Pride & Passion (8 page)

“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…
”

“M
Y 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.”

“Lizzy, my mood has nothing to do with the occult, I assure you.”

She could not confide in Isabella now. Her cousin
was married to Black. Black was a Brethren Guardian, the Brethren were hunting for Thomas, whom they believed killed Wendell Knighton and who might even be this mysterious Orpheus they talked of. It would put Issy in a terrible place, and Lucy couldn’t do it. Besides, all these revelations were too fresh. She needed time and solitude to sort them.

She knew so little of the facts, only this: she had given her embroidered handkerchief to Thomas, and then he had disappeared, believed to have died in a fire. Then he had been seen on the rooftop of the Masonic Lodge and witnessed to have shot Wendell Knighton. When Sussex had given chase, the lace had been dropped. Sussex’s description had led her to believe it was Thomas.

Despite dabbling in the occult, Lucy didn’t believe a man who was supposed to be dead could simply appear alive and well. Obviously Thomas had never died, if indeed the man Sussex had chased had been him. And because he had never died, she had to face the fact that for some reason, Thomas had wanted her to believe that he had. And that didn’t sit well with her. She had trusted him. He had promised to make her his wife. She’d believed that, but now…well, there were things that needed to be explained before she could make complete sense of this whole business. And there was still the matter of Sussex and his refusal to see Thomas as anything but his enemy. And she couldn’t even bring herself to think of the other concern with Sussex—that her father wanted her to marry him.
That,
she could not bring herself to think on.

“Ah, Lucy, you make me worry, cousin.”

“Issy,” she said, smiling as she reached for her cousin’s hand. “Truly, I’m fine.”

With a doubtful glance, Issy sat back against the squabs. “I shall not let this rest, you know. I can be as tenacious as dog with a bone.”

“I know. Trust me, I know your faults as well as my own.”

“Will you not at least think on the matter of Sussex? I know…that is…well, I have a feeling that Sussex has developed a rather strong attachment to you.”

She let out a loud, irritated sigh. “Isabella, you are a woman hopelessly in love, with a man who is just as hopelessly in love with you. Think on your marriage, now think on Sussex and myself. Do we appear to be anything more than barely civilized acquaintances?”

“One can feel that there is more between you than meets the eye.”

“In this you are wrong, Issy. Sussex wishes an alliance, and since he has Papa’s heartfelt approval, he’s focused on me to take to wife. It’s nothing short of a business transaction between Sussex and my father. And I won’t be a part of it.”

“How will you manage then tonight?” she asked. “Spending hours in the duke’s company?”

Closing her eyes, Lucy tried to forget the impending hours of torture that awaited her. “I will try to remember the expression on Lizzy’s face, that’s how. It is for her that I’m doing this.”

“She was rather enraptured by the idea, wasn’t she? What did you think of her story?” Isabella asked, quickly derailing their conversation. “I was completely shocked by it. The nerve and utter callousness of Alynwick!”

“Yes, how she must have suffered,” Lucy murmured. She recalled the trembling of Lizzy’s hands, and the way her eyes had filled with tears that would not spill.

“To abandon her because of her impending blindness. Oh, the cruelty. I won’t be able to look at him the same way again.”

There had been such sadness in Elizabeth’s gray eyes. Such pain. Lucy had felt an immediate connection with her friend at the moment, realizing that they shared the same sort of bond. A love most painful.

Lost in thought, Lucy continued to gaze out the window as the carriage made slow progress down the street to where Black’s and her father’s town houses stood across the road from one another.

The fashionable hour was approaching, and although it was November, those that remained in town still made the daily jaunt to Hyde Park to see and be seen.

The carriages blended into a sea of black; the sound of carriage wheels splashing into puddles mesmerized her. Isabella was chatting away. Lucy heard her voice in the distance, but couldn’t seem to focus on the conversation. Her mind was caught up in thoughts, and memories, and the beginnings of a plan for tonight.

Dipping to the right, the carriage made its turn down Grosvenor, her street. The streetlights had come on, and the misty rain was now becoming a heavy blanket of fog that wrapped itself around the lampposts. Her gaze, caught by the haunting beauty of the mist, lingered over a post, and a man who stood tall, his head bent, his silhouetted figure so familiar. Pulse quickening, she pressed against the side of the carriage, her gloved hand thrust against the window. Every nerve in
her body stood to attention, and her breath froze in her lungs, as his head slowly raised, and a pair of dark eyes peered out at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

My God…

She gasped, and Isabella asked what was wrong. But how could she speak? What words did she say?

Arm lifting, he took the tall hat from his head, revealing the golden curls she remembered so well.

Thomas?

“Come to me…”

She saw him mouth those words, read them so easily as they spilled from his mouth. With a cry, she moved closer to the window, pressing up against it, as the carriage pulled away, tearing him from her field of vision. She wouldn’t allow it. She tried to call out to stop the carriage, but her voice would not work. Instead her entire being was frozen, trying to absorb everything, to recall this moment so she could think on it.

This was no vision or trance she was seeing. Not a dream, or a dead man walking amongst mist. He was real, and he was alive…and he had come for her.

Everything sharpened to clear focus. He was very much alive, and he was looking at her like he used to. No, Sussex was wrong about him. He was not a killer. But there were questions to be asked and answered.

Soon. She would find a way to him, and then her mind would be put to ease.

Wait for me, Thomas…

“Y
OU’RE NERVOUS
.”

“Whatever gave you that notion?” Adrian grumbled as he struggled to cease fidgeting in the coach. He had
already dispensed with his hat and greatcoat, yet sweat trickled down his neck, making his linen shirt stick to his skin. Despite the chill in the night Adrian felt hot and uncomfortable, the confines of the carriage nothing short of a cage that he felt compelled to prowl inside.

He was on edge, strung high and tight, and ready to explode with the energy that was tightly tethered inside him. He had been in a simmering rage ever since his meeting with Lucy in the conservatory. To finally have her feelings for him laid out before him was demoralizing—and anger-provoking. Never before had he felt like such a charlatan, an actor in a play he no longer wanted to perform. He wanted to be who he was, who he was born to be, not who his father said he must be. But he risked too much revealing his true self. He couldn’t show Lucy the truth inside him, and as a result he was left feeling like a rampaging boar.

Damn the woman, did she not have an inkling of his feelings? That he wanted her not only as his duchess, but his wife, his lover? Any other woman would have at least softened the blow, but not Lucy. She made damn clear her feelings so there would be no misunderstandings.

She did not want him. But he would bet his fortune that despite her feelings, she had wanted that kiss he teased her with.

“Good Lord, I can feel you flopping about over there like a rat with its leg caught in a trap.”

“Lizzy,” he said on a sigh, which of course made her laugh.

“Adrian, I have never known you to suffer from nerves. Shall I fetch my vinaigrette from my reticule?”

He glared across the carriage, not that it did much good. “You are the last woman in the world to suffer from swoons, Lizzy. I happen to know you would not be caught dead toting a vinaigrette.”

Her smile was brilliant in the dim light of the carriage lamps. She looked radiant tonight, with her thick black hair piled high in an elaborate style. The mother of pearl clips she had used gave her a mystical, almost otherworldly aura. And the twilight-blue gown she wore was the perfect color to rest against her pale skin. How he wished she could have seen her own reflection in the looking glass.

“Lizzy, your beauty is dazzling,” he said as he reached for her hand. “Truly, I cannot imagine a more lovely woman.”

“Yes, you can, Adrian. Lucy Ashton.”

He groaned, unable to stand the torture of hearing her name. For weeks now, he had thought of that morning when he had cornered her in her father’s house. His thoughts had been consumed by her, and the way her green eyes had been flat and sad. He’d cut her to the quick, he had realized that, but the need to see deeper into her mind, and her secrets, ate at him like a poison that coursed through his blood.

She was not what she would have people think of her. She was not the aloof society miss who cared for naught but her own selfish needs. He knew that, just couldn’t understand why she sought comfort in such a thing as being thought of as selfish and indulged. But then, he had learned through his father’s “lessons” that there was nothing more repugnant than a weak man. The ton ate the weak for afternoon tea. He had seen it
firsthand. Perhaps Lucy had learned that lesson as well, that a soft heart was easy prey for the vicious appetites of society.

Whatever the reason, she had not been distant that afternoon. No, she had softened as he held her, cradled her delicate face in his hands. By God, it had taken every ounce of self-discipline to keep his mind—and hands—in check. He had wanted to kiss her senseless, punish her lips with his own. And what was more, there had been a fleeting flash of her eyes that told him she had been waiting for his kiss. Or had he just wished it there? he wondered, not for the first time.

“It was very kind of Lucy to think of me,” Elizabeth said as the carriage rocked them in a slow, comforting sway. “She has become a very dear friend to me.”

He had hoped, at one time, that Lucy might be more to Elizabeth. A sister in marriage, as a matter of fact. But those plans had gone awry. But there was still hope. Still a plan that could be executed. It had not been a jest, what he had said that afternoon to her. He
would
become the very air she breathed, because he would not malinger, waiting for fate to tug him along. He was taking matters into his own hands, and those hands would not allow Lucy to discover and protect her lover. Fate would not take her away from him.