“How?” Couldn’t help sputtering out that question. His entire world tilted.
She cleared her throat. “My mother caused something of a scandal the year she debuted. A man promised her everything, and she gave him everything. Then, when she came to be with child, she demanded he marry her, and he laughed in her face. In front of the entire ton. When she returned to the country, my father was waiting for her. He’d loved her for years.”
Hell, what a scandal. He’d done worse in his life and not paid any price at all. Her mother, though. “I’m sorry, Lu.”
“It does not matter. She found happiness, and so will I. My grandfather has given me a sizable dowry. I will put it to good use. If I can find a man to marry me among the peerage, I’ll have a window into that world. I’ll be able to better help the ladies there who need it, I hope, without endangering those at Hawthorne.” She smoothed her hands down her rounded belly and luscious hips. “I’m not blind to the male attention I’ve received in the past. Despite my mother’s scandalous history, I think I’ll find one or two men willing to wed me.”
“Utter perfection is what you are, Lucy. What men have been paying attention to you? I cannot blame them, but I also cannot let them keep their eyes.”
“Keats.” She blushed prettily.
“I’ve changed my mind. They may keep their eyes because I want them to see how perfectly beautiful you are and to know I’m the man who gets to touch you.”
“Keats…” He didn’t like the hesitation in the way she said his name. Not at all. “This”—she moved her hand between them—“is temporary. I will use my appearance, my grandfather’s connections, to catch a husband. And my husband will be the one with permission to…” She swallowed hard, dissolving her next words. He knew what they would have been anyway.Touch me.“Not you.”
Hell. True. He hated it with every bit of his body, mind, and currently tortured soul. He stared down the road. It seemed very long and lonely, dusty and desolate with no end in sight. A viscount’s granddaughter. Hell.
“I’ve upset you? Is it because I’ve kissed you while planning to marry another? Is it because of my grandfather? Perhaps you think I’ve taken advantage of you. If I were free to wed as I choose, I would prefer a simple man, a stable hand who understood life better than some fop from London who’d never really lived it.”
His teeth almost cracked under the pressure of his jaw. A stable hand. He’d forgotten. Hell. He almost laughed. But he didn’t, and the bitter mirth soured in his hollow chest.
They did not speak as he guided her back toward Hawthorne, and when they reached the stables, he lifted her down in silence, too, watched her slip toward the stable doors.
She turned at the last moment and looked at him, her form a dark silhouette against the bright avenue of space between the doors. “Perhaps, I will let you show me. If you do not mind.”
No.No. The only word a responsible gentleman should say.
Unfortunately, the only thing Keats knew how to say when faced with one of Lucy’s requests was, “Yes.”
When she left, he changed into the only other suit of clothes he currently possessed and headed back to the village. He’d been about to set out there when Lucy had arrived in a rush to the stables what seemed a lifetime ago. His friend Griff kept sending letter after letter asking when Keats planned to return. He knew Keats had run off somewhere near Dorking to find his sister and nothing more. Keats had often trusted the Earl of Finley as his disapproving second, and he trusted him now to keep his father calm. And clueless.
This morning, Keats had meant to send a letter saying he’d return soon. Alex was fine; there wasn’t much more for Keats to do here. No amount of haunting the stables and grounds would help her step into a new life.
He’d have to write out a new response. Because he couldn’t leave now. What if Lucy went looking for passion, and Keats wasn’t there to help her find it?
Six
Lucy threw herself in front of danger like an erotic angel of justice, but she didn’t throw herself at Keats. Annoying, that. He wasn’t supposed to kiss a woman more than once. Against his rules. He was happy to break those rules for Lucy. Who knew idealism was so arousing.
And when had he found arousal so frustrating? He had to take himself in hand every night because she wasn’t putting her hands on him. He’d offered himself up. He’d remained here for her disposal.
Yet, she did not make use of him.
She was headed to London tonight. The stable hands and coachmen bustled about the stables making preparations. Keats’s basket and blanket lay in the floor of the coach, ready for her, should she need it.
If the woman could sacrifice her life for duty, he could put a damn basket together. Too little, but no idea how to do more.
He’d parted her legs and made her shatter, and he dreamt about it every damn night. He’d done so knowing it was wrong. No whisky to fog the brain this time, no jeering fellows slapping him on the back and cheering him on to mischief. He didn’t want to be like that anymore, like the men who sent women here. Butit seemed he couldn’t help it. Not with Lucy, whoseMissjust would not stay put on his tongue. How in hell could he be formal with a woman whose cunny he dreamt of tasting?
The doors parted, and a shadow walked through. Her shadow. He didn’t need details to recognize it. He busied himself with checking the buckles of the harnesses, the wheels, every spring and board of the coach. He’d never cared about buckles and knots and bolts before. Wouldn’t have known what to look for had someone shoved his face into it. Now he did, and now he cared because he needed to know damn well she’d ride safely to London and back.
The lemon scent of her soap wafted to him over the aroma of hay and horse. And then her warmth was right there, right at his side, and she was lifting her chin to look at him, parting her lovely lips.
“Are we ready, Mr. Keats?” she whispered.
“Just about.” He checked the box beneath the driver’s seat. Pistol there. Ready. Good. Any rogue or bounder could jump up on the bench and find his way here. Better Mr. Sacks is ready when it happens. The next time it happens.
Shame. Knife. Twist.
