shocked, and terrified of the experience, but it had given him such strength, such pride to know that he was the first man to pleasure her to such
passion. The knowledge had made him reckless, and he had not thought of anything but making the experience nothing less than earth-shattering for her. Unfortunately it wasn’t part of the plan for him to shatter in his trousers. But he could not regret it. Watching her come had been the most beautiful thing in the world to him. It likely always would be.

“What’s with you?” Black demanded. “Are you ill?”

He had nearly forgotten he had company. He wished they would sod off and leave him in peace so he could relive every single second of last night with Lucy.

Nursing the effects of overindulgence was something the Duke of Sussex had very little experience with—and he was making a bloody hash of it, truth be told. But nursing said overindulgence while staring down his fellow Guardians was truly something he had no experience—or patience—with.

Black and Alynwick had barged into his study not more than ten minutes before, rousing him, perturbing him and downright irritating him.

“What the devil d’ ye think ye were doing, fobbing me off at Grantham Field?” Alynwick asked indignantly. “Ye were supposed to be my second!”

“No,” Adrian growled impatiently, “one of us was supposed to be your second, and because you showed up at the Sumner’s musicale, drunk and itching for a fight, I had to bodily remove you from said musicale, and was, ergo, not able to perform as your second when I wanted to shoot you my goddamn self!” he roared.

“I wasn’t drunk,” Alynwick grumbled. “Itchin’ for a fight, aye, but no’ drunk.”

“Careful,” Black said with some amusement, “your
cultured English accent is giving way to your heathen Highland one.”

Black was hardly helping. After sending the earl a glare, Adrian settled his dark expression upon Alynwick. “Surely you did not believe that it was the thing to do to be your second after the stir you caused at the Sumner’s? Everyone saw what happened, and how I had to remove your arm from Sheldon’s throat!”

“Get to the point, ye windbag.”

He’d had it with Alynwick, and the events that had led to this impromptu early-morning visit and the disruption of his musings of Lucy. “My point, you infuriating brute, is this. We are not supposed to be anything more than acquaintances in the eyes of the ton. We’re to pretend that our own private circles do not cross, so no one will suspect our true purpose—in ways we have all vowed never to reveal. And then you stroll in and force my hand, making my sister the object of ridicule and gossip, and you wonder why I didn’t come and perform as your second! The reason, you Highland ninny, is simple, because no one would believe it! No one would think it plausible that we were out for a pint, met up, and I just merrily agreed to travel at dawn to some godforsaken farmer’s field to aid you in putting a bullet hole in someone when not four hours before you were importuning my sister and nearly killing the Earl of Sheldon!”

Black’s gaze volleyed between them then he groaned. “Alynwick, you didn’t. Good God, you did, didn’t you?”

The marquis was not chastened, and more to the point, he looked like he was ready to fight again. “You
didn’t force me away from anything,” he sneered, “I
allowed
you to tear me off that piece of trash.”

“And how do you know anything about Sheldon,” Sussex growled, “when your face is constantly gazing into the bottom of a whiskey decanter?”

Alynwick lunged over the desk, but Black caught him by the coat, and hauled him back. “None of that, now,” he grunted as he tossed Alynwick into the chair, who only tried to stand right back up. “Stay!” Black shouted, pointing at the marquis as if he were a biddable canine.

“I’m no’ a bloody mongrel to heed your commands.”

“Really?” Black straightened his waistcoat and resumed his seat. “You look like something that’s been roaming the street for weeks. Where did you go after my carriage dropped you off après duel?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“By the stench of you, I think I already do.”

Alynwick sent Black a glare, then slid deeper into his chair, his big hands rifling through his hair.

“Good God, Alynwick, what the devil were you thinking coming to the Sumners’ and stirring up that scene? It’ll be in all the gossip rags this morning, and we don’t need that kind of exposure. Damn you!” Sussex growled.

Now sulking and brooding, and definitely looking capable of murder, the marquis stared out the window. “A provocation, I believe.” He was under control now, his brogue banished. “I was never good at resisting taunts.”

“Taunts?” Black asked, his brow quizzical as he looked between Alynwick and Sussex. Adrian just
shrugged. He had no idea what Alynwick meant by that, and his head hurt too damn much to reason it through. All he wanted was a bit of sulphur tonic and his bed with cool sheets and his mind filled with lovely dreams of Lucy.

“I told you,” Alynwick growled with quiet menace, “to leave her out of this.”

“We’re afraid, old boy, that neither one of us understands a damned thing coming out of your mouth.”

“Elizabeth!”
The name was said in a rage, making Sussex sit back in his chair. “Damn you both, don’t you know the trouble she can get into? It could make matters worse for us. She has no place in this matter.”

“Dear me,” came a sweetly feminine voice from the doorway. “All this roaring and fighting, it’s awakened the entire house.”

Adrian saw the way Alynwick stiffened, but he kept his gaze focused on the gray streaks of daylight breaking through the rain clouds.

“Elizabeth, do come in,” he said.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” the marquis muttered, rising.

“Really, Alynwick, don’t be so childish. Do you think I am naive? I know exactly what you think of me, my infirmity and my limited skill in aiding your cause. You don’t have to go slinking off because I’ve overheard you.”

“My apolo—”

“I don’t require that, either,” she said. “Because it’s a lie. You aren’t sorry. It’s what you feel. Don’t bother to deny it.”

“You have no idea what I fe—”

With a slight wave of her hand, she effectively cut him dead, and the expression on the marquis’s shocked and indignant face gave Sussex his first grin of the day.

“Do carry on,” Lizzy ordered. “I only came for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hammond claims to have brought you a tray, and I don’t want to wait for another one to be sent up.”

Black did the honors pouring, and would have carried it out for her, but Sussex knew his sister was too proud. So he watched as Black carefully passed her the cup and saucer, her fingers securely holding the handle. “Now then, keep it down, if you please, or the servants will be privy to everything. I heard two maids giggling as I approached the study, no doubt they were spying. As an aside, Lucy and I will be meeting today. It’s likely she’ll come here, so I hope the three of you make yourself scarce, because I plan on quizzing her about matters.”

“What matters?” Alynwick demanded.

“That, my lord, is none of your concern. Seek your own clues and I will seek mine. Now, then, come along, Rosie,” she said regally, and obeying her ladyship, the spaniel nudged Lizzy in the right direction, far away from anything that might impede Lizzy’s elegant exit.

“Damned female,” Alynwick grunted, “a curse and pox on headstrong women who won’t be led by a man.”

“I daresay you’ll have half the women of London sporting pox marks and curses, Alynwick.”

The marquis scowled at Black, but continued to watch Lizzy disappear beyond the door. Lizzy was a strong woman, Adrian always admired that about her, but lately he’d tested the waters with a strong-willed
female himself, and found it just as annoying as Alynwick was finding his sister. Yes, he thought, remembering the events of last night. Oh, yes, a curse and a pox, and pounding head, not to mention a dull ache that continued to throb in his nether regions.

“Now then, if you please, gentlemen,” Black murmured as he sat in the chair opposite Sussex’s desk, sipping away at his tea as though he were a damned prince. “The task is done, the objective reached and our mission can commence,” he said smoothly. “I acted as second, performed a credible act and now it, to be clichéd, is all water under the bridge.”

“Oh, go to hell, Black,” Alynwick muttered as he sunk farther into the chair that matched Black’s. “You’re being a self-righteous bastard, and I’d love to shove my fist in that smug face of yours.”

Black’s black brows rose over the rim of his teacup, and Adrian groaned, closing his eyes while attempting to work out the kinks in his neck, caused by an imprudent night’s sleep on the library sofa.

“Aren’t we all pleasantness this morning.”

Sussex and Alynwick both grunted. Black, the bastard, looked fit and rested—and was unmercifully enjoying himself.

“So, what is our next move? Sussex, have you learned any more about the coins or Orpheus?”

“As a matter of fact I have, just last night—”

“Your pardon, your grace,” his butler said from the door.

“What is it now?” he groaned, sending his young butler, Hastings, scurrying behind the door, only to peer around the wood.

“You have a caller.”

“What?”

“A caller. A visitor,” Hastings clarified as if Sussex were a dimwit.

“Now? At this hour?”

Lord, he had a devil of a headache, and he hadn’t yet shaved, nor brushed his hair. He was a hell of a sight and didn’t seem to care, either. It was most unseemly for the highly proper Duke of Sussex to be in dishabille, let alone allowing anyone to witness the state.

It also wasn’t like him to drink to excess, but he had, when he had arrived home after depositing Lucy off after their… What the hell did he call what they did? He’d drank half a decanter of his finest single malt scotch if he remembered correctly. Hell, after that much he should be facedown, unconscious. But here he was, hung over and taciturn and itching for a fight.

“Your grace?” Hastings asked after discreetly clearing his throat. “Shall I send her on her way?”

Her?
His head shot up from his hands, making him bilious with syncope and blurred vision. Perhaps he was still drunk.
Disgustingly drunk,
the little redheaded pixie had hurled at him with frank disgust. Only then, he hadn’t been this drunk. What would she think of him now? he wondered.

Before he could tell Hastings to put his caller into a salon to await him, a vision in emerald-green velvet trimmed with black satin glided through the door, making Hastings grow white with horror.

“And what is the meaning of this?”

Lucy was in a rage. And she was staring at him with barely contained loathing.

“I do not,” she spat, “respond to this sort of blackmail. Oh, good day, Lord Black, Lord Alynwick.” She dropped a quick but polite curtsey then turned once more to face him. Slamming a folded piece of paper on his desk, Adrian winced as the sound of her delicate hands hitting wood ricocheted around his brain.

“Good morning, Lady Lucy, might I offer you some tea?”

“No, you may not.” Her eyes were wild, sparkling like precious gems in the daylight. “You, your grace, may offer me an explanation.”

She pointed to the letter, and he followed her finger with his gaze.

“Good Lord,” she murmured. “Have you even been to bed?”

Reaching for the letter, he grumbled, “No, more’s the pity.” With a wave, he ushered his friends away, but they were being obtuse, or rather playing at it. When he sent them both a glare, they took their bloody time rising from the chairs, as if they were both moldering old arthritics.

They were just strolling across the study when Mrs. Hammond, his housekeeper, screamed with such a bloodcurdling howl that Sussex dropped the missive and jumped up from his chair, banging his knee in the process, causing him to release a litany of expletives that no lady at all should be privy to.

“Your grace,” Mrs. Hammond shouted. “Oh, good God in heaven! Your grace! You must come!”

All of them ran into the hall only to find the plump housekeeper, her white linen cap askew, running down
the hall from the kitchen. She was breathless, her arms flailing.

“What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” he asked, catching the woman by the shoulders.

“There now, lass,” Alynwick said. “Take a deep breath and tell us. It can’t be as bad as all this.”

The housekeeper’s brown eyes were wild with fear. Shaking her head, she looked between the marquis and himself. “Oh, it can, your lordship. It can be worse. Oh.” She cried into her apron. “It’s over there, your grace, at the door of the kitchen gardens. A dead body—oh, I shall never recover from it.”

Adrian was first to reach the kitchen. He could see upon entering the room that the garden door was open, and a wheelbarrow heaped with leaves and twigs sat on the flag path.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled as his boots rang shrill beats with his steps. When he reached the barrow he stopped—frozen. Blue satin spilled from the barrow, and he closed his eyes, and whispered a plea that it was not true.