Lucinda refused Will’s arm as they made their way down the stairs and outside to the waiting carriage. She awkwardly climbed inside, gently tossing her boots and torn stockings to land on the cushioned bench, then delicately sitting down.
Will climbed in after her and slammed the door behind him, taking a seat on the bench opposite Lucinda’s.
The carriage rolled to a slow start, the clip-clop of the horse hooves on the bricks marking each second that passed.
Lucinda reached to part the curtains that hung in the window, a sliver of the setting sun appearing before Will brusquely slid the material back into place.
She looked as if she would argue, then dropped her hands into her lap, her gaze following suit.
“It’s for your own safety,” he tried to explain, becoming irritated when she failed to look up.
“Lucinda. Please, say something. Say
anything
,” Will pleaded, sitting forward on the bench. “Curse me. Tell me to go to hell. Swear that you’ll never love me again—I just need a starting place. When you hear what I have to say—”
“I’ll forgive you, is that it?” she asked quietly, her face tipping up to meet his gaze.
He reached across for her hands but she hastily folded her arms across her chest.
“I need a chance. Please, give me a chance, Lucinda.”
“The Mansfield ball. Hyde Park. The Rosemont Inn—the library …” She paused, her face crumpling with distress. “All an elaborate ruse,” she finished, shakily inhaling a breath with care.
Will grabbed at the bench on either side of Lucinda’s hips, his hands digging into the velvet cushion. “No, you do not understand,” he began, the disappointment in her eyes more than he could take.
“Have I misunderstood, then? Has it not been your duty to protect me these last weeks?” she pressed, bitterness lacing her words.
He dropped to his knees in front of her, roughly laying his head in her lap. “Yes, in the beginning, but you have to know that what I feel now has so little to do with duty and so much to do with you.”
She pushed him to the floor and slid to the corner of the carriage. “That’s not enough, Will,” she said through her tears. “And you know it as well as I.”
He savagely punched the cushioned back before reclaiming his seat on the opposite bench. “You do not know what you ask of me, Lucinda.”
“Are you unable to give to me what I so freely and foolishly gave to you?” she whispered.
“Goddammit, Lucinda, do not do this,” he pleaded, sensing defeat. “Ask for my protection, for my loyalty—hell, for my horse. But do not ask for my heart.”
“The rest is of no use to me without it.”
“Lucinda,” he begged, hating himself for denying her.
“Stop!” she screamed, her hands flying to cover her ears. “Not another word. You’ve no right.”
He reached across the space between them and attempted to pull her in.
“You broke my heart,” she cried out, her arms unfolding to strike at Will, landing a stinging smack on his cheek.
Will dropped his elbows to his knees, his fingers coming to angrily thread through his hair. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything beyond the shame that threatened to eat him alive.
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, throwing Lucinda backwards. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion as she righted herself.
“Your town house,” Will replied hollowly, lifting his head to meet her gaze.
He watched her as she determinedly altered her countenance, straightening her dress, then her hair, and her face, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She set to work on the ruined boots with deftness, forgoing the stockings altogether.
She was slipping away from him, right before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.
The driver opened the carriage door and reached for Lucinda’s hand. “My lady.”
“Thank you,” she replied graciously, taking his hand and stepping down, leaving Will all alone with nothing but regrets for comfort.
Will’s formal attire was bloody uncomfortable. The neckcloth chafed his throat, and the fine wool of his dark blue coat was too warm.
He surveyed the drawing room of Lansdowne House, noting with irritation that every other male in attendance looked perfectly comfortable. He, however, wished for nothing more than to strip down to his shirtsleeves and forgo the formal dinner in favor of billiards and an endless supply of brandy.
But duty demanded him entirely tonight. Lucinda had agreed reluctantly to continue on with the fictitious courtship, the need to keep Garenne in the dark as much as was possible a top priority at this point in the game.
A portly baron whose name Will could not remember bowed with polite civility as he passed by, an equally portly, horse-faced woman on his arm.
Will returned the greeting and forced himself to start counting backwards from ten. God knew he had a perfectly good excuse for being in such a foul mood. He’d broken Lucinda’s heart, and in turn, his own. The consequences of his actions were more painful than all of the disappointment and heartache up to this point in his life put together and multiplied a thousandfold.
“William?”
He looked to see his mother at his side, her eyes filled with concern. “Yes?”
“Are you quite all right?”
For the first time that he could recall, he wanted to answer her honestly, but knew he could not. To confess even a small piece of the truth might put her in danger. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Well …” She touched her nape, smoothing the tendrils there with a gloved hand, “Lady Lucinda and her aunts arrived some time ago and you’ve yet to join them.”
His gaze followed Her Grace’s and found the four women in question standing together—conversing with Lady Swindon.
“Bloody hell,” Will growled, his neckcloth growing tighter with each breath.
He looked apologetically at the duchess. “Forgive me, Mother.”
“No need, William. Though I spend my days in the country, I am as aware of Lady Swindon as anyone else. Do you plan on rescuing Lucinda,” she queried, her gaze returning to the group. “Or shall I?”
Will gave his mother an appreciative look then made his way across the large room. Though no crystal had been thrown, nor did any of the Furies appear to be threatening to pummel Lady Swindon within an inch of her life, Will knew immediate action was necessary.
“Ladies,” he drawled, joining the group and standing next to Lucinda. His arm brushed hers and he felt the swift tensing of her slim body.
There was an awkward pause, the Furies acknowledging his presence with notable discomfort, while Lady Swindon simply smiled, clearly enjoying the entire episode.
“Your Grace,” Lucinda replied in a clear, controlled tone, laying her hand on Will’s arm. “You just missed Lady Swindon’s nearly encyclopedic recounting of Iron Will’s adventures.”
Will looked at Lady Swindon. Perhaps he should have left her to the Furies. “You cannot believe everything you hear,” he commented.
“Oh, Your Grace, modesty does not become you.” Lady Swindon’s voice was a sultry innuendo, her gaze blatantly traveling the length of him.
The audacity and inappropriateness of her appraisal wasn’t lost on the Furies. Their eyes collectively widened before narrowing with affront.
The Duchess of Highbury stepped toward Lady Swindon, her demeanor taking on a decidedly terrier menace. “Lady Swindon, let me tell you exactly—”
“Dinner is served.”
Never in his life had Will been more thankful for the readiness of a meal. “Let us adjourn to the dining room,” he interrupted Lucinda’s aunt before she had an opportunity to elaborate.
The group split up, Will leading the way with Lucinda on his arm.
He bent toward her, the tantalizing citrus scent of her hair teasing his nostrils. “I apologize.”
“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, Your Grace,” she murmured, the placid nature of her smile in direct contrast to her biting tone. “There are so many things for which you should feel remorse.”
Will had expected her to reject his apology, though he’d underestimated the strength of the stab of pain her icy tone inflicted.
“Understand this,” she continued, lowering her voice further as they neared the dining room. “You’ve taken nearly everything from me. But you’ll not steal my reputation.” She released his arm and demurely clasped her hands at her waist. “I’ll continue this charade, but in the end it is you who will bear the blame. Not I.”
“Of course.” Somehow, he managed to keep his tone light and his expression mild as the room filled with chattering dinner guests.
Lucinda took note of those around her with a gracious smile, then turned back to Will. “The stage is yours, Your Grace.”
“I will carve him up and put him in a stew.”
Lucinda, Charlotte, and Bessie all looked up from their open books and eyed Victoria, their expressions reflecting equal parts surprise and horror at such a statement.
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte said.
Victoria closed her book with an audible thwack and drummed her fingers on the table. “Clairemont. I believe he’d do best in a stew, though I suppose it’s possible that he’d suit a shepherd’s pie as well.”
They were gathered, as they frequently were, in the library, all four of them seated around the large, square table they’d brought with them from the country. It had been built according to the women’s specifications; thus, its width and length was more than large enough to accommodate all four of them as well as any number of books, writing instruments, paper, and—more often than not—various and assorted tea cups and china plates.
It was their favorite spot, and this afternoon should have seemed like any other afternoon, and indeed it would have done were it not for the stony-faced Young Corinthian standing just to the right of the entryway.
Lucinda could not help but glance his way before turning back to her aunt. “Aunt Victoria, do lower your voice. Please.”
“Pish-posh.” Victoria glared at the agent. “I am quite sure worse has been said of the man—and in much more colorful language, to boot!”
“Yes, let us all be thankful that you’ve shown a modicum of restraint,” Bessie said sarcastically. “After all, you just as easily could have suggested we fillet the man or stuff an apple in his mouth and roast him whole.”
“Excellent idea!” Victoria countered, her expression brightening.
“Really?” Bessie said with interest. “I thought the pig suggestion to be slightly de trop.”
“Ladies,” Charlotte interrupted, sipping her tea before setting the delicate Wedgwood cup down. “Can we all agree that the carving up and cooking of the duke would hardly be productive—or polite?”
Her two sisters pondered Charlotte’s request, then begrudgingly nodded their agreement.
“Thank you,” Lucinda said with relief, turning her attention back to Gerald Hobson’s dry but comprehensive
Timing and Rate of Skeletal Maturation in Horses
. While Lucinda normally approached such topics with unabashed interest, she had to admit that she was having difficulty mustering the enthusiasm for equine anatomy today.
Of course, it didn’t help matters that nearly all of Lucinda’s energy had been tapped for more personal reasons, chief among them keeping herself from collapsing in tears in front of her aunts.
She’d known this would be hard. From the moment Will had told her the truth, she’d known. But somehow she’d thought it would just be when she saw him, that when she was not in the same room with him, it would be different. She’d thought … She didn’t know what she’d thought, just that if she was going to cry, it wouldn’t be in public. It wouldn’t be anywhere but in her own room, with her own pillow muffling the sound.
But now, every time one of her aunts looked at her, her insides began to shake, and she had to look away, or claim she was about to sneeze.
It was awful. It was exhausting. She’d half expected to not wake this morning.
And the night before—dear God, that had been the worst. Why she ever thought she could manage the dinner party at Landsdowne House, she would never know. Lucinda and her aunts had barely entered the drawing room before Lady Swindon swooped down on them like a perfectly groomed vulture. It had been an astounding violation of polite rules, and nearly enough to undo Lucinda.
And then there was Will. Lucinda had not been so hen-witted to think she could avoid him the entire evening, but when he’d come to her rescue, it had somehow made everything even worse.
He wasn’t supposed to be her hero. Damm it, he wasn’t
allowed
to be her hero, not after what he’d done to her.
It had been a harrowing few days. Learning her life was in danger was terrifying enough on its own, but when paired with Will’s betrayal? It was more than any woman could be expected to bear. Her heart absolutely ached with fear and sorrow.
And now she had to pretend as if nothing had happened. She’d had no choice in the matter; the Corinthians had made it clear that her cooperation was vital to the successful completion of the mission. Her aunts’ too. Until this Frenchman—le Comte de Gareene was his name—was captured, none of them could safely go on with their lives.
Lucinda had agreed that her courtship with Will would continue on, exactly as it had prior to the kidnapping attempt. All of their social engagements and outings would remain on the calendar. From the outside, everything would look precisely the same.
But Lucinda could not have been more aware that her life had changed completely, the army of Corinthians assigned to her safety hardly allowing for privacy of any kind.
And through it all, she could not stop blaming herself. It was easier, and far more satisfying, to insist that this was all Will’s fault, that he had used her and lied to her, and that she had been an innocent victim.
But she knew that she too was culpable. Despite everything her aunts had taught her, she had made the mistake of listening to her untried heart. She had trusted too soon, been far too quick to believe her own daydreams. She never should have entertained such romantic notions, let alone acted on them. And though it was cold comfort that she was hardly the first woman to fall for Iron Will, the knowledge did provide some small measure of relief.