Luci cringed when the door to the breakfast salon slammed open, then set her fork aside and took a sip of tea to clear her throat. The morning was early; however, that did not stop her father from moving through the house similar to an angry elephant. His rage had yet to diminish after the post in the Gazette, but neither had he taken his mistress out in public again.

It was a boon in Luci’s mind.

She allowed herself a secretive smirk, keeping her attention focused on her plate. There was no need to incite her father’s wrath while her siblings, Derek, Matthew, and Candace, were present.

The chair next to her at the head of the table was pulled back, and her father sat. Another footman set a heaping plate of pickled eggs, bread, ham, and cheese before him.

She glanced away quickly, at least confident it would not be she who brought the Marquis of Camden to anger first thing in the morning.

“Pickled eggs?” He pushed the plate away, causing his bread to slide onto the table and an egg to roll off his plate and across the pristine white linen between Derek and Matthew before finally hitting the floor.

Her mother, the marchioness, would be beside herself when she saw the blemish on her rug when the thing broke open and spilled its yellow center.

The boys laughed, and Candace, Luci’s youngest sibling, giggled.

Luci shot a warning glance in their direction. If they were not careful, the marquis’ fury could just as easily land upon them. That was something Luci avoided whenever possible. They were too young to understand their father’s shifts in mood and his black temper—or the destruction and injury that followed when someone continued to poke him.

A new plate was delivered to the marquis, and after a quick inspection, he proceeded to eat.

Her brothers and sister released a collective sigh. Even Luci gathered her fork and resumed her meal.

“May we be excused, Father?” Derek inquired. “I have studying to do. My tutor will arrive shortly.”

Neither Luci nor her siblings knew the temperament of their father when he entered a room. If they did not request to be excused from their meal, the marquis would rant and rave about respect and proper etiquette. If they did ask to leave, their father was just as likely to punish them all for interrupting his meal.

From the set of her father’s shoulders and his grim demeanor, today, the marquis was waiting and wanting an argument…no matter where he found it.

“Do you all think to scurry away the instant I enter a room?” the marquis seethed. “Oh, I am certain the useless lot of you will run off to your mother’s side, pet her like an injured bird, and whisper sweet words of compassion to her.”

“Derek, Matthew, Candace,” Luci said in an even tone, making certain to keep her breathing regular, despite the anger seeping from her father’s every pore. “Do hurry along and prepare for your tutors.”

Luci kept her stare on her father, his head lowered over his plate, but there was no disguising the stiff set of his shoulders or his flared nostrils.

The door closed quickly behind the trio, leaving her to handle the marquis.

“Do you think to overstep me? Take command of this household?” His glare snapped to hers, their green eyes a matching set as the marquis attempted to stare her into submission and tempt her to break eye contact. “I am the lord of this house—and of your life. It would be wise for you—and your siblings—to remember that.”

“I will certainly keep that in mind, Father.” Luci notched her chin higher, refusing to look away or cower before him.

The marquis scrutinized her, his brow pulling tightly as he frowned. Luci was normally very cautious about saying the right thing to appease the man. And today was no different. She’d said the correct words, but her demeanor was not to his liking. There was a chance he would fall into a deeper rage. Or he could turn back to his meal, the fight over. One never knew.

However, Luci would not look away until he did one or the other.

She would never cower before him—never allow him to rule her as he did his wife.

Whether it was her own pride or her lack of self-preservation that kept her narrowed stare trained on her sire, she was uncertain.

Lucianna refused to be the broken woman her mother was.

She would not allow her father, of all people, to extinguish her flame.

It startled her how similar the man was to Abercorn. Though her father had never physically harmed his wife or children, he’d come close. Who was more dangerous? A man who did not hide his temper, or a man who remained calm and reserved at all times.

“Lady Lucianna?” The Camden butler, McMahon, cleared his throat. Neither she nor her father had noticed the servant enter the room. “You have guests in the blue salon.”

Finally, the marquis returned to his meal, and Luci made to stand, smoothing her gown as the footman pulled out her chair.

“Make yourself available this afternoon,” the marquis muttered, slathering his toast with marmalade. “You will attend me at an important meeting.”

“Yes, Father.” Luci nodded. The marquis had never included her in a meeting, whether concerning his many business endeavors or those family-related. It was not unknown to the Camden clan that the marquis—and his decisions—ruled everything. “Do send for me when you are ready to depart.”

She hurried from the room before her father could halt her for not requesting permission to be excused.

Edith and Ophelia were waiting in the blue salon.

Luci had expected them since she’d departed Edith’s ball the previous night without notifying her friends. They had every right to be angry with her, but Edith appeared downright furious, and Ophelia…her face was red and puffy, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

“A-choo!” Ophelia brought a kerchief to her nose as she sneezed.

Edith set her arm around Ophelia’s shoulder before turning to Luci. “Where did you disappear to last night?”

Luci recoiled at the blonde’s angry tone.

It was usually Luci who raised her voice amongst the trio, and Edith who was collected, never daring to allow her decorum to waver.

“Yes.” Ophelia sniffled. “I went to the cherub fountain, but you were not there. I waited in the cold for over an hour, calling for you, until I gave up and returned to the ball. And now—a-choo—I have a cold.”

“Ophel—”

“Do not Ophelia me!” She wiped at her dripping nose before turning her glare back to Luci. “I am now sick—sick!—and for what? Where did you run off to?”

“You left my betrothal ball, Lucianna,” Edith jumped in, her fury dimming to something closer to hurt. “It was an evening, only one night, to celebrate Triston and me—and you deserted us. For what?”

Luci proceeded into the room and sank into the nearest chair, the upcoming meeting with her father forgotten. It was Ophelia’s turn to comfort Edith as she wiped a tear from her cheek. This was not at all what Luci had thought would occur when next she saw her dear friends.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies. I had no intention of leaving you out in the cold…or departing your ball.” Luci clasped her hands in her lap, hoping she properly conveyed how sorry she truly was. Her head hung in remorse, but she peeked up at her friends, desperate to hear them voice that they’d forgive her. “I was in trouble. I had to leave or risk scandal for all of us. Please…”

Both women melted at the sorrow in Luci’s tone.

“What happened?” Edith asked. “Ophelia told me it was Montrose who stormed across the ballroom. I didn’t so much as set eyes on him.”

“Oh, I tried to distract him.” Ophelia coughed, swiped at her watering eyes, and continued. “But he marched right around me. Were you able to escape him?”

Luci was uncertain how much to share with her friends. Obviously, not how muscular and secure his arms felt as they held her. Nor would she speak of her desire to run her fingers through his silky black hair as he pressed his body firmly to hers, his hand cupping her posterior. And especially not that a pool of warmth had gathered between her thighs when Montrose had set his lips to hers.

However, she did owe them some form of explanation.

A smidgen of truth, without all the glorious details.

“Montrose kissed me!” Luci covered her mouth in utter shock.

“He, what?” Ophelia yelped.

“The nerve of that scoundrel!” Edith’s outrage would have been comical were it not for the sparkle Luci saw in her eye. Could her dear friend know precisely how much Luci had enjoyed their embrace?

“What did you do?” Ophelia’s eyes widened, her hands pressed to her bosom, still clutching her kerchief. “This is much like a real-life novel!”

Luci sniffed. “Then it would be a gruesome one.”

“Why?” Edith eyed her intently.

“Because I bit the fool.”

“Bit him?” Ophelia sat forward, her cold forgotten. “Where? On his hand?”

“No.” Lucianna shook her head, her hair loosening from its pins at the action. “His tongue.”

“How in the heavens could you bite his tongue?”

Luci frowned—and Edith giggled uncontrollably—as the auburn-haired woman pondered how one could bite another’s tongue. It was easy to identify exactly when Ophelia realized the only possible way for Luci to do such a thing.

“He…put his tongue…in your mouth?” she stammered, sending Edith into another fit of laughter. “But that would mean…”

“Yes, Ophelia.” Edith patted the woman on her back when she sputtered, breaking into a sneeze. “The Duke of Montrose slipped his tongue into Luci’s mouth. And, I suspect, she enjoyed the experience greatly—though she is obviously loath to admit it.”

“I most certainly did not—“

Edith waved her hand, silencing Luci’s protest. “Now, how did this kiss end in your deserting me and leaving Ophelia out in the cold?”

“Does he know we wrote the article about him?” Ophelia asked. “Oh, Lord Torrington promised not to tell, but Montrose owes us nothing, especially after we caused Lady Daphne to break off their betrothal.”

“No, he did not allude to knowing about our activities as the authoresses of the Mayfair Confidential.”

“Then why was he so angry?” Ophelia sat back once more, wiping at her eyes. “He was so furious, he almost ran me over in the ballroom.”

“There was no time to ask before he kissed me, nor after I bit him.” Luci hated her body for betraying her. Her face flared red, and that blasted tingling sensation between her thighs returned. She clenched her knees tightly together to keep the feeling from spreading. “That is when I ran down the path along the back of your townhouse, then down the drive to the alley, and home.”

“You walked home?” Edith’s brow scrunched.

“Of course. Do you think me incapable of finding my way home?” Luci retorted, offended by her friend’s disbelieving tone. “We only live five townhouses from one another. Both of our stables back up to the alley. It was simple enough to reach my home and slip inside without notice.”

It was Ophelia’s turn to snort—as well as a woman could with her nose blocked by congestion. “You demanded your carriage follow you about the shopping district to avoid walking to the end of Bond Street to hand off your packages.”

It was exactly what Luci had demanded on several occasions. “Last night was not a shopping excursion, I will have you know, though it will be necessary to obtain a new set of black ballroom slippers. Mine were utterly ruined by the mud and filth littering the alleyway, not to mention the dew from the lawns.”

“What of your mother?” Edith demanded. “You must have worried her so.”

“I sent word as soon as I arrived home that I’d left ill.” Her mother was likely relieved to escape the ball early after her embarrassment several nights prior.

“And you did not think to have someone tell me—a-choo—I could come out of the cold?”

“Again, I am immensely sorry, O,” Luci stood and then knelt before her friend on the lounge opposite her chair, taking her hands in hers. “I never meant for you to become ill, nor did I think I would need to go to such extreme measures to get away from the brutish man. What happened when he returned to the ballroom?”

Edith and Ophelia shared a questioning look.

“What?”

“I think we should tell her…” Ophelia glanced at Edith. “She should know.”

Edith sighed. “If we must.” Edith turned back to Luci. “A large gathering of guests witnessed Montrose kissing a woman in the gardens. They said she fled before anyone could discover her identity, and he left shortly after.”

Ophelia smiled for the first time. “But now we know it was you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Luci demanded, releasing Ophelia’s hands and returning to her seat. Her mind whirled with the possibility that someone at the ball had recognized her as she’d fled.

“At least no one suspects it was you.” Edith’s cheerful tone irked Luci.

“But Montrose!” Luci’s mind was reeling. “He will pay for embarrassing me.”

“Again, no one knows it was you.”

“I know it was me. The rakehell has some nerve.” Luci’s hands balled into fists. “Yes, he will be seeking my forgiveness when I get done with him.”

“I think it best you stay far away from the man,” Edith pleaded. “What if he speaks the truth? You could be ruined—and put the Mayfair Confidential in jeopardy.”

“All before we are able to prove Abercorn killed Tilda!”

“I can promise you, the man knows naught about our agreement with the Gazette.” If Luci’s friends noticed her words didn’t hold any conviction, they didn’t comment on it. “Now, I must ready myself. My father has requested my attendance at a meeting this afternoon. I must change my gown before he calls for me.”

Luci stood, her friends following suit.

“Just promise us you will not say or do anything hasty until we know for certain exactly what Montrose knows,” Edith said pointedly.

Shrugging, Luci embraced Edith and then Ophelia. “I promise to not act in a rash manner.”

The women said their good-byes, agreeing to meet at Oliver’s Book Shoppe the following day.

Neither Edith nor Ophelia noted Luci’s phrasing: she would not act in a rash manner. But who determined if a manner was rash or well thought through?