Authors: Beth Pattillo
Nick groaned. Before this little adventure was over, he was either going to have to kiss her or kill her, and he wasn’t sure which might prove the more satisfying.
LUCY SQUEAKED in surprise when the hackney drew up in front of Lady Belmont’s town house. “The trap is to be laid here?”
“We couldn’t chance losing them. Even those idiots would have come sniffing back here if they’d lost sight of the hackney. Now open the door.”
Lucy bristled. “Please,” she prompted. For a rare moment, she had the upper hand with this infuriating man, and she meant to enjoy it.
He raised one eyebrow—really, he would have made a very fine aristocrat—and looked her over as if she were a crust of molding bread. “When a man is wearing a skirt,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “he is not required to be polite.”
Lucy was wise enough to know when she had pushed him too far. She opened the door and set out the steps, hopping lightly to the ground before turning to offer her hand to Nick. If Crispin’s plan worked, Sidmouth’s men would soon be well out of the way, and she could return to Nottingham House and continue her activities. The thought brightened her considerably.
She almost laughed out loud as Nick emerged from the cab. His disguise could not have fooled anyone for above half a minute. The plumes on his bonnet knocked against the doorway of the carriage as he refused her hand and maneuvered on his own. His skirts tangled around his hessians, and he stumbled to the pavement.
“There she is!” a rough voice cried out, and Lucy turned to see the familiar pair of spies almost on their heels.
“Run,” Nick ordered. “And remember the plan.”
Lucy balked, resenting his arrogant tone.
“Go!”
She hated it, but she responded to his command. Instead of dashing up the stairs to Lady Belmont’s front door, she turned aside and scampered down the service stairs to the warren of rooms below. The cook and two scullery maids cried out in astonishment when she dashed through their midst, Nick close behind her. “Which way?” she called when she reached the far end of the kitchen.
“Left,” came the breathless reply. She turned around long enough to see Nick gasping for air.
“Corset too tight?” she called as she took off again, secretly enjoying his predicament, exhilaration and fear pumping through her chest and limbs. From behind her, she heard the scullery maids scream again as the spies followed close behind.
“Corset? Not a bit tight,” Nick ground out. He drew closer, and Lucy redoubled her speed. When they reached the end of the hallway, she stopped short.
“This way.” He grabbed her wrist, a gesture she was coming to despise, but she would have to divest him of his dictatorial attitude at some future date. He led her through an open doorway into a small anteroom that held several crates and casks stacked in neat rows against the walls.
“I hope Lord Wellstone arrives in time,” she muttered as they moved through the anteroom and into the darker chamber beyond.
Nick swung the door closed behind them, lowered the rather flimsy crossbar, and leaned against it. “If Crispin doesn’t arrive promptly, we’re done for. I can barely breathe in this contraption, much less take on those two villains again.”
Lucy looked at Nick, and her heart softened. Really, for a misguided hero, he wasn’t so terrible, and he was certainly attractive.
The air in the room smelled of smoke and earth, and a fine gray powder coated the walls. Lucy stepped nimbly around the stray bits of coal on the floor as she surveyed her surroundings. A small window next to the coal chute provided the only light.
“I’m surprised Lord Wellstone remembered this place.”
“I’m not,” Nick replied. “As a boy, he spent more time in this house than his own.” He patted the crossbar. “Told me he put this up so he could shut out the world when he needed to.”
“And his grandmother approved of skulking in the coal cellar?” Lucy’s heart ached at the thought of Lord Wellstone’s solitary childhood. She understood loneliness well enough.
The harsh clatter of boots sounded in the anteroom. “We’ve got ‘em now, ‘Ector.”
“Come help me brace this door,” Nick said. “I don’t know how long this will hold.”
Lucy hastened to comply. The door was rather narrow, and when they leaned their backs against the wood, their shoulders brushed. She looked up, and her eyes met his, her heart making that infuriating leap to her throat.
Wham!
The ruffians’ first assault on the door rattled Lucy almost as much as the look in Nick’s eyes. She pressed harder against the wood and scrambled for firmer footing.
“If they break through, stay behind me,” Nick ordered between clenched teeth.
“If they break through,” Lucy countered, “let them take me. They’ll let you alone once they have what they came for.”
Nick shot her a look that would have melted steel. “By Jove, you are the hardest woman to rescue I’ve ever met. Do you think I put on petticoats for nothing?”
Lucy felt her cheeks flush with anger, but that was preferable to the vulnerability and the attraction she felt in his presence. “You’re the most obstinate rescuer I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter,” she shot back, teeth clenched with the effort of holding the door closed as the thugs pounded on it. “I don’t need your help.” But she did, and what’s more, she hadn’t felt lonely from the moment he’d towed her down the steps of Nottingham House.
The next blow to the door slid it open several inches, and fear closed her throat. Where was Lord Wellstone?
Then, suddenly, as if she’d conjured him, she heard his voice outside. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Why are you assaulting my grandmother’s coal cellar?”
The ruffians gave two loud bellows, and then Lucy heard the unmistakable sounds of fisticuffs as Lord Wellstone and his footmen engaged the enemy.
“Just let us know when you’re finished, Crispin,” Nick called, and Lucy could see the tension flow out of him as he leaned against the door. Relief coursed through her as well, her muscles sagging so she could hardly stand.
“One moment, St. Germain,” Lord Wellstone’s voice came back, followed by the sound of a well-delivered blow and a cry of outrage mixed with pain from one of the spies.
Lucy looked at Nick again. Their eyes met once more. She drank in the sight of the incredibly handsome man next to her, outfitted in a walking dress and chipstraw bonnet, and she couldn’t stop the giggles that spilled forth. “You’ve bent your plumes,” she said, pointing toward the broken feathers.
Fortunately for her, he began to laugh as well. They stood side by side, shaking with mirth, until the grunts and thuds from the other side of the door ceased. Lucy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, after all you’ve done.” She looked up, and he was gazing at her with an unfathomable expression—not exasperation or hurt, but a sort of well
. . .
fascination.
“I think,” he drawled, faint lines appearing around the edges of his smile, “I may have met the one woman I’m quite incapable of rescuing.”
Lucy’s heart stopped, and she watched as his deep brown eyes turned even darker. The force of her attraction to him seized her once again, her knees sagging even further.
“You can come out,” Lord Wellstone called from the other side of the door, breaking the spell Nick’s gaze had cast. “The footmen have carted off your two admirers.”
The words were sobering, a summons back to reality, and Lucy lowered her gaze and stepped away from the door. Just like that, then, it was over. The last day and night had been a chain of events she would never forget, nor would she forget the strange feeling of camaraderie that had sprung up between them, but it was done now. Time to return to her home and her own difficulties. To her solitary life. To her independence. “We’d best go,” she said, nodding toward the door.
“Lucy.” He reached for her hand, but she neatly sidestepped him. Better to end the charade before she felt more than attraction for the man.
“I must return home. The duchess will be furious.”
“I’ll speak with her,” he said, and Lucy laughed at his audacity.
“I’m sure the testimony of Lady Belmont’s undergardener will carry a great deal of weight with Her Grace.” She moved around him, heart aching, and reached for the crossbar. “Thank you, but no. I will deal with her on my own.” She had learned to fend for herself, and no man, however extraordinary, could be allowed to change that. Especially this exasperating gardener who kindled a hopeless longing in her breast.
He stepped back, and Lucy opened the door, refusing to meet his eyes, although she felt their gaze quite keenly. She emerged into the anteroom just in time to see Lord Wellstone disappear into the hallway. To Lucy’s consternation, he shut the exterior door, trapping her and Nick inside the storage room.
“Lord Wellstone?” she called, confused.
“Crispin, what the devil are you up to?” Nick demanded from behind her as the key turned in the lock. Lucy rushed toward the door and turned the knob, but the stout oak refused to budge.
“Crispin! Let us out of here at once,” Nick ordered.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Nicky. The key seems to be stuck.” Lord Wellstone’s voice was heavy with laughter. “I’ll fetch a locksmith. Don’t worry, though. There’s port in the casks, and you might find some biscuit in there as well. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve dispatched our friends to a ship.”
Panic rose in Lucy’s chest.
“Crispin, don’t do this,” Nick called, but the only reply was the sound of Lord Wellstone’s boots moving down the hallway.
Lucy stared at the door in disbelief. Why would Lord Wellstone lock them up? It made no sense. Unless
. . .
But, no, surely he wouldn’t go to her stepmother. Not when he had seemed to conspire with her against the duchess the day before, when he had given her that conspiratorial grin in the sitting room, and when he had helped them trap Sidmouth’s spies.
She turned round in time to see Nick sink down on one of the crates. With a quick yank, he pulled the ridiculous bonnet from his head and flung it against the opposite wall. “Damn him.”
Lucy flinched at his language, but he had reason to curse. She would have liked to curse herself. For the first time, she realized that Nick would most likely lose his position because of their escapades. Perhaps Crispin had gone to inform Lady Belmont he had the errant gardener under lock and key. Yet, remembering the camaraderie between the two men, that seemed unlikely.
Nick reached behind him and fumbled with the buttons on the walking dress. Lucy hesitated, unsure whether to offer her assistance. When she heard the sharp rip of fabric beneath his impatient fingers, she stepped forward.
“Here. Let me.” Surprisingly, he complied, rising from the casket. “Turn round,” she ordered him and he did, presenting her with the daunting width of his shoulders.
One by one, her trembling fingers slipped the small buttons through their holes. His nearness flooded her heart with unwanted pangs of longing. To rest her cheek, even for the briefest of moments, against his strong back. To feel his body pressed against hers, as it had been when she’d awoken in Madame St. Cloud’s fairytale chamber. To feel the warmth of his fingers twining through her hair, instead of wrapped around her wrist in a domineering grip—
Before Lucy could complete her task, he tugged the garment off, and it slid down his lean hips to puddle on the floor. The white linen of the bodiced petticoat stood out in stark contrast to the olive smoothness of his skin. Wary of such temptation, she quickly undid the petticoat’s hooks. He shucked it off his arms and down, stepping out of the ridiculous garment.
Lucy tried to will herself to move, to step away from him, but her feet proved leaden and her muscles weak. Wearing only his breeches, Nick tossed the clothing to join the bonnet on the floor and turned toward her. Her breath caught in her lungs at the sight of his bare chest.
“I wouldn’t wear skirts for just anyone.” He loomed before her, broad and well-muscled, like the forbidden fantasy he was. Without thinking, she let her tongue dart out to wet her lips. He saw it. She realized that immediately. His eyes narrowed on that small, betraying movement of her tongue. Lucy looked away.
“You had to do that, didn’t you?” His voice was gruff, his body tense with restrained energy. “It’s not enough to crack my head open, force me to fight your villains, and make me endure an entire night handcuffed to temptation. Oh, no. You had to do
that.
”
He gestured toward her mouth, his eyes fixed on her lips as well. “By Jove, princess, a man can only endure so much.”
His hand reached out and grasped her wrist, using the contact to draw her closer, until she could no longer see his chest, only the deep brown of his eyes. Where was her resistance? Why wasn’t she flailing away at him for his audacity?
But she didn’t want to push him away, she acknowledged to herself. As his head tilted, and his mouth moved closer to hers, Lucy waited patiently, expectantly, like the prize idiot she was.
“Lucy?” he whispered, but her only response was to abandon all good sense and reach for his lips with her own.
The first touch was feather soft as his mouth skimmed over hers, but she felt the contact all the way to her toes. His kiss wound its way from her lips to her heart and then throughout her body. His breath slid across her cheek as he raised his head, hesitation in his eyes.
Lucy didn’t want him to hesitate. She wanted him to kiss her properly, and she didn’t want to think about why. Not now. That could be saved for later, when she had time to scold herself for this indiscretion, for the folly of believing that he was the one who could change her life, her loneliness, the one man on whom she might depend.
“Kiss me,” she ordered, and he arched one eyebrow.
“Please?” he prompted, just as she had done in the carriage.