The driver shrugged and dropped the hatch shut, but not before Lucia heard him muttering to himself about hoity-toity females.
A few minutes later the coach stopped, and Lucia heard the driver call to some passing gentlemen. She hunched down and pulled her hood over her face, but inside the muffled cocoon, she heard the jarvey mention Selbourne. One of the men replied, his voice thick and slurred, but she thought she heard the number seventy-seven. She’d have to remember that.
The hack rattled on, and when it slowed, she cracked her hood and glimpsed a long, well-maintained row of terraced houses. The face of the corner town house was brick, and the heavily polished wooden door on number seventy-seven gleamed almost as much as the ornate knocker. The house had a gate surrounding it, wrought iron and beautifully worked. Selbourne had good taste. With a pang of dismay, Lucia noted there were no lights shining through the windows. Perhaps the drapes had been shut?
Well, there was no turning back now. With a push—both mental and physical—Lucia hopped out. She quickly paid the driver, giving him a little extra for his help, and pulled the cloak securely around her.
The gate was unlocked, and she opened it, then shuffled to the front steps. The door loomed in front of her, the eyes of the gold lion’s head on the knocker staring her down. Daring her to touch its polished brass. She paused. Ridiculous. It was a door knocker, after all. Throwing her shoulders back, she raised her hand to grasp the ring dangling between the lion’s teeth. Her hand hovered and shook inches from the knocker. She couldn’t seem to make her fingers grasp the ring.
Thoughts crashed over her, threatening to capsize her courage. If her father could see her now, what would he say? A flush of guilty heat coursed through her. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scathing lecture her father would issue or the hysterics her mother would dissolve into if this, her latest escapade, were exposed.
She glanced at her frozen hand again and almost lowered it. But she could hardly give up now. John needed her, and she would risk anything, even her father’s disappointment, to help John.
Her fingers grazed the knocker.
On the other hand, she could exercise some caution. There was no need to ensure that her father heard of her late-night adventure. Perhaps knocking on Selbourne’s door wasn’t such a good plan. What if one of his staff answered? How would she explain who she was and what she was doing here?
She dropped her hand. No, this wasn’t at all the thing. The hack was just pulling away, and she watched it go, tugging on her lip thoughtfully. There was no going back now. She smiled. Well, then, she’d have to go around.
Turning from the door, Lucia went down the steps and headed toward the back of the town house. There was a wall around the back of the property, but she tried the gate and, finding it open, was spared the indignity of scaling it—an act she was none too certain she could have accomplished.
Once through the gate, Lucia found herself in a small but well-kept garden. It was a dark night, but the sliver of moonlight glinted off the glass of the windows. She chose one, calculating its position in the house. Most likely the library. It was as good a room as any.
Lucia glanced around and took a deep breath, trying to control her nervousness. None of this had been part of the plan, but then she hadn’t had much time in which to craft it, had she? Besides, plans were made to be revised. And she was simply revising—as she went along.
The window she’d chosen was slightly elevated— leave it to Selbourne to have a library without French doors—but she could probably manage to crawl through if it was unlatched. On tiptoe she stole a look inside.
The room was black.
She tugged her lower lip again. Her pink satin shoes were wet from dew on the grass, and the night wasn’t getting any warmer.
Do it, Lucia. Do it. With a whispered curse, she pushed up on the window. To her surprise, it slid open easily and without a sound. She gave it a final heave, opening it enough so she’d fit through. She smiled. Now all she had to do was crawl inside.
Hands on the window ledge, she jumped up, resting her chest on the sill. She fell right back down again. Another curse. This one more pungent.
The cloak was too much of an encumbrance. She untied it and tossed it on a nearby bush. Shivering in her thin satin gown, she reminded herself she’d be inside in a moment.
She grasped hold of the window casement again and began to pull herself inside. Her slippers were slick and smooth, and they slipped over the textured brick of the town house. “Damn these shoes,” she muttered.
Her legs flailed about for a moment until she finally found an indentation. Bracing herself, she heaved her body forward and got her shoulders and chest inside. Her triumph was short-lived as she began to slide into the library headfirst.
She tried to brace her arms to stop the slide, and pull her legs over the windowsill, but her momentum was too great and she tumbled unceremoniously, and somewhat loudly, onto the hard floor of the library. Lying face down, her skirt about her knees and her hair in tangles over her face, she froze, holding her breath, waiting for any little sounds that would indicate she was detected.
“Bloody hell! It’s you.”
Lucia jumped and covered her mouth to contain the scream. Steel clamps seized her arms, and she was hauled, tripping and stumbling across the room. Just as she regained her footing, she was shoved onto a piece of furniture. Her mind spun, her lungs ached from holding her breath, and her heart threatened to burst from her chest. It took every ounce of her courage to keep from running, screaming and crying, out of the house and into the street.
That was if her captor would allow her to escape.
Her eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the darkness of the room, but her gaze flew to the dark shape of a man nearby. She heard him swearing and hunched back into the furnishing’s seat cushion. There was more cursing and the sound of items falling and tipping over, then the soft glow of candles lit the room, and Alex stood before her. She closed her eyes and put her hand on her heart, trying to breathe again.
Three heartbeats later, she opened her eyes. He was scowling at her, fury etched in every line of his face.
“Lord Selbourne,” she rasped.
He stared mutely. Lord, she’d never seen anyone, not even her father, so angry. She should be cowering, blubbering. Instead she stared right back at him, fascinated. He wore tight black trousers. Without his coat, she could see how closely they molded to the muscles of his thighs. His stark white shirt was untucked and open at the throat. In the V, she caught a glimpse of the hard muscles of his smooth bronze chest.
He was like one of the Greek gods her governesses had made her study: powerful, sensual, but not real. He couldn’t possibly be real. He was a dream—a delicious nighttime fantasy—standing there in front of her, watching her darkly with a mixture of fury and something else. Something that caused a flash of heat in her belly that traveled all the way down to her toes.
