Naughty or Nice by Melanie George (2)

Eleven

"Lucien," Fancy called out in a hushed voice as she felt her way along the wall, the blackness around her complete.

A shiver trickled down her spine. It felt as if someone was breathing down her neck. She shook off the ridiculous thought, yet she reached down to lay her hand on Sadie's head, comforted by the big dog's company.

The crash had sounded like a window breaking—and the thought that had been stirring in the back of her mind came to the fore.

Calder. Or his thugs. Or both.

Why had she assumed he would not come after Rosalyn at the first opportunity? He couldn't yet know that her guardian had arrived, which would leave him to assume that it was only two old retainers and two women. Not even odds by any measure.

Fancy heard the creaking floorboard behind her a moment too late. Fear tightened her muscles, slowing her movements as she swung around, a hand clamping down over her mouth.

"Don't make a move," a voice hissed in her ear, which she instantly recognized. Calder.

Sadie began to bark uproariously at her side. "Shut up, mutt," he growled, and Sadie yelped.

Fancy reacted with fury, slamming her booted heel down into Calder's foot, reveling in his grunt of pain. "Bitch," he spat, his grip tightening around her waist so that she could hardly breath.

She tried to scream, but all that came out was a muted shriek that worked its way through the meaty fingers pressed bruisingly against her face.

"Now I've got you, you interfering little witch. Where is my darling stepsister?"

Fancy's heart raced. He was suffocating her! Dizziness swam at the back of her head, threatening to take her under. But she refused to go down without a fight.

Lucien's instruction still fresh in her mind, Fancy snapped her head back against Calder's face, hearing his yowl as she took him by surprise.

She used the opportunity provided by his slackened hold to lean forward and thrust her heel up into his groin, doubling him over and freeing herself.

"Sadie, run!" Fancy raced behind the dog as they tore down the hallway, her progress abruptly halted as she slammed into something solid. Oh, God, how many were there? "Let me go!" She struggled wildly against the stranger's fierce hold, kicking out and hitting his shin.

"Damn it," he grunted. "That was my bloody injured ankle."

"Lucien? Thank God!" She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, just as his arms came around her to hold her close.

"I heard Sadie barking."

"The intruder attacked me—"

"Where is he?" Lucien demanded.

"At the end of the hallway. I think I broke his nose."

"I'll tan your hide if you move this time." Once more, he disappeared into the darkness.

"Fancy?" It was Rosalyn, coming toward her from the opposite direction.

"Here," Fancy replied.

A single beam of moonlight slanting in through a side window illuminated Rosalyn's pale face, her tall, slim body garbed in only a night rail, confirming she had just jumped out of bed. Two familiar figures appeared behind her.

"Och, lass," Olinda scolded, "what in heaven's name is going on down here?"

"There's been a break-in."

"Oh, my God," Rosalyn gasped. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Sadie took a blow."

"Sweet, brave Sadie," Rosalyn murmured, stroking the dog's fur before turning those concerned eyes on Fancy. "It was Calder, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Rosalyn put her hands to her stricken face. "This is all my fault. I never should have involved you in my problem."

"Our problem," Fancy stressed. "You're my friend, and as long as I have a breath in my body, I won't let anything happen to you."

"Did he hurt you, miss?" Jaines asked.

"No." Just frightened her a bit. Lucien's lesson had given her the power to defend herself, and she glowed with the accomplishment.

"Whoever it was, he's gone now," Lucien remarked as he materialized from the shadowed corridor, taking in all four faces staring back at him. "You definitely landed a blow," he said to Fancy. "There was a smear of blood on the floor."

"You fought him?" Rosalyn exclaimed, her eyes wide. "Oh, how foolish of you! You know Calder's temper. He'll never forgive you now."

Fancy winced, feeling the impact of Rosalyn's statement before anyone else did.

Lucien's brows drew tightly together. "Who the hell is Calder?" Narrowing his gaze solely on Fancy, he demanded, "Did you know the person who attacked you?"

Fancy sighed, recognizing the end of the road. She had planned to tell Lucien the truth, but not like this, surrounded by people who had only been doing what she had asked them to do. If somewhere deep down she had thought she might possibly muddle out of this, the time had come and gone.

"Yes," she said, resignation in her tone. "I knew him."

The thunderous look on Lucien's face grew as he regarded her. "And who is he, that he would break into the house in the middle of the night?"

"A neighbor."

Lucien's jaw locked. "Another neighbor. Is he in love with you, too?"

"Who's in love with her?" Rosalyn asked, and then turned to Fancy. "Is someone in love with you?"

Fancy shot an exasperated look at Lucien before shifting her attention to Rosalyn. "No one is in love with me. He's talking about Heath."

"Oh. Well, Heath is in love with you, or at least he thinks he is."

Why, Fancy wondered, had she never imagined having this conversation in the middle of a corridor in the dead of night, after being attacked by a friend's crazed stepbrother? She should have expected it, considering her life had never followed a normal course.

"Hinny, ye know that lad has been mooning over ye since your body changed into a woman's," Olinda interjected.

Fancy closed her eyes and flushed to her roots.

"He's a rapscallion," Jaines intoned, his wiry brows twitching.

"Ye'd say that about any mon who looked goose-eyed at our girl," his wife remonstrated.

"Heath is a bit of a wild card," Rosalyn put in, the three of them huddled together discussing Fancy's life as if she weren't there. "I'm not quite sure of his intentions."

"I'll give ye that," Olinda returned with a nod. "But he's a handsome lad, ye must admit."

"True enough," Rosalyn conceded. "And yet, I—"

"Enough!" Lucien barked, silencing them all with a glare that eventually landed on Fancy. "Now—I will ask this one time, and one time only. Who, in the name of Hades, is the man who attacked you?"

Fancy hesitated, but finally said, "Calder Westcott."

"And why would this Calder Westcott be after you?"

"He wasn't after her," Rosalyn corrected. "He was after me."

Lucien stared up at the ceiling. "Why did I think the answer would be a simple one?" Lowering his head, his intractable gaze skewered Rosalyn. "I hope you're about to tell me why this insane neighbor is after you."

Rosalyn blinked, her gaze sliding to Fancy with a questioning look before returning to Lucien's. "I… Well, you see… Calder is…"

Fancy took pity on her friend. Lucien's scowl was enough to intimidate the most stouthearted man, let alone a gently bred young woman. "Calder is her stepbrother."

Her answer brought that glowering mien to bear on her once more. "Lady Francine has no stepbrother."

"She's not Lady Francine."

"She's not Lady Francine," he repeated, a tic beginning in his jaw. "And who is she, dare I ask?"

Fancy took a deep breath and said, "Lucien Kendall, may I introduce you to Lady Rosalyn Carmichael."

"Lady Rosalyn—" The rest of his words seemed to back up in his throat, and she watched as a red flush of anger worked its way up his neck. Then he bellowed, "Where the bloody hell is Lady Francine?"

With a cold sweat making her palms clammy, Fancy clutched her skirt and dipped into a rather awkward curtsy. "At your service."

Before she could draw another breath, Fancy's wrist was clamped in Lucien's viselike hand, and she was dragged back down the hallway, the protests of the last people who would probably see her alive following in her wake.

 

He would kill her, Lucien thought as his boots struck the hardwood floor with punishing force, the real Lady Francine in tow and stumbling to keep up. He would wring her pale, slender neck with his bare hands, and then kill himself for his stupidity.

The lying little baggage.

Well, Christ, what had he expected? He had been amply warned about the minefield he was stepping into, hadn't he? He should have known something was afoot when he had been introduced to that ethereal blond creature who looked as though she had never raised her voice, let alone committed the outrageous acts his ward had been accused of.

None too gently, Lucien shoved the girl into the library, slammed the door, and pushed her down onto the sofa, where only a half hour earlier he had held her in his lap, confiding secrets he had never before revealed.

He couldn't even assuage his conscience by attributing his behavior to the alcohol. He'd never slipped before. No, she had done something to him, conjured up some sort of sorcery that held in him a crazed thrall.

Jesus, his ward. George's sister.

The lad was probably spinning in his grave, and Lucien couldn't blame him. George may have chosen him to be his sister's guardian, but he wouldn't have chosen Lucien to be his sister's lover. And damn it, he had come closer to making love to her tonight than she would ever know.

For over five months, he had thought his sexual instincts gone; his drive a thing of the past. But in one afternoon, Lady Francine Fitz Hugh had changed all that.

And he couldn't touch her again.

"I can explain," Fancy rushed out, her heart beating like a trip hammer as Lucien towered over her, his gaze black and furious as he stared down at her. He looked as though he was deciding her fate, and the scales were not tipping favorably.

"You can explain, madam? This I can't wait to hear."

"I had to deceive you."

"Oh? And did you have to continue deceiving me when you writhed in my arms beneath your very roof?"

Fancy flinched. She could have told him who she was then. If nothing else, she could have denied him. But she had chosen silence instead.

"I didn't know things would go so far." Even to her own ears, her answer sounded pitiful.

"You may rest assured it never would have, had I known who you were."

His remark confirmed what Fancy had thought. He would not have laid a finger on her if he had known her true identity, and she had so wanted him to touch her. Rash, her inner voice chided.

"What a gifted liar you are," he went on, pacing two steps away and swinging back. "You can look a man dead in the eye and make him believe you are sincere and genuine."

"I am sincere and genuine!" she protested, then frowned, adding, "Most of the time. But you left me little choice!"

"So now I'm to blame? Somehow that doesn't surprise me. So tell me, my lady, should I number whoring along with your other talents?"

Fancy gasped. "How dare you blame me! You were the one who couldn't control your animal instincts."

"Yes, but I thought I was dallying with a servant." Leaning down face to face with her, he bit out, "What is your excuse?"

Mutiny rose in Fancy. "I don't wish to speak of this anymore."

"I suspect not, but you're not getting off that easily."

"I'm sorry. What more can I say?"

"You can start with the truth. Or is that beyond your ability?" As though he could no longer bear to look at her, he stalked away and poured himself another drink.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fancy saw his hand hover over the black box she had noted earlier. Then he curled his fingers into his palms and faced her.

"Speak," he demanded.

Fancy itched to tell him to go to blazes, but that would not improve her situation. "Calder Westcott is an unscrupulous cur."

"Well, that tells me everything, doesn't it?" he drawled.

"He is trying to marry Rosalyn."

"If she's half as wild as you, perhaps she needs marrying."

Fancy glared at him. "Why should I expect any understanding from a man? You're all alike."

"Oh, no, my dear. Another man would not be contemplating the merits of wrapping his hands around your neck—or having you facedown across his lap for the thrashing you so richly deserve."

"I'd fight you to my last breath."

"So I heard previously." He pushed away from the edge of the cabinet and prowled toward her.

Fancy scooted back on the sofa. "If you lay a hand on me—"

"Nothing could be further from my mind," he said tersely, dropping down into a peeling leather wing chair. "Now, why is this Calder person trying to marry his stepsister?"

"Because Rosalyn's stepfather, Lord Westcott, left her a substantial fortune when he died a few weeks ago."

"And the unscrupulous Calder wants to get his hands on it, I presume?"

Fancy nodded. "He was left quite a bit of his own money, but Rosalyn discovered her stepbrother had acquired a hefty debt, much of it owed to fellows even more contemptuous than he is. Rosalyn overheard Calder telling one of his hired thugs that he intended to wed her, then do away with her. She slipped out of the house that night and came here. I didn't know what to do, where to go. Calder's the new magistrate, and he owns the land the village sits on. Few would go against him, and even if some were willing to help us, I didn't want to bring his wrath down on them."

"Quite a quandary," Lucien murmured, his face partially obscured by shadows.

"I thought if I could find some proof of his misdeeds, he would leave Rosalyn alone."

"Doubtful," he said. "Once a man's mind is set upon a woman, his noose has been sufficiently knotted." He took a swig of his drink, leaving Fancy to wonder if Lucien's mind had ever been set upon a woman.

She recalled the nightmare that had plagued him, and of the name he had called out. Sanji. Was Sanji a woman? Had he met her while in India? Perhaps Tahj would know. Tomorrow she would ask him.

Her guardian regarded her steadily for a moment, his demeanor cool, a reserved stranger.

"I'm afraid to ask, but what were you doing at the tavern?"

"Two of Calder's men tried to kidnap Rosalyn yesterday while we were out riding. We had assumed that Calder would not attempt anything now that Rosalyn was with me, and certainly not during the day, with potential witnesses. We were wrong."

Lucien's fingers tightened around his glass. "Let me guess—you managed to track down these men and followed them to the tavern."

"Yes," Fancy replied, impressed. "How did you know?"

His jaw knotted. "Because you're a harebrained female who takes moronic risks with her life."

Fancy bristled. "And I suppose you would have had a better plan?"

"Yes. I would have sent for me."

"Ha! To which brothel or gaming hell should I have directed my attention?" The look on his face could have frozen water, but Fancy didn't care. "You've thought nothing about what went on here for the last year. You were too busy with your harem, or waving your imperious finger at some pinched-mouthed, hunchbacked governess to relieve you of your duty. I cannot fathom what George was thinking when he put you in charge of my life."

"Nor can I. You, my dear Lady Francine, are pure trouble."

"Fancy."

"What?"

"No one calls me Lady Francine."

"Well, you had best get used to it. Tomorrow we leave for London."

"London?" Fancy shot up from the sofa. "But I can't!"

"You can, and you will, even if I have to bind you hand and foot and throw you over my shoulder." He sounded as if he relished the idea of carting her about like a sack.

"You cannot dictate my life. I have responsibilities here."

"They are my responsibilities now. Your only responsibility is to smile and look pretty. Perhaps if you don't speak, a man might even offer for your hand."

Fancy stared at him, incredulous. "That's why you're taking me to London? To marry me off?"

"What did you think, my dear? That I intended to have you tied around my neck for the remainder of my life? I am a bachelor, need I remind you."

"And of course you must get back to your mistresses," she retorted scathingly, hating that the image bothered her.

He just regarded her with those unfathomable eyes.

"You don't care at all, do you?" she accused. The realization hurt.

"I care about getting you wed. Then you will become your husband's burden rather than mine."

"So you'd toss me off to the first man who comes along?"

"Don't be absurd. I'll find someone who is your social equal, and who can provide for you. All the better if you feel some affection for the poor fool."

Frustration simmered beneath Fancy's skin. "I must stay here."

"No."

"Please."

"The discussion is over."

Desperation swelled in Fancy. "Heath will marry me."

"Courtenay is out of the question."

"Why?"

"Because I say so."

"You're being unreasonable."

"That is my prerogative."

Before she thought better of it, Fancy lifted the small glass vase from the table beside her and hurled it at him. Her aim, being rotten, made the vase sail right past the chair. But she didn't have time to either curse missing him or find another object to throw as he came out of the chair in a blur of movement and swung around the sofa.

Fancy backed up as he stalked her. "Don't you touch me. I'm warning you."

A muscle worked in his jaw. "It's past time someone taught you the consequences of your actions, you selfish little brat."

"If you lay a hand on me, I'll—"

"You'll what?" he taunted as he kept coming.

Fancy's gaze darted left and right. He had her caged. Either way she went, he would be on her in a flash. She continued to back away until her spine was pressed up against the wall, her chest tight and breathing shallow as he came to a stop in front of her.

Lifting her chin, Fancy glared at him. She trembled as he reached out and framed her face with his fingers, keeping her gaze locked to his.

"You are an impetuous chit," he said, but the words were softly spoken, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw.

An ache began to burn inside her, a need he had awakened. It must have shown in her eyes, for he dropped his hand away, his regard dispassionate once more.

"I'll leave your husband to bring you to heel." He stepped away from her. "But you will heed my word and do as you're told. Should you feel compelled to disobey, I will lock you in your room."

"I am not a child!"

"Then don't act like one. You are excused."

Excused! How dare he! "I'll leave, but only because I wish to be out of your odious presence."

His eyes glinted. "You had best get used to my odious presence and work diligently to keep me happy. Else the four walls of your bedroom will begin to resemble a prison."

"No more of a prison than you've seen fit to trap me in!"

"It's past time you grew up, my lady. You cannot spend your life running wild like some ill-bred hoyden; you're the daughter of an earl. And were your parents still alive, you would have had your season at least three years ago. You very well could have been married with a child by now. Consider that."

Fancy remembered enough about her parents to know that she would never have been allowed to gallivant about the countryside in men's breeches. She would have been living a very proper life in the country, attending tea parties and routs and local balls. She would have been primped and prodded and coiffed by maids and modistes to within an inch of her life. How would she have ever survived a life that didn't include the moors and the coves and the cliffs?

How would she survive a life without it now?

She glanced up at Lucien's face, still implacable, and knew that he would not be moved by anything she said. Heaviness settled on her heart. She couldn't lose Moor's End; she wouldn't. If she must play his game, she would at least walk away with something of her own. If she had to marry, she would find a man who would let her return to Cornwall and give her as much freedom as she wished. A kind man. A gentle man.

A man who was not at all like her guardian.

"Fine," she said. "I'll go willingly to London. But Rosalyn must come with me—as well as Jaines and Olinda."

He studied her, something almost sad in his eyes. "They may come, but if they should aid you in any ill-advised scheme, they will be held accountable. Do you understand?"

His warning was clear. Her friends would feel his wrath should they go against him. Never had Fancy felt more alone. "I understand."

"Good. Then I'll see you in the morning." He turned his back on her and stalked to the window to look out. The rain had slowed to a trickle, the dark shapes of trees bowed with water visible through the panes.

Fancy remained for another moment, staring at Lucien's solitary figure, afraid, for the first time, of the future and what it held for her.

She forced her feet to move. She had just opened the door when Lucien's words stopped her. "I expect you to stay in your room " he said, not looking at her. "Do not come down here again."

Fancy quietly let herself out.

Lucien stood immobile, listening to her footfalls until they died away. Then he dropped his head into his hand and closed his eyes, self-disgust churning inside him, threatening to boil over at any moment. If she had stayed one more minute…

He pivoted sharply, stalked across the room, and yanked the black box from the table. Sinking down onto the sofa, he sat it on his lap, his hands shaking.

The image of her sad eyes would haunt him through the night. Fancy—the name suited her. She was as incorrigible as the governesses had proclaimed and acted nothing like the lady she was supposed to be.

And yet Lucien felt the loss of her. He wanted the breeches-clad thief who rescued kittens and threatened lechers with bodily injury. Damn her for being the one woman in the world he couldn't have.

He would forget whatever he felt for her, banish whatever guilt laid heavily on him, for he had learned long ago that a conscience was an encumbrance. He had managed to pass most of his life remembering little of the possible goodness of the human heart, and he didn't want to start now.

With sweat-dampened hands, he opened the lid of the box. Inside was the panacea for all sorrow, a short-lived joy that could be bought for as little as a shilling and carried blithely in a waistcoat pocket.

He stared down into a familiar pit of hell, a hell he had lived with for nearly ten years, since his early days in India.

During the ensuing years, he had only succeeded in escaping the torment for short periods. But specters from his past would seep through his careful constructed wall and obliterate his willpower.

He was owned by his addiction to opium.

Lucien reached into the box and took hold of the long metal spike, turning it over and over in his palm, trying to fight the need, to drop the needle and slam the lid closed. But he had been through this routine many times before, and it played out by rote.

Opening a small packet, he impaled one of the pills on the end of the needle. It was too moist and would have to be dried. Extracting a small spirit lamp, he lit it, which produced a fierce hot spot above the roughened glass cowl.

When the desired consistency had been achieved, he spread the pill around the base of the bowl. Then he inverted the lamp until the pill melted and vaporized, the air becoming rich with the scent.

He closed his eyes and prayed for salvation, but it never came. So he took a deep breath, inhaling the drug's rich fumes through the main tube of the bamboo pipe, hating himself and everything he had become.

"You let the demon in, I see."

Through the hazy euphoria that seeped into his bloodstream, Lucien recognized the voice. "Get out," he told Tahj. He couldn't bear when his friend saw him like this, when he stood there like a sentinel to a failed life.

But as was always the case, Tahj did not leave. "You have suffered a setback. We will see it righted."

"I haven't suffered a damn setback!" Lucien growled, his hand tightening around the hookah, a part of him wanting to break free while another part said never. "This is my life; when will you begin to understand that?" He gritted his teeth and stared up at the ceiling. "Jesus, just go back to India. Nobody asked you to follow me in the first place."

"Buddha asked. And I do as Buddha wills."

The drug was numbing Lucien, taking away his ability to fight. He sucked in another breath and waited. Waited for peace. Waited for an illumination that would never come.

He remembered all the months he had spent in Limehouse, London's East End Chinatown, upon his return from India, where he would sometimes spend an entire week at an opium den, surrounded by a nimbus of smoke, heavy and sensuous, which rose and fell like the wave of an ocean, little lamps scattered about to dispel the gloom. Vice reveled in gloom; it went hand and hand with the darkness people sought.

"In order to live a life that is free from pain and suffering, one must eliminate attachments to worldly goods," Tahj recited, the refrain sickeningly familiar. "They must rid themselves of greed, hatred, and ignorance. Only then will they attain peace and happiness." Then Tahj said, far too astutely, "You have let the girl affect you."

"The only thing she has affected is my temper. She's an accomplished liar."

"You have discovered her deception."

The flat statement made Lucien glance up. "You knew?"

Tahj inclined his head. "Had your eyes not been so full of lust, you would have seen the truth for yourself."

Lucien gritted his teeth, knowing he had been blinded by the desire the girl brought out in him. "Why didn't you tell me, damn you?"

"Because you wanted her, and you would not have heeded me. You still want her," he observed, regarding Lucien in that all-knowing way of his. "Perhaps she is what you need."

"She is the last thing I need. God, she's George's bloody sister!" Lucien dragged a hand through his hair.

"She is a woman, first. And you are a man in need of someone to help you heal."

Lucien pressed a hand to his head and slid down onto the arm of the sofa. "Christ, I almost told her everything."

"You should have. It would be one less burden on your soul. You cannot continue to blame yourself for that which was beyond your control."

Lucien rocked his head back and forth. "I was in charge, and I wasn't prepared. I'm the only one who can be held accountable."

"Tell her what happened. Speak from the heart and trust her to listen."

Lucien jammed his eyes shut. "I can't." He forced himself to put the hookah down on the table. "Tomorrow we're leaving for London. Be ready to go."

"You shouldn't go back yet. Resolve this problem first."

"There's nothing to resolve. I'm going to do my duty by the lady, and that'll be the end of it."

"Will it?"

God, he hoped so. "She will be happily forgotten," Lucien stated, knowing that forgetting Fancy would not be so easy. "Now just get out and leave me in peace. Lock the bloody door behind you."

"The peace you seek will never be found in that pipe. You need to look within yourself."

Then, like the phantom Lucien had always labeled him, Tahj slipped out the door, the whisper of the key in the lock all-consuming in the silence.

Twelve

The ocean stirred in gentle agitation as Fancy looked out the coach window, about to begin her first journey away from Cornwall since her parents had deposited her and George with their grandmother years ago.

A dovelike calm had settled over the landscape, which belied the nerves tightening her stomach. This might very well be the last time she saw Moor's End, and she could barely contain her despair. She wanted to rail that she couldn't go, that it wasn't right. This was her home, and no one would make her leave it; and yet Lucien had managed the task with savage aplomb. She could have told him about the taxes that were owed on the property, but pride and stubbornness had kept her mum. It was her problem, and she would solve it—even if it meant marrying to do so. The very thought made her heart ache, and in that moment, she hated him.

She watched him through a part in the curtain. The sun streaked his raven hair and outlined his body as he stood talking to Rosalyn, who had been anxiously awaiting Fancy in her bedroom the night before.

As soon as Fancy had stepped over the threshold, Rosalyn rushed toward her. "Did he beat you?" she asked, inspecting Fancy from head to toe.

"No, he didn't beat me. He's ordered us all to London. We leave in the morning."

Rosalyn's face lost some of its color. "Oh."

"You're to come with us," Fancy hastened to add. "Lucien can amply protect you, and it would be foolish of Calder to go up against him."

"I don't know," Rosalyn said hesitantly. "I don't want to put any of you in harm's way."

Fancy snorted. "As though I didn't put you in precarious situations every other day when we were children. But you stayed with me, didn't you?" Fancy wrapped her arms around her friend's shoulders. "We will get through this together. Have faith. Everything will be all right."

Now, as Fancy watched a smiling Rosalyn glide toward the carriage, she hoped her prediction would prove true.

"You look happy," Fancy said as she opened the coach door for her friend, who climbed in beside her and arranged her skirts.

"My mood is significantly lighter, I'll confess." Rosalyn replied, looking more relaxed than she had in a long while. "Mr. Kendall really is a wonderful man—though simply dreadful for taking you away from home," she promptly added, ever the friend.

"What did he do?" Fancy asked.

"He went over to Westcott Manor this morning to confront Calder."

For a moment, Fancy was speechless. While confronting Calder was exactly what Lucien should have done, a twinge of jealousy goaded her. He had done something very gentlemanly for Rosalyn, and Fancy felt horrible for feeling the way she did. Rosalyn needed a protector, and Lucien had come to her rescue. It was certainly not Rosalyn's fault that men were drawn to her like wolves to moonlight.

"Not surprisingly, Calder wasn't there," Rosalyn went on. "Poor Harold," she sighed, speaking of the Westcotts' longtime butler. "He was treated to Calder's wrath and then ordered to pack a bag. My stepbrother left last night."

"Coward," Fancy said with distaste. "He's only brave when he's terrorizing women and the elderly." Although Jaines and Olinda, who were supervising the packing of the last few bags onto the boot of the coach, would balk at being thought of as beyond their prime.

"I wonder where he went?" Rosalyn mused, renewed worry in her eyes.

"Hopefully to the devil."

Lucien appeared at the doorway then. "Are you ladies comfortable?"

Still furious with him, Fancy didn't reply. But he didn't appear to care, as his question seemed to be directed to Rosalyn.

"Quite comfortable," her friend responded, treating him to a brilliant smile, which he returned. "Would either of you mind if I rode on the box with Tahj for a while?" She darted a glance between them. "He really is the most interesting man. He was telling me about the six realms of being. Truly fascinating."

Fancy nearly begged Rosalyn to stay. She didn't want to be trapped in the coach with Lucien and his brooding presence—but Olinda and Jaines would be traveling with them, so she could ignore him to her heart's content.

"Go ahead," Fancy said, "but be careful up there."

"I will," Rosalyn chirped, alighting from the coach with Lucien's help, which earned him another smile.

The gentlemanly expression melted from his face when he turned to look at Fancy. "Seems it will be just you and me."

Panic spurted through Fancy's veins. "Olinda and Jaines will be traveling with us too, of course."

"They will be riding in a separate conveyance."

Panic blossomed. "Separate? But why?"

"They believe servants should ride apart from their employer."

"That's utterly ridiculous." She had never treated them like servants. What were they up to?

"I told them that, but they were adamant."

"I'll speak to them." Fancy rose from her seat and moved toward the door, but Lucien was in her way.

"Let them be. We have to get under way." He entered, forcing her back until her bottom plunked down on the velvet squabs.

"But—"

"I don't like the situation any more than you, but it's best gotten used to."

"Sadie—"

"Is perfectly happy with Jaines." He rapped on the roof, and the coach jolted forward.

Fancy opened her mouth, but closed it at the warning look he gave her. Fine. She would ignore him, as planned. She would not worry about Jaines being licked for hours so that his skin looked like parchment paper by the end of the trip. And she would not worry about poor Sassy and the kittens, who had to be left behind, though Lucien had hired a woman recommended by Olinda to take care of them. But it didn't allay Fancy's fear about their fate, nor her own. What would London hold for her? Would she really leave with a husband?

It was all too much to contemplate. Perhaps she would take a nap; it would be a long trip. Besides, her traveling companion didn't appear inclined to speak to her, anyway. Did he intend to glare the entire way to London?

Fancy had just settled herself firmly into the corner, which didn't seem to keep Lucien's long legs from brushing her skirts, when she glimpsed a horse and rider out of the corner of her eye.

"Heath!" She sat bolt upright as she spotted her last hope for salvation. If only she had accepted his marriage proposal, she would not be in this predicament. But even as the thought came to her, she knew she could never have married him for such selfish reasons.

Fancy scooted forward to open the window, but Lucien gripped her wrist. "Sit back, madam," he said in a dark growl. "Courtenay will be of no help to you."

"But you must let me speak to him! He doesn't know where I'm going."

"All the better. I don't want some lovesick swain panting on my doorstep."

Fancy glanced out the window and saw Heath still riding toward them, confusion etched on his face, and then anger as the coach continued on its way.

"Please," she said, even as she vowed she would not beg. "At least let me tell him to check on Jimmy and his sister."

"I've already taken care of that."

His answer stole the protest from her lips. He'd had the foresight to see to a suffering family's welfare as well as champion Rosalyn? Once again, he surprised her. Still, she needed to talk to Heath.

"But what if Jimmy's mother worsens?"

"She knows how to get in touch with me. Relax, madam, the boy and his family will be seen to."

Fancy cast a longing glance at Heath and then flopped back against the well-sprung squabs and crossed her arms over her chest, surging with impotent fury.

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Almost everything."

Fancy forced back the tears stinging her eyes as she watched Heath fade into the distance. "Almost? What detail could you have possibly missed?"

"You," he answered simply, regarding her in a way that made her heart slow to a dull thud.

"Me?"

"You've turned out to be a broken cog in the forward momentum of my life."

Fancy snorted. Why had she expected him to say anything conciliatory? "As though you are Prince Charming."

Her remark wrung a reluctant grin out of him, which lifted his dark look and made a traitorous yearning spark to life inside her. Why did he have to be so blasted handsome? It wasn't fair, especially when he had turned out to be every bit the ogre she had originally dreaded.

"It seems neither of us is very high on the other's list." He shifted, and his knee brushed her thigh again, leaving a warm tingle in its wake. "You made a fetching servant, though," he murmured, a hot glint in his eyes that was gone in an instant.

"I'm no different than I was yesterday." But she was. Yesterday she had not known this man's touch, or yearned to know it again. She almost wished she could go back and simply be Mary rather than Lady Francine.

"You are worlds different," he said. "And it would be wise not to forget that again."

Before she could tell him he was wrong, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the top of the seat, leaving Fancy to either stare or look away.

She stared. He was just too big to shut out, his masculinity too powerful to ignore. He had the thickest lashes she had ever seen on a man, a stunning frame for those unusual eyes that no mere mortal should have been blessed with.

His expression in repose was youthful yet rugged, wiped clean of scorn, his lips full and soft, making Fancy want to lean over and place her mouth against his. He was an exquisite kisser, and the things he could do with his tongue…

"If you're thinking of ramming a dagger into my heart," he said in a deep tone, popping one eye open and looking at her, "think again. I'm prepared for you today. I've donned a metal vest beneath my clothing."

How had he known she was looking at him? Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had riled her.

She focused her gaze out the window. It was hard to believe that winter was fast approaching. Christmas, once Fancy's favorite time of the year, would all too soon be upon them, her first without her family.

The lonely image sent a deep pang of despair through her. How her grandmother had loved Christmas, decorating the house with bright baubles, inviting the villagers in for hot cider.

Bittersweet memories swelled, and Fancy forced herself to think only of the good times as the coach rattled down a steep, narrow lane toward Loe Bar. The sudden appearance of the sea roused her spirits. A wide sweep of bay drifted into the dark, still waters of an inland lake, a broad ridge of sand serving as a bridge between the two.

The effect of the clear blue sky and a golden sun upon the water was dazzling. Rippling cobalt waves broke one on top of the next on the bar, which gleamed white. On the other side, the freshwater lake lapped gently against the shifting sand.

Fancy could almost picture Moses standing upon the strand when the tide overflowed after a heavy rain, sending water over the bar, lake and ocean becoming one, then receding like the Red Sea as the pharaoh's chariots closed in.

As her eyes drifted shut, Fancy imagined it was she who stood at the divide, and that the fierce warrior thundering toward her, garbed in little more than a dark strip of material knotted tightly about his waist and serpentine bands coiled around his muscular upper arms, was Lucien—preparing for battle.

 

Lucien knew the moment Fancy had drifted off to sleep, just as he had known she had been watching him. He wanted her as much today as he had yesterday. Perhaps more.

He had studied her while she stared out the window, the wistful expression on her beautiful face tugging relentlessly at his heart. He was taking her away from everything she knew, and he doubted she would ever forgive him. He could tally up one more mistake to add to a lifetime of them.

She needed a protector. Ironic, really; the very thing George had wished to shield her from now resided under the same roof with her.

But that would all change in London. He would stay at Blackthorne Manor and twist the knife in the Earl of Redding's side, while Fancy and the rest of her entourage resided with Lady Dane.

Clarisse was not only well respected, but also had connections into a world Lucien had neither been a part of, nor would ever be accepted into.

He may have accumulated a great deal of wealth, but that would never buy lineage. It had never bothered him before—not until he had discovered the identity of a brazen, skull-cracking female. Now he almost wished he had been born into that world, that he had not grown up on the streets or known the tragedy of ignorance.

Lucien jammed his eyes shut, but he could not escape the memories: the sound of his mother's muffled cries, beseeching him with her eyes to do nothing and vowing him to silence afterward, and the screams of a woman whose only mistake had been to love him when doing so would bring her disgrace.

He had ever been a woman's curse. He had vowed to protect them—his mother, his sisters, Sanji—yet he had failed them all. What had he been thinking, to take on the guardianship of a young woman? Jesus, he couldn't do it.

A palm gently pressed against his cheek, jolting Lucien upright. He lunged out to capture the person, a response born of long nights spent in the Indian desert, waiting for a faceless enemy.

But the face now staring at him, eyes wide, was no stranger but his ward, regarding him with a mixture of fear and concern.

"Are you all right?" she softly asked.

Lucien knew he should release her, but he didn't want to let her go just yet. "What happened?" he said, sitting up straighter, his brain foggy.

"You were having a bad dream."

Lucien frowned. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep. Christ, had he said anything? He had never worried about it before because he always slept alone, always kept his guard up. He was slipping.

He dropped his hands from her arms and raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry." He had to get away from her before he revealed all his darkest secrets; any of them would make her despise him forever.

He glanced out the window, his tension easing as he saw they were within a half hour of London.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Lucien's gaze cut back to those mossy green eyes a man could get lost in. "Fine," he said more forcefully than he intended, which made her retreat into her seat. "We'll be there soon," he added, moderating his tone.

He could see she was frightened about what awaited her in a new city. Soon she would be attired in fashionable gowns and attending lavish balls, and men would be panting at her feet. That was where he would be, if given the chance, but he had no right. She had given him a gift, allowed him a taste of her lush body—a body another man would someday claim, to touch the way Lucien had touched her, to be burned by her fire in a way that he had not.

She darted a look at him and then glanced away, nibbling the corner of her mouth as she stared down at her hands, which were clutched nervously in her lap.

"Where will we be staying?"

"I've made arrangements for you to visit with Lady Dane, a good friend of mine. Clarisse is a widow, though not much older than you. Her husband died in a duel last year."

"How tragic," Fancy murmured.

Lucien snorted. "He was a bloody idiot. He left a good woman behind."

Fancy wondered at his feelings for this Clarisse. Could she be the woman who had crawled beneath his skin and owned his heart? Was she his mistress, perhaps?

She started as Lucien's fingers cupped her chin, turning her face to him. "Don't worry," he said in a gentle tone that almost undid all of her good intentions not to cry. "You'll be fine. I think you and Clarisse will have a great deal in common."

Fancy looked into his eyes and saw the reassurance there, and something else. Something heart-wrenching. She desperately wished he would kiss her.

As though discerning her thoughts, he leaned toward her, his light, warm scent surrounding her. His silky hair tumbled across his forehead, making her itch to push it back.

Then the coach lurched in a rut, jarring both of them back to reality, and the hot look in Lucien's eyes was gone. This was not the time to ask him anything, yet questions rose in her mind, questions that needed to be answered but had remained unasked because too much turmoil had been swirling around them both. This might be the last opportunity she would have.

"Lucien?"

His chilly gaze slid to hers. "Yes?" His tone advised her to think twice, but if she backed down now, he would know he had succeeded in intimidating her.

"Would you tell me about George?"

His body seemed to tense beneath his finely tailored navy jacket. "What is it you'd like to know?"

Fancy plucked at her skirt. "Was he afraid?"

"No," he replied quietly. "At least, I never saw it. He was a soldier until the very end. His only concern was leaving you."

The tears she had so valiantly tried to contain spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks. "George was still so young when we lost our parents, but he was forced to grow up quickly. It seemed as though overnight the joy of our youth had been abandoned.

"He had just received his commission a few weeks before our parents died. My father had been a career military man, and he wanted George to follow in his footsteps. I don't think he wanted to go, yet he accepted his duty, just as my father expected. He told me in one of his letters that he wanted me to be proud of him. He never understood that I would have been just as proud of him if he had become a sheep farmer. As long as he was still here."

Fancy closed her eyes tight, but the tears seeped through. She heard Lucien shift and felt a handkerchief gently wiping away her tears.

"He adored you, you know," he murmured, his touch making Fancy want to lean her cheek into his palm. "I think half the men in my outfit wanted to be the one to take care of you. They were all jealous when I was given the honor."

Fancy sniffled and opened her eyes. "They were?"

He nodded. "Every man wanted to set eyes on George's little sister, the angelic Fancy. We were all certain that you had Stardust for freckles and heaven in your eyes. We were sure that you could redeem us all."

"But you said—"

"I say a lot of things when I'm angry. I don't always mean them."

In his own way he was apologizing, and Fancy's heart softened another bit toward him. "Thank you," she whispered. "I needed to hear that." Her gaze dropped to where his hand rested near hers, the tips of their fingers touching. "I missed him so terribly for so long. I didn't think I'd ever pull through. He was all I had left, and I… I was so alone."

"You're not alone anymore," Lucien vowed softly.

Without thought, Fancy leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. He stiffened, and she realized her mistake, pulling away, but he grabbed her arms and held her there, a fierce growl rumbling up in his throat as his mouth slanted over hers, teasing and nipping until she opened for him and he could slip his tongue inside.

Fancy clung to him, her hands gripping the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer until he was practically on top of her. She didn't care how wanton her behavior was, or that a proper lady wouldn't kiss a gentleman first.

Impetuous, her mind whispered. Reckless, it said even louder. But she paid no heed as his body began to press her down against the seat.

Abruptly, he stopped and closed his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw. When he opened his eyes, the fire was gone. He regarded her steadily for a long moment, the current running between them too palpable to will away, but she could see the regret in his eyes.

He sat back, his expression resolute. "We're here," he said, pulling her upright, his touch impersonal as the coach began to slow, rumbling down a cobblestone road dappled with the dim light of early evening.

Fancy tried to focus on her new surroundings rather than on what had just transpired. She told herself it was a mistake and that it would never happen again, but the thought did not console her.

"Where are we?" she asked, pretending fascination at the quaint homes they passed, some very stately with their perfectly trimmed hedges and large, leafy trees.

"Mayfair," he replied as the coach rolled to a stop in front of a lovely gabled town house of red brick with an ornately carved black metal fence enclosing a well-tended courtyard.

Fancy glanced at him. "Are you sure we won't be intruding on Lady Dane? Perhaps she'll be frightened of Sadie."

"Very little frightens Clarisse," he said with familiarity and warmth, stirring up a jealousy inside Fancy that she tried to squash.

As she stared out at the town house, nerves took over. Had she once really lived in this city? She had no memories of it, just a sense of being overwhelmed and landlocked. Already, she missed the wide-open space of Cornwall.

"Coming?"

Fancy blinked and realized Lucien now stood outside on the walkway, holding a hand out to her and waiting patiently.

Tentatively, she placed her palm in his, captured by the look in his eyes as he helped her down, his gaze drifting over her in a sensuous appraisal that made warmth run down her spine.

She had donned her best dress for the trip, a pale rose tulle with a lace-trimmed hem, and a high-waisted bodice that was edged with primroses and undercut with a thin satin ribbon of darker rose. A pendant her mother had given her dangled in the hollow of her neck, becoming a prism for the dying sun, whose crimson-gold rays waned into a burning copper as it descended into the horizon.

As she stood before Lucien, Fancy understood the true meaning of feeling overwhelmed.

Until today, she had only seen him dressed in casual attire. Now he looked like an aristocrat in his blue-gray jacket and slate trousers, a white lawn shirt beneath and a white silk cravat around his neck, accentuating the angle of his jaw and the dark hue of his skin. They were in his territory, the world he understood, and Fancy knew that things had irrevocably changed.

Thirteen

Fancy wished Rosalyn was there with her, but the other coach lagged behind.

"Nice to have you back, Mr. Kendall," a voice intoned, shaking Fancy from her thoughts.

She turned to find the man she presumed was the butler standing before them. His appearance made her blink, for he was an eyeful, with his jet black hair and gem-green eyes, his body amply matching Lucien's height and width.

"Thank you, Pierce," Lucien said. "It's nice to be back. Is Lady Dane at home?"

"Yes, sir. She has been awaiting your arrival. If you and the young lady would please follow me."

Fancy started as Lucien touched his hand to her elbow. "Don't gape, my dear," he said as they followed Pierce up the front steps, an underlying gruffness in his tone. "It's not polite."

Fancy flushed. "I'm sorry. I was just a bit surprised."

"Pierce is well used to it. Lady Dane is the envy of every female of the ton. For the last two years, all the matrons have endeavored to steal him away, but Pierce is devoted to her."

Fancy darted a glance at Lucien. "Are they…"

"No, they aren't," he replied, a hint of censure in his voice. "Lady Dane is very circumspect, and as you may have noticed, Pierce is far beneath her socially. Any relationship between them would be out of the question."

Fancy sighed. "I never could understand why rank is so important, especially if two people truly care for each other. It seems ridiculous to me."

"It's simply the way things are."

Hearing the bitterness in Lucien's words, Fancy glanced up at him, but he was not looking at her. He stared straight ahead, the front doors opening before them as if drawn by an invisible hand.

As he guided her into the marble-lined foyer of Lady Dane's town home, Fancy marveled at the opulence. A painted ceiling soared above her head, and gilded artwork lined the wall going up the stairs, where a beautiful oriental carpet in shades of burgundy, green, and gold flowed down, gleaming brass rods pining it in place.

Fancy peeked around Lucien's broad form and into the formal drawing room to her left, catching a glimpse of its green flocked walls and silk moiré draperies, heavily carved furniture dotting the vast space, a fireplace of green marble as its centerpiece.

"Lucien!" a voice rang out, bringing Fancy's gaze to the landing at the top of the stairs where a statuesque woman stood in a cream silk day dress.

Clarisse Templeton was everything that Fancy had feared she would be, and her heart sank as she watched the woman glide elegantly down the stairs, her smile warm and welcoming, her eyes showing her joy at seeing Lucien.

"Lady Dane." He reached out to take her proffered hand and placed a delicate kiss on its back. "You're looking lovely, as always."

She laid her hand atop his. "I'm so glad to see you. I hope you fared well on your trip?"

"Very well." Their gazes held for a moment, and Fancy felt like an intruder.

Then Lady Dane turned to Fancy with a bright smile. "You must be Lady Francine. My, you are lovely, just as Lucien described in his letter."

Surprised that Lucien had made more than a passing comment about her, Fancy turned to him. His smile had been replaced by a fierce scowl, directed at Lady Dane, who seemed to be trying not to laugh.

She tucked her arm in Fancy's and walked her away from Lucien. "I'm overjoyed that you've come to stay with me. I have many events planned for us, and I'm certain we will have the best time together. It has been far too long since I've had an acquaintance closer to my age. May I call you Francine?"

The good humor in her hostess's eyes made it difficult for Fancy to find a single thing to dislike about her. Clarisse Templeton appeared to be as friendly as she sounded, and it certainly would be nice to have a friend who could guide her and Rosalyn through London society.

"My friends call me Fancy," she answered with a smile of her own.

"How lovely! It suits you." With a brief flick over her shoulder, she said to Lucien, "Don't just stand there, darling, pour yourself a drink in the study, if you care to stay. I will be showing my guest to her bedroom."

Sounding as disgruntled as he looked, Lucien replied, "Lady Rosalyn should be arriving shortly."

"Marvelous!" Clarisse gave Fancy's arm a little squeeze as they started up the stairs. "It shall be just us girls. We have so much to discuss. I'll need your advice on the ball I'm hosting in your honor."

"A ball? Oh, but you mustn't."

Lady Dane stopped in the middle of the staircase and stared at her. "Whyever not, my dear? All the men will be eager to make your acquaintance. The season is just getting into full swing. Your debut will be spectacular."

"What she is saying," Lucien interceded from the bottom of the steps, his arm propped negligently on the banister, "is that it's time you were thrown into the pool of piranhas ironically known as polite society."

"Good heavens, Lucien," Clarisse scolded, hands on hips as she faced him. "Just because you are jaded about society does not mean it is all bad."

"So says the queen of society."

"I don't know what has gotten into you today, but that remark was uncalled-for."

Lucien held her gaze for a moment and then let it drop. "You're right. Forgive me. Perhaps it's best if I leave. I have things to get in order at Blackthorne."

"I imagine you do," she returned, displeasure in her tone. "You realize there is still a great deal of rumbling going on about your game against Redding, though the earl himself has said not a word."

"Let them rumble. I won the damn house fairly." Turning sharply on his heel, he headed for the door, slamming it behind him.

Clarisse sighed deeply and turned to Fancy. "Men," she said, then hooked her arm through Fancy's to continue up the stairs.

"Who is Redding?" Fancy asked. "And why does Lucien have such an aversion to him?"

"I'm not quite sure what the tension is between the earl and Lucien. It just is. Whenever I try to get Lucien to talk about it, he seals his lips together. As for your first question, I'm referring to Christian Slade, the Earl of Redding. A more attractive and eligible specimen of manhood, a woman could not find." A glimmer of mischief sparkled in her quicksilver eyes as she added, "And that is why he was first gentleman on the invitation list to your soiree."

"But if Lucien doesn't like him—"

"All the better for the scoundrel. He deserves a bit of comeuppance." Clarisse ushered her into a bedroom. "Will this be all right?" her hostess asked.

"It's lovely," Fancy said, noting the contrast between her spartan bedroom back at Moor's End and the lush counterpoint before her now.

Sheer curtains framed with burgundy velvet drapes hung from the window rods and matched the canopy on the huge four-poster bed, which was held to the posts by gold tassels. The counterpane was jade silk with gold and crimson threads woven through it in an intricate floral pattern.

On the far wall, a beautiful limestone fireplace contrasted perfectly with the other colors splashed about the room, accompanied by a lovely grouping of chairs and tables, a perfect place to enjoy a book or a quiet meal alone.

Beside her, Lady Dane chuckled. "You are so wonderfully fresh, Fancy. Every thought and emotion plays on your face." She took hold of Fancy's hands. "I really am glad you're here. It won't be so bad. Trust me."

"I do. It's just that Lucien"—she blushed—"I mean, Mr. Kendall, expects me to marry."

"And you don't want to, I presume?"

"I would someday, but other things are more important to me right now."

"If I'm not being too forward, may I ask if there is someone you left behind in Cornwall? A man who has captured your interest?"

"No." Fancy briefly imagined Heath. "No one."

"Well, Lucien seemed in a great hurry to get you here. I've known him a long time, and I've never seen him quite so fired up over a cause. He is bound and determined to see you wed. Has he expressed any of his reasons to you?"

He had expressed himself quite eloquently, Fancy thought. He wanted to be rid of her, and as quickly as was possible. She was a burden he did not want to bear a moment longer than he must.

Suppressing a sigh, she proceeded farther into the room so that Clarisse would not see her nervousness and wistful longing for home and familiar places. "I think my guardian believes me to be too wild, and that marriage will tame me."

"But it won't, of course."

Fancy strolled about the room, idly running her fingers over the tops of the furniture. "My rashness seems to frustrate my guardian's sensibilities."

"How surprising," Lady Dane mused, an odd lilt to her voice. "Not your impetuous nature, but Lucien's reaction to it. He rarely lets anything ruffle him. It has been suggested by a number of females that he is not in possession of a heart."

Had Fancy not been a witness to Lucien's gently cradling a kitten, and saving her from a tumble out of a tree, and the anguish he felt over George's death, she might have agreed.

Yet the man who had presented himself since her revelation seemed cold and remote, as though he truly didn't possess any feelings. If only she didn't know better, perhaps she could safeguard her heart more readily.

Fancy jumped as Clarisse touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you." She paused, and then asked, "Is something the matter?"

"I have much on my mind."

"Is there anything I could help you with?" Clarisse asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I'm a very good listener."

Fancy wanted to confide, but she could not involve the marchioness in her problems. She did not want to bring Lucien's wrath down on someone else.

"Thank you, but I must work things out myself. I hope you understand."

"I understand perfectly well. You remind me a great deal of myself. But you know you can talk to me or Lucien about anything that is troubling you. It is his responsibility as your guardian to give you assistance in all areas."

What if he was part of the problem? Fancy almost wished she could go back and have them simply be two people getting to know one another.

"My guardian has other matters with which to concern himself." And Fancy couldn't help wondering if he was currently concerning himself with a mistress, as he seemed to have been in a hurry to leave.

With no preamble, Clarisse asked, "Do you have feelings for Lucien, Fancy?"

Fancy quickly said, "No," but her denial was a bit too abrupt. "Of course not."

"I suspect he has been tempted a great deal by you. There is an innocence about you that Lucien would be attracted to. I mean no disrespect. In fact, I quite envy that alluring freshness that seems so much a part of you. It reminds me of what I lost."

Was she thinking about her husband? Fancy wondered. It appeared that Clarisse had fallen in love with a gamester and a rogue, very much like Lucien. Would heartbreak have been Fancy's fate had she allowed herself to have feelings for Lucien? Would he ever find someone who could heal the wounds of his youth?

"I imagine even the most jaded men of the ton would be stirred by you" Clarisse continued. "I have little doubt that you will have your pick of men and will be walking down the aisle before the season is through."

That was exactly what Fancy feared. And yet her thoughts continued to focus on Lucien. She sat down next to Clarisse on the bed. "Has Lucien ever confided anything of his life to you? I'm just curious, you see. He shuts down any time I approach the topic."

"I guess you wouldn't know, would you?"

"Wouldn't know what?"

Clarisse looked at her with sad eyes. "Lucien lost his entire family."

Fancy stared, her mind going back to the day Lucien had told her his family was gone. "You mean they're dead?"

"Presumably. No one quite knows. Most people are not privy to this information. I know because my curiosity, like yours, got the better of me, and I hired a Bow Street runner to find out what I could. Some of the things he told me…" She shook her head. "No child should have to live as Lucien did."

"I know he was poor."

"He was worse than poor. He lived in a small cottage on the Thames, at the edge of the marketplace, where the stench of sewage and rotting fish permeated everything. His father was a hauler, carting in the day's catch, and Lucien and his brothers and sisters had to gut the fish and hawk it to those who had little more than they did. The rich rarely set foot in that part of London.

"His father was out of work more often than not. He drank heavily and beat his children regularly. Lucien never went to school, Fancy."

"You mean he never learned to read and write?"

"He learned eventually. I think Tahj taught him. But for all intents and purposes he was ignorant. It's a wonder that he has come so far in his life. He's extremely wealthy now, mainly due to his innate business sense and savvy dealings. And never was there a man who could read a deck of cards like Lucien. But more importantly, he can read people."

Fancy felt numbed by what she had learned. Lucien would hate it if he knew she felt sorry for him. "What happened to his family?"

"I don't know," Clarisse replied with a sigh. "Everyone seemed to disappear when Lucien was around seventeen. I'm not sure how he ended up in India; there is something about that part of his life he also keeps locked away. The man is carrying around heavy burdens, but he refuses to speak of them. I'm telling you this, Fancy, because I sense you care for him, and though Lucien would rather not care for anyone, I believe he harbors feelings for you, too. I saw the way he stared at you when you weren't looking. You've opened something up inside of him, something he locked away a long time ago, and I think you could be exactly what he needs. I once wished I would be that person, but as much as Lucien squawks at being called a gentleman, he is one."

Fancy cast a sideways glance at her hostess. "Did you and… ?"

"No." Clarisse shook her head. "But not for lack of trying on my part. He's always been a good friend, though. He was there for me when Charles died."

"I was sorry to hear about the loss of your husband."

"Thank you, but I was no more than a convenience to Charles. My husband preferred men, you see."

Fancy tried to hide the astonished look on her face.

"No need to be polite. I knew when I married Charles that he didn't love me, but my confidence still suffered when he showed no interest in touching me. I took it quite to heart when I learned of his predilection."

"But that had nothing to do with you."

"I know, but oftentimes the truth is not a salve. I'm not proud of my behavior after I learned of Charles's secret. It was during those wild days that I first encountered Lucien. I owe him quite a bit." She lifted her chin. "But enough of this. We have a ball to prepare for. And I promise you, my dear, your debut will be the talk of the season."

Fourteen

By sheer dint of will, Lucien managed to stay away from Fancy for the entire week before the ball.

Perhaps that was why he had been sitting up late every evening, images of Fancy with another man plaguing his mind.

God help him, he missed her. She had such passion, such joy for life. Far too many times over the past week, he had pictured her animated face as she played with the kittens or imagined Sadie loping faithfully by her side.

Or thought about the way she had responded to his touch.

As he watched her descend the staircase in a pale yellow silk gown with a bodice more demure than most, but which accentuated the fullness of her breasts and the slender curve of her waist, making a man itch to wrap his hands around it and pull her close, he nearly forgot his good intentions. He wanted to cover her up and throw her over his shoulder, take her back to Cornwall and the secluded cove where they had dug for oysters. He wanted her to be someone else—Fancy without the title and trappings, without the brother who died because of Lucien.

"Why the grim look, my friend?"

Lucien turned from the object of his obsession and glanced over to find his friend and fellow Pleasure Seeker, Derek Hardwicke, standing next to him, urbane and impeccable as always.

Looking at him, no one would guess at the dangerous man who lurked beneath the perfectly tailored clothes, both an English lord and a Highland laird, who ruled with an iron fist. "Heathen" was the nickname Derek had acquired, and it was well earned.

"Jesus, if you aren't as ugly as ever." Lucien held out his hand to his friend, who laughed and gave him a slap on the back that would have snapped the spine of a lesser man. What Derek lacked in height, at a mere six-two, he made up for in brawn. He was a muscled brute.

He and Derek went way back to the time when Lucien had escaped from India, before he had returned to fight a battle that had nothing to do with England's desires to squash the Indian government underfoot. Derek understood the pull of two countries. His mother had been an heiress to a great English estate and his father the laird of one of the fiercest Highland clans.

"I wouldn't talk, my friend," Derek returned good-naturedly, inclining his head to a petite redhead batting her eyelashes at him in blatant invitation. "Your face looks like it's been pummeled one too many times. Perhaps one of these days someone will break your nose so that it looks normal again. If I wasn't otherwise engaged this evening, I might be tempted to give it a go."

"Stand in line."

"Still working your charm on the masses, I see," Derek drawled, directing Lucien's attention to the glowers pointed in his direction, most from men whom he had separated from their money at one time or another. "You never were one for tact."

"You don't need tact when you win at cards as much as I do."

But Derek's gaze, like everyone else's, had been diverted to the vision in pale yellow who had reached the receiving line where her guests eagerly awaited an introduction.

A glint of deviltry danced in his friend's eyes as he glanced back at Lucien. "Your ward, I presume?"

Lucien didn't like the look on the man's face. "In the flesh," he muttered.

"And what lovely flesh. Could she be as innocent as she appears?"

Lucien remembered exactly how innocent Fancy was. "Yes, and I expect her to stay that way."

Derek cocked a black brow. "You're sounding awfully proprietary, lad."

Damn it, what had come over him? His goal was to find Fancy a husband, and Derek was as eligible as they came. Yet something about the idea of Fancy and his friend rubbed Lucien the wrong way.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "But I made a promise to her brother to watch out for her."

Derek sobered. "You still haven't forgiven yourself for that, have you?"

Lucien's chest tightened. "I was his commanding officer."

"You're human, first."

It seemed as though he had lost his humanity a long time ago. Some days he forgot what it had been like to care, but as he watched Fancy smile at one person after the next, her warmth genuine, her laughter infectious, he wished he could find his way back to the man he could have been.

"So are you going to introduce me to her?" Derek asked. "Or are we just going to stare at her the rest of the night?"

"Try not to drool on her, if possible," Lucien said as he started across the room.

Derek laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it, unless I want to rile you. Which is tempting, of course, but my brawling days are waning."

"If you were even lucky enough to land a blow," Lucien countered.

Derek clapped him on the shoulder. "Luck has nothing to do with it, lad."

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Fancy glimpsed Lucien and another man approaching. She had wondered if he would be attending her party, as he hadn't bothered with her for the entire week.

While Clarisse had stuck to the letter of her word and kept Fancy and Rosalyn busy with fittings and tea parties, Fancy had not been able to completely shut out thoughts of Lucien. It seemed as though his family had vanished without a trace. At least she knew the fate of her own family. What must it be like to go through life always wondering?

Fancy felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find Rosalyn standing behind her, a warm smile on her face. Her friend had declined to come down the stairs with her, claiming it was Fancy's night to shine, though the party had been intended for the two of them. Fancy wished she could convince Rosalyn that she was not a burden, but with each passing day, her friend seemed to withdraw more.

"You look stunning," Rosalyn murmured, her eyes alight with sincerity as she took in Fancy's dress, which Fancy had balked at buying as it was so expensive, as well as too daring in the neckline. But Clarisse had insisted, taking delight in spending Lucien's money.

"The rascal deserves it," she repeated throughout the endless rounds of shopping, her eyes glinting mischievously as she wandered off to find other fripperies for Fancy's growing wardrobe.

"You look rather stunning yourself," Fancy told her friend. "That color is marvelous on you." The gown was peach satin with matching lace ruching around the collar and sleeves that hung off her friend's smooth, pale shoulders. Rosalyn's golden mane had been swept up on top of her head, with soft curls framing her face, the style emphasizing the swanlike grace of her neck.

"Who is that with Mr. Kendall?" Rosalyn queried, drawing Fancy's attention back to the men striding purposefully toward them, both of them taller than most of the gentlemen present and devastatingly handsome, every female eye in the room tracking them.

To look at Lucien, Fancy would never have believed he had not grown up an aristocrat. His bearing exuded a self-confident arrogance, and people moved out of his path almost deferentially. He was also hard to miss, dressed in formal black attire that fit his muscular frame to perfection.

"My lady?"

The deep voice barely registered until a nudge from Clarisse, followed by a nod of her head, shifted Fancy's focus to the man standing before her in the receiving line.

"Pardon me," she murmured as her gaze lifted to a pair of stunning amber eyes.

The man smiled warmly down at her. "No apology necessary. I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming."

"Yes," she confessed, returning his smile. "I do feel somewhat like a fish out of water."

"No one would know it to look at you." Taking her hand in his, he added, "And if you don't mind my saying so, I have looked at you quite a bit this evening."

Fancy blushed. "Your honesty is refreshing…"

"Goodness, I've been remiss," interjected Clarisse, stunning in a dark rose, off-the-shoulder gown. "Lady Francine Fitz Hugh, may I introduce his lordship, Christian Slade, the Earl of Redding, and his lovely sister, Lady Diana."

Fancy hadn't noticed the young woman standing a bit behind the earl, a petite brunette with an ethereal quality about her. Her heart had missed a beat at discovering who she was talking to. Her gaze cut to Lucien, who now wore a fierce scowl on his face.

The earl had followed her gaze, and the look that transformed his expression was not a pleasant one. "It appears your guardian disapproves of the current company."

Lucien's anger was blazingly obvious, and Fancy feared blows would be exchanged. Glancing up at the earl, she hastened to ask, "Perhaps we could acquaint ourselves at another time, my lord?"

"Your concern for my welfare is appreciated, my lady, but I never bow out of a confrontation, which this particular hothead is clearly itching for. I hope you won't think ill of me?"

"I won't think ill of you, but I don't wish for a fight."

"I promise not to raise a hand to your guardian. The last thing I want is to ruin your party; then you might never forgive me." Lifting her hand to his lips, he lightly kissed the back. "I would hate to lose the opportunity to get to know you better."

"Get your hands off her, Redding" came Lucien's growled warning.

Straightening slowly, the earl greeted her guardian with indifference. "Why, Kendall," he drawled. "What an unpleasant surprise. I thought you disdained parties?"

Lucien's eyes glinted dangerously. "Not when the party is for my ward, you bloody sod."

"Lucien!" Clarisse scolded. "The earl is my guest. I won't have you insulting him."

Lucien's fiery gaze narrowed on Lady Dane. "You knew I wouldn't want him here, yet you invited him anyway."

"This is about Fancy. Not you."

"You won Blackthorne Manor, Kendall," the earl interjected. "You should be crowing, yet here you are, still snorting like an angry bull. Have you nothing better to do?"

"Think twice about patronizing me, Redding. I have no compunction about pounding your face into the floor."

Only a tightening of his jaw gave away the earl's anger. "I promised Lady Francine I wouldn't turn her ball into a fighting match. But if you'd care to take this outside, I'd be happy to oblige you."

"Fine." Lucien took a step, but the large man standing at his side grabbed hold of his arm.

"Think, man," he said tersely. "This is neither the time nor the place."

Fancy prayed Lucien would listen to his friend. He looked brittle, and there was a wildness in the eyes that he fixed on his friend, who did not so much as blink.

Tense moments passed, and then Lucien wrenched his arm away. As he did so, the back of his hand connected with Fancy's chin, the blow sending her tumbling back, but the earl's arms came around her to keep her from falling to the floor.

"My God, Lucien!" Lady Dane exclaimed, rushing to Fancy's side. "What has come over you?"

Pressing her hand to her lip, where a dab of blood dotted her fingers, Fancy glanced up in time to see the stricken look on Lucien's face. The blow had been unintentional, but the guilt in his eyes was awful to see.

He backed away from her, and Fancy instinctively reached for him, but he swung on his heel, pushing his way through the crowd and disappearing out a side door.

"Don't worry," his friend said, the words barely registering in Fancy's mind. "He'll be fine. I'm Derek Hardwicke, by the way."

"The Marquis of Manchester," Clarisse hastened to fill in.

Derek looked moderately uncomfortable with the label. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances," he said with genuine sincerity.

It took Fancy a moment to realize he was speaking to her. "Yes," she said distractedly, her gaze returning to the empty doorway where Lucien had disappeared.

"And you are…" He looked inquiringly at Rosalyn.

Dropping into a curtsey, her friend replied, "Lady Rosalyn Carmichael, my lord."

He took hold of Rosalyn's hand. "A pleasure," he murmured, brushing his lips across her skin and lingering a moment longer than proper. "I look forward to furthering our acquaintance. At present, however, I must search for my hardheaded friend."

"Please tell Lucien that I'm all right," Fancy pleaded.

"I will," he said gently, giving her a reassuring smile. Then he inclined his head. "Redding," he said flatly. "Ladies." His gaze boldly drifted over Rosalyn before he turned and followed the path Lucien had taken moments before.

 

Lucien strode blindly down the dark and deserted streets of London, his mind replaying the scene in the ballroom, the blood on Fancy's lip caused by his actions. He had never hurt a woman before. His anger had eclipsed his common sense. And in that brief flash, he saw in himself the man his father was, and he had felt loathing and disgust.

And fear.

Fear of an uncontrollable rage. Of the jealousy that surely simmered in his blood. His father had possessed only one method for relieving himself of his jealousy.

And that was to beat his wife.

Lucien jammed his eyes shut. Christ, he knew better than to let his emotions get the better of him. He told himself it was Redding's presence that had set him off, not the bastard touching his Fancy.

He choked on a bitter laugh. His Fancy? She wasn't his, and never would be. And if he was being honest, Clarisse had done exactly as he had asked her to. Christian Slade was considered a catch. He was rich, handsome, and privileged. None of the things that Lucien had ever been.

He heard the clatter of hooves and wheels rumbling toward him. The hackney driver hesitated to slow when he spotted Lucien, who looked menacing in the dark, his coat and cravat discarded, his hair wild, but stepping out into the path of the conveyance made the man's decision for him.

The horses came to a noisy halt barely three feet in front of Lucien, the driver peering warily down at him from beneath a grimy cap. "Where to, guv'nor?"

"Limehouse," Lucien growled, climbing inside. "There's five pounds extra in it if you get me to the Grotto quickly."

With such incentive, the hackney lurched forward and Lucien dropped his head back against the squabs, trying to erase the image of Fancy.

 

Long after the ball had come to an end, Fancy was still awake and restless, staring out at the street where the fading lamplight created strange patterns on the ground. An alley cat sauntered down the walkway in front of the house, poking its nose among the crevices in search of an unwary rodent.

Fancy turned away and wrapped her arms around herself. Where was Lucien now? Had Lord Manchester been able to find him? If so, had he told Lucien that she didn't blame him for what happened?

She closed her eyes and sighed. The rest of the night had passed in a blur of faces and endless questions, most of which Fancy answered by rote. During that time, Christian Slade had stayed close at hand. She wasn't quite sure how it happened, but he had managed to wring a promise out of her to ride with him through the park the next morning. She decided to send him a note first thing and cordially decline. She couldn't hurt Lucien like that.

Fancy's eyes drifted open as the haunting sound of her name seemed to rise out of the darkness and whisper across the fine hairs at the back of her neck.

Her heart beat in thick strokes as she turned in a slow circle, her eyes sweeping every corner, each shadowed place. "No one is there," she chided herself.

Then someone called her name again, louder, more insistent, and she realized it was coming from outside.

She looked out into the windless night, her gaze drifting down into the courtyard below, where a figure emerged from behind a tree and stepped into a patch of moonlight.

"Lucien," she whispered, her gaze drinking him in. Then she saw the tears in his shirt and the smear of what looked to be blood staining a corner of his collar.

Fancy spun on her heel and dashed to her bedroom door, her dressing gown flying out behind her as she raced down the dimly lit corridor to the servant's stairs that led to the courtyard.

She burst out the door, her breath rasping in her lungs, the chilled air stinging her cheeks, then came to an abrupt halt. Lucien stood not more than twenty feet from her, yet she could not move another inch.

Before she could speak, he said, "I had to see you."

"What happened to you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Fancy finally found the strength to walk to him, not realizing that the moon made her nightgown nearly transparent, outlining her body and the hint of her nipples as well as the dark delta between her thighs.

She stopped before Lucien and raised her hand to smooth back his hair and look at his wound, but he jerked away, barking at her in a foreign tongue and staring at her as if he didn't know her.

"Let me help you," she murmured, thinking the injury to his head had left him confused.

She reached out to turn his face and check the gash at his temple, but he clamped his fingers around her wrist, his hold bordering on painful. "Go home, Sanji."

Fancy froze. She knew then that Lucien was not with her, and as she met his gaze, she glimpsed the glazed look in his eyes, devoid of recognition and feeling.

"Lucien, it's me. Fancy."

"I told you not to come here. Don't you understand the risks? If your family found out what you were doing—"

Fancy realized he was reliving a past event, and though she didn't want to deceive him, something told her it was imperative to hear what came next.

"They won't find out."

With a muttered oath, he let go of her. "They watch me all the time. You can't free me. You can't help. So, dear God, just go." He turned away from her and laid his forearm against the tree, his head bowed.

Taking a deep breath, Fancy moved around him and stood where he could see her, waiting until his gaze rose to hers. "What have I done so horribly that you want me gone?"

His jaw hardened. "You loved me," he accused. "Don't you understand that I can't love you back? I can't love any woman."

The revelation seemed to tear at him, as it tore at Fancy. Sanji was a woman—and she had loved Lucien. "Why can't you love me?"

"Because we will both die if I do. And I'm not worth dying for."

"And if I think you are?"

His hands shot out so quickly that Fancy could barely blink as he roughly backed her up against the tree. "They've kept me in these shackles for four years," he snarled. "They'll kill me before they let me go. I have nothing." He closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain. "I won't have any more blood on my hands."

"Lucien," Fancy pleaded, fear pounding inside her. "Please, I want to help."

He looked at her, finally seeing her clearly through the sheen of moisture that might have been tears. He cupped her cheek. "Don't let me hurt you, Fancy. I don't want to."

She laid her palm over his hand and leaned her face against the warmth of his skin. "You won't hurt me. I don't think you could."

"I could. I have."

"No."

"They disfigured her," he said, the admission wrenched from him. "They cut her face."

"Dear God." Fancy was beginning to understand how deep his scars were. He had been a slave in India. A young woman had fallen in love with him—and she had paid dearly for it. "Who hurt her?"

"Her father and brothers."

"Why?"

"Because she had dishonored them."

"By loving you?"

"By touching me. By being seen with me. Just by breathing, I had defiled her worth as a woman." He paused and added in a barely audible voice, "And when I made love to her, I caused her death. I wasn't strong enough to send her away. I've never been strong enough when it counted."

The horror of what he had been forced to endure welled inside of Fancy.

"You were strong with me," she murmured, gently peeling his collar back and seeing the large welt on his shoulder. He had been beaten and couldn't remember where. There was something dreadfully wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

"I'm afraid of you," he said in a raw voice. "Afraid of what you'll do to me."

"I won't do anything to you," she vowed, looking up into his eyes. "I never meant to hurt you with my lie."

"If all I'd ever done in my life was lie…" He shook his head. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

"Don't go," Fancy called after him, but all that came back to her was the sound of the metal gate clicking shut.

Fifteen

Two weeks passed without a word from Lucien.

Fancy thought he had understood she would be there for him, no matter what. But she should have remembered that he had erected the world's strongest barriers and would let no one slip by them.

The tragedies he had confided still left her shocked. The brutality of the life he had lived was something she could barely comprehend. She wanted to see him, speak to him, but her missives to Charring House had all been returned.

She had spotted him at Lady Chatterley's rout a few days earlier. He had been with Lord Manchester, who had flirted outrageously with Rosalyn, going so far as to steal a kiss. It had left the usually serene Rosalyn flustered, even more so when Derek's roguish brother, Ethan, equally as handsome as his sibling, had shown up and begun to compete for Rosalyn's attention. That had set the brothers at odds, a place they seemed to have spent a good portion of their lives.

Fancy had tried to listen attentively to her friend's turmoil, but her gaze had continued to return to Lucien, and when he did not come to her, she made up her mind to go to him. But when she started across the room, a woman had walked up to him, and he had smiled at that woman in a way that made Fancy stop cold.

The woman had been Diana Slade.

Fancy had heard the rumors that he had started paying court to Lady Diana, but she had not paid heed, knowing how viciously Lucien hated the lady's brother. But in her brief acquaintance with Diana, Fancy could see what would attract a man like Lucien. The woman exuded a demure femininity, her every move a graceful choreography, her words soft, yet carefully considered. A woman like Diana would never cavort in breeches or shoot anyone.

Fancy sighed and turned to face her image in the mirror. Invitations had been pouring in since the day after her ball, and Clarisse seemed inclined to accept each and every one. Fancy had not complained. She would have done just about anything to keep her thoughts from Lucien.

A knock sounded at her door. "Come," she said, swiveling halfway around to see Rosalyn enter, the dark smudges under her friend's eyes the only thing that conveyed her night had been anything other than perfect.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Fancy replied, smoothing out the skirt of the brocade and silk gown that Clarisse claimed would be the envy of every woman at the Fordhams' gala.

Rosalyn came to stand in front of her. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Fancy replied quickly. She didn't want to burden her friend, who still worried about Calder—with reason, it seemed.

Rosalyn had been certain she had seen him one night a week earlier. And then there had been a suspicious event after they had returned from Lady Chatterley's. The window in Rosalyn's bedroom had been broken, but the incident was labeled an accident, caused by the limbs of the tree next to the house and a strong gust of wind. Fancy was not convinced, and Rosalyn was terrified.

Since that night, Rosalyn had been moved to a different room, and all had been quiet, but Fancy would not feel at ease until Calder had been found. According to correspondence from the Westcotts' butler, who was devoted to Rosalyn, Calder had not been seen or heard from since he slunk away in the middle of the night all those weeks ago.

"Will Lord Manchester be in attendance tonight?" Fancy inquired, as she and Rosalyn made their way down the hall.

"I don't know, and I don't care."

Fancy turned at the stiffness in her friend's voice. "That doesn't sound promising. Has he tried anything untoward?"

"The man lives to be untoward."

"Is he bothering you? I can speak to Lucien about it." If she could pin him down.

A moue of displeasure settled over Rosalyn's face. "No, he's not bothering me, but he really does the most wicked things. I should be appalled, or standoffish at the very least. But he is so very…"

"Persuasive?" Fancy offered.

"Exactly!"

Fancy understood that. No matter how often her conscience prodded her, she couldn't seem to behave prudently when Lucien was around.

"I suspect the problem has something to do with his brother, Ethan?" Fancy guessed.

Rosalyn nodded. "The lummox has the nerve to think I'm inviting his brother's attention! He called me a flirt. Can you believe that? Me! When he smiles at any woman who passes in front of him." Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know why I'm so drawn to him. He's only toying with me. He's not even going to be here much longer. He merely came to settle some issues regarding his mother's estate before he goes back to Scotland.

"He's a real Highland chieftain, you know. He wears kilts, and I heard from Lady Treadwell"—she lowered her voice—"that Scottish men don't wear any under-garments beneath those kilts. I don't think that's true. I mean, imagine what would happen if the wind kicked up." Her brows pulled together, and she seemed to lose her train of thought for a moment. "Well, none of that matters, I suppose. He'll be gone, and that will be the end of that."

They had reached the foyer by then, and Clarisse turned to smile at them. "Don't you both look stunning! The gentlemen will be beside themselves this evening." Stepping between them, she looped her arms through theirs and guided them toward the front door. "I have a surprise."

The butler opened the door, and standing outside were Lucien and Derek, garbed in black evening wear.

 

The carriage ride to the Fordhams' town house in Grosvenor Square was torture. The interior of the coach shrank to the size of a snuffbox with the men's presence.

Derek sat beside Rosalyn; Lucien next to Fancy. Though he hadn't spoken more than two words to her, she was forced to feel his body bordering hers, his leg brushing her thigh, his shoulder a constant friction. His big hands rested squarely on his thighs, his blunt fingernails an inexplicable attraction.

The tension was thick as a Cornish fog.

Fancy sighed in relief as the carriage drew to a stop in front of the Fordhams' home, which was set back from the street and took up nearly a full block. Every window was ablaze with lights, and Fancy could see the crush inside. She did not relish another night of mixing and smiling.

She started as she felt a hand at her elbow. She turned to find Lucien regarding her, his expression unreadable. "Ready to go in?"

She wasn't, but she nodded and allowed him to help her alight from the coach. On Derek's arm, Rosalyn had already gone ahead and now stood at the doorway, the footman divesting her of her wrap, leaving Fancy alone with Lucien in an uncomfortable silence.

He took her hand and laid it in the crook of his arm, his sleeve smooth against her fingertips, the flesh beneath as firm as she remembered.

Before they had reached the door, he stopped and turned her to face him. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" Fancy noted the leanness of his face, the pronounced angle of his features, his resigned gaze, an unhealthy tint in his eyes. Something was happening to him, and she could neither stop it nor get him to speak about it.

"It's a blanket apology. I've done more than my share of things to you that I shouldn't have, starting when I first kissed you."

"You're sorry for that?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Are you?"

He looked at her, a light breeze toying with his hair, the scent of beeswax floating through the open door, where the butler awaited their entrance.

"No " he finally admitted. "I'm not sorry. But it can't happen again. Whatever's between us is a mistake."

"Why?"

"There are too many reasons to count. I never intended any of this, I hope you know that."

Her fingers tightened around his sleeve. "Please talk to me, Lucien. Tell me what's happening to you."

But his features closed over, telling her it was too late. He ushered her up the steps and into the brightly lit foyer, fluted crystal glasses glinting like small torches on the myriad silver salvers crisscrossing the room.

As they stood at the top of the stairs leading to the ballroom, for one fleeting moment Fancy allowed herself to imagine what a life with Lucien would be like.

To believe he loved her.

The dream dissolved when he kissed her gently on the hand and walked away, her gaze following his retreating form until he disappeared into the card room.

"My lady."

Christian Slade stood two steps below her, resplendent in navy and dove gray, a rose in his hand, which he extended to her.

"Thank you," Fancy murmured, staring down at the rose as the ache widened in her heart.

"Will you honor me with the first dance?" He held out his hand, and Fancy hesitated before placing her palm in his.

The ballroom was a glittering diamond, the chandelier reflecting a hundred little pinpoints of light, the French doors thrown wide, a warm glow spilling out onto the balcony and beyond.

Christian whirled her into a waltz, the soft lights a misty gauze around them. In the earl there existed everything a woman should want in a potential mate. He was sincere, intelligent, charming, and incredibly handsome. But he was not Lucien. He would never need her the way Lucien did, and it wasn't until that moment that Fancy understood how much she had come to care about her guardian, to believe that she could help him through whatever he suffered.

It took Fancy several seconds to realize that the dance was over.

Christian asked, "Would you care for some refreshments?"

She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the table where a large bowl contained champagne punch with slices of orange floating on top.

He handed her a cup. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Certainly," Fancy replied, taking a sip.

She caught a glimpse of Rosalyn exchanging words with Lord Manchester across the room, then marching away only to be intercepted by the marquis's brother, who swept her out onto the dance floor, a move that would bring the men to fisticuffs, if the glower on Derek Hardwicke's face was any indication.

"Perhaps I should leave?" the earl said, snapping Fancy back to attention.

"What? Oh, no." She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I've had a lot on my mind recently."

"I've noticed. Does your preoccupation have anything to do with Kendall?"

A denial rose to her lips, but the way the earl was looking at her cut it off. "Perhaps some," she confessed.

"Am I to blame? I know how much he dislikes me." A wry half-grin lifted a corner of his lips. "I suspect dislike is a rather mild word, in this case. He's been out to get me since he returned to London a year ago."

"Can you tell me why?" When he shifted uncomfortably, she added, "Please. I need to know."

He hesitated, then said, "Let's go somewhere private."

Fancy nodded, and followed him out of the ballroom.

 

Lucien stood in a shadowed corner and watched the couple across the room, their heads bent close to one another, looking perfect together. His ward and Christian Slade. A simmering volatility built inside him, like a furnace on the verge of an explosion.

He forced his mind to refocus. He had ample opportunity to ply his charm on Slade's sister. She stood near the stairs with two matrons and several gentleman admirers. Prime game.

He could feel her eyes on him and knew he should ask her to dance, then tell her more tales of his life in the infantry, glossing over the horrific elements of war to satisfy her need to think of him as a hero.

He had once imagined himself as a hero, saving his family from poverty and abuse. But when the time came, he had played the wrong card and lost the hand.

It was a pattern that had continued throughout his life; he was always losing the things that were most important to him. He could never pull out the ace when he needed it. Now he was going to lose the only person left who meant anything to him.

Lucien told himself that it was just the idea of Slade winning Fancy's hand that brought out his rage. Any man's attention toward her would affect him, but Slade was Lucien's enemy. An enemy he had vowed to grind beneath his boot heel.

Yet nothing he'd done so far had made more than a dent in the bastard's armor. Until now. The man had kept his sister carefully tucked away at a girls' school in Switzerland, but he couldn't keep her there forever. She had come of age.

Lucien had found his weapon.

Yet none of that mattered as his gaze kept returning to Fancy and Slade. Only by the barest thread was he containing himself from smashing in the son of a bitch's face.

"As I live and breathe!" a voice suddenly called out in a jovial tone. "If it ain't Renegade."

Scowling, Lucien turned and found Derek's brother, Ethan, sauntering toward him. Despite the four years separating their births, the two brothers were uncannily similar in height, weight, and looks. The surprise lay in the fact that Ethan was a bastard, the product of a cheating mother. A fact he never let his half-brother forget, as though Derek was somehow to blame for his illegitimacy.

Ethan resented that his brother had gotten everything—the titles, both English and Scottish, the estates, and the money—while he had been relegated to a small stipend and living on Derek's largesse.

"Nobody's called me Renegade in a long time," Lucien informed him in a clipped tone as the man came to a stop in front of him, a tall glass of whiskey in his hand, already half empty, which would inevitably lead to a brawl or some other public display to humiliate his brother.

Sporting a cocky grin, Ethan replied, "Could be 'cause you've fallen off, old boy. Not quite up to your usual tricks, from what I hear. Hard to believe, considering you're one of the founding members of the Pleasure Seekers."

"Still holding a grudge against Caine because he wouldn't let you join?" Lucien asked, a mental countdown in motion in his head as he watched Slade maneuver closer to Fancy.

"Good old Caine," Ethan said in a mocking voice. "Hear he's gotten himself into a bit of a mess. A shame, though I'm not surprised. He was always too full of himself."

"That's something you understand well, don't you?"

"Don't mistake confidence for a bloated head." Ethan smirked as he tipped his glass to his lips and downed a hearty swallow. "By the by, old man, the ladies at Madame Fourche's send their love. Heard you haven't been there in a while. Something about your not being able to get it up? That true?"

At Lucien's silence, Ethan chuckled and saluted him with his glass. "You always were a stone-faced bastard, Kendall. Guess it's what gives you such a winning edge at cards." He took another swig of his drink, then gestured toward the crowd. "Why, look who's coming. Dear big brother to the rescue. What took you so long, King Manchester?" he taunted as Derek came within hearing distance. "Still trying to corral that sweet filly? Damn unfortunate for you that the ladies like me better. That brooding countenance doesn't inspire amorous feelings in women. You might want to keep that in mind."

A muscle worked in Derek's jaw. "I thought I told you not to come here."

"And I thought I told you that I'd do as I damn well please. You might be a big deal with those sods in Scotland, brother, but you don't impress me."

"Don't you ever get tired of yourself?"

"As long as I've got my older brother to look up to, I have everything. Now you'll have to excuse me. I see Lady Rosalyn over there, and she looks as if she's in need of some company." With a mocking bow, Ethan walked away.

Lucien grabbed Derek by the arm, dragging him back as he lunged after his brother. "He's not worth it."

"Damn him," Derek growled through clenched teeth. "He's my brother, for God's sake."

"I know, but Ethan's angry, and you're the only one he can take it out on. It didn't help that your father barely acknowledged him."

"He had a bloody good reason. My mother was a faithless jade."

Lady Manchester had been well known for her scandalous affairs, tossing them in her husband's face, eventually making him a laughingstock because he never did anything about it.

Lucien recognized that in one area of his life, he had been fortunate. He may not have had all of the advantages Derek had—money, a title, a guaranteed place in life—but his mother had been a constant blessing.

Lucien would never understand what his mother had seen in a brutish fisherman with little education and even fewer prospects. She had once told Lucien that his father used to be different. That he had been kind and loving, but that the constant defeat had worn him down, and then the alcohol had changed him into another man entirely. She had made a vow to stand by him when they married, and no amount of pleading on Lucien's part would sway her, even when his father beat her and Lucien would stay up half the night tending another split lip and black eye. Sometimes worse.

He remembered the time he'd begged a local doctor to come and see her after a severe beating had left her with a broken arm. But the man would not venture forth without payment in advance, and Lucien had no money to give. He'd been forced to see to her injury himself, making a splint out of discarded wood spikes and anchoring them the best he could with torn pieces of a sheet. Her arm had healed, but never properly.

For the next three weeks she had slept in the room with Lucien and his brothers. On four occasions his father had come for her, wanting sex, but Lucien had stood up to the old man. He had been big enough by then to make the bastard think twice. After that, the swine hadn't laid a finger on her—unless Lucien was gone from the house, and he'd come back and find her huddled on the floor, crying.

Lucien couldn't remember how many times he had sworn that he would find solid work and take care of his mother and siblings. They could leave, go somewhere else. His mother would smile at him and make him believe it might happen someday, but deep down, they both knew it never would.

"Why don't you just go over there?" Derek said, reminding Lucien of his presence.

"What?"

"I said go over and talk to your ward. If you haven't noticed, nearly every eye in the room is on you. I suspect they're placing wagers to see how long it takes you to throw Redding through a window. Wasn't that the way it went the last time you two crossed paths?"

"It was a glass door, and the swine had it coming."

"Just because he was the Earl of Redding's son, I presume?"

"Does there have to be any other reason?"

"Don't you think it's time to let it go?"

Lucien slanted his friend a look. "Would you?"

Derek sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. "Probably not." He glanced sideways at Lucien. "So what are you going to do?"

"Dissect him one small piece at a time."

"Not about Slade, about your ward. You want her married, but I don't think there's one man here who'll dare go near her, with you glowering at anyone who does. Face it, my friend, you have feelings for her."

Lucien tensed. "You're mistaking my determination to make sure she arrives at her wedding bed a virgin."

"Unless the wedding bed is your own," his friend countered. "So what makes you so sure she's still a virgin?"

"I know."

Derek lifted a brow, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You do? How interesting. Want to fill me in on the method in which you ascertained this information?"

"Bugger off."

Derek laughed heartily, which turned more than a few heads to see what the infamous pair were up to, many of them females wishing they could attract the men's attention. But they were both preoccupied with different women, and those women were with other men—a fact that made Derek swear a moment later, diverting Lucien's attention to follow his friend's gaze.

"Damn that bloody pup," Derek muttered.

Ethan had maneuvered Lady Rosalyn away from the women she had been conversing with and was now guiding her toward the balcony, but not before shooting a triumphant look over his shoulder in Derek's direction.

"The sod is really beginning to annoy me," Lucien grumbled as he pushed away from the wall.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. "This is my fight," Derek said, then headed toward his quarry.

When Lucien finally looked back to the spot where Fancy and Slade had been only a few minutes before, he found neither of them in sight.

 

Fancy glanced over her shoulder toward Lucien as Christian led her away, but her thunderous guardian was heading in the opposite direction, his attention focused on Rosalyn and Ethan Hardwicke.

Christian ushered her into a lovely conservatory filled with lush green plants and hothouse flowers, a water fountain with a frolicking sea nymph occupying the center of the room.

Fancy sat down on the edge of the fountain, idly dipping her fingers into the water to create small ripples.

Christian paced in front of her for a few seconds before facing her. "I've kept this information to myself for a long time. Not for Kendall's benefit, but for my father's. And now my sister. The scandal could very well ruin our family's name."

Fancy sat up straighten "What scandal?"

"The one concerning your guardian and my mother."

His words struck something deep inside Fancy, and she stared up at him for long moments before finding her voice. "Lucien and your mother… had an affair?"

Christian pushed a hand through his hair. "It wasn't an affair. It was one night. One night that changed everyone's life. Kendall blames me for his loss. Well, I blame him for mine. My father banished my mother to our country home in Hampshire after he found out what had taken place, and I was barely allowed to see her for the next ten years. He had me away at one boarding school after the next.

"There were times when I think he wondered if I was his true heir, or a product of one of my mother's string of lovers." He dug his hands into his pockets. "There were times when I wondered, too."

Fancy didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

He glanced at her over his shoulder. "It all happened a long time ago."

"But the hurt hasn't lessened. Does your sister know?"

His expression grew hard. "No. Diana has no idea about what happened; she was still too young to understand. When she was old enough to miss having a mother around, our father told her that our mother was mentally ill and it was best if Diana didn't spend much time with her. Diana grew up dreading that she would inherit our mother's illness. It took a long time for me to help her through her fear. And by God, I won't have Kendall ruin it. I'll kill him first," he vowed through clenched teeth.

Alarmed, Fancy rose and moved to stand in front of him. "I understand your anger, but violence will not solve anything. How does your sister feel?"

"She fights me on the issue. She doesn't understand why I've put my foot down about her associating with him. But she'll listen."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then Kendall will suffer the consequences," he said ominously. "He only wants her to get back at me. He knew that losing Blackthorne barely made a chink in my holdings." He sighed and shook his head. "I hoped that would put an end to all this."

"Did you lose on purpose?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Kendall is a damn good card player; I'll give him that. But I'm not so bad myself. We were both deep in our cups and playing hard." He stared down at the floor. "I just want to put it all behind me and move on. Sometimes I hate my father for what he did, for all the lives that were destroyed. But there's nothing I can do to change it."

"What happened to Lucien after your father found out what was going on?"

Christian glanced out the window toward the street, where a string of coaches came and went. "I didn't know the truth for many years. Perhaps I might have done something had I been older, but my father had always been an intimidating figure—and I had been a coward."

Fancy placed her hand on his shoulder. "You and Lucien share the trait of blaming yourself. Some things are out of our control. No matter what your father may have done, you've grown into a wonderful man. Your sister adores you."

His eyes were warm as he looked at her. "She likes you quite a lot, you know. She thinks you and I would make a perfect couple." He held her gaze and said with feeling, "I've come to the conclusion that she's right."

Fancy realized the conversation had taken an unexpected turn. "My lord—"

"Christian," he murmured, gently wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. "I'm not so bad, you know. You said so yourself." When she opened her mouth to reply, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a soft kiss. Lifting his head, he said, "Just think about it."

Before Fancy could tell him that she had already labeled him a friend, and that another man had crept into her heart, a sardonic voice drawled, "If you think that because you've compromised her, I'll allow you to marry her, Redding, you'd best think again."

Fancy's gaze jerked toward the doorway to find Lucien leaning a shoulder against the jamb, his casual pose belying the murder in his eyes.

Sixteen

Instead of releasing her, the earl trapped Fancy in his embrace. "You always did have the most inconvenient timing, Kendall."

Sensing a fight brewing, Fancy removed Christian's hands from her waist. "This isn't what it looks like," she told Lucien.

"Really?" he retorted. "What is it, then?"

The accusatory way he looked at her made Fancy angry. "His lordship and I were simply talking. Nothing more."

"You lie unconvincingly, love. I foolishly fell for those lies once. You'll have to forgive me if I don't intend to be so gullible again."

"Could it be your own guilty conscience that's leading you to make accusations, Kendall?" Christian challenged. "Perhaps your feelings for the lady are not as pure as you'd like everyone to believe. So tell us, old man, are you lusting after your ward?"

"My lord!" Fancy gasped.

"Thank you, Redding," Lucien drawled.

"For what?"

"For giving me a reason to put my fist through your teeth." Lucien came away from the door like a bull, and Fancy placed herself squarely between the men, her hands pushing against Lucien's shoulders until he looked down at her. "Get out of the way," he bit out.

"No. I won't have the two of you putting me in the middle of your war. You'll not use me as a reason to fight."

A muscle worked in his jaw. "It's my responsibility to protect your honor."

"It's not my honor you're protecting. It's yours."

"She's right, old boy," Christian said in a taunting tone behind her. "You'll use any excuse to have a go at me. Not that I mind, but you do pick the most inopportune moments."

"Like when you're fondling my ward?"

The earl choked on a laugh. "Don't be absurd. Although I would have tried to kiss her again had you not interfered. I've developed rather strong feelings for the lady."

"Please, my lord," Fancy implored.

"Odd, that you bring up feelings," Lucien countered, "since your sister seems to have discovered some for me."

The jab hit its mark; Christian's hands fisted at his side. "You're to stay away from her. Do you understand?"

"That's for Diana to decide. Not you."

"Diana will do as I tell her."

"I'm a grown woman now, Christian," came a new voice, bringing all eyes to the doorway on the opposite side of the room where Diana Slade stood, looking young but determined, her chin tipped up in defiance as she stepped out of the shadows to confront her brother. "I appreciate how diligently you try to protect me, but you must start letting me make my own decisions."

"This is between Kendall and myself, Diana."

"You must stop thinking of me as a child, Christian."

"I don't think of you as a child."

"You do," she said vehemently, color staining her pale cheeks. "Do you think I don't know about Mother? I know. I also know that what Father did was despicable. Mr. Kendall was not to blame." She turned to Lucien, who had remained surprisingly silent. "I'm sorry. What happened to you was cruel and unconscionable."

"Diana!" her brother barked angrily. "We don't owe him any apologies."

"You're wrong, Christian. It's time for this feud to come to an end."

"But I enjoy hating your brother," Lucien remarked in a deceptively calm voice.

"You don't mean that," Diana refuted, and Fancy could see that the young woman had found a cause in Lucien, believing she could save him from himself.

"Oh, but I do."

"You heard him, Diana," her brother interjected. "Can't you see he only wants you to get back at me?"

Lucien regarded Diana steadily. "He might be right, my lady. Perhaps you should turn tail and run."

Diana shook her head. "You won't hurt me, Lucien. I've given you several opportunities, and you've done nothing dishonorable."

"What are you saying, Diana?" her brother demanded, stepping away from Fancy to take his sister by the arm.

"I'm saying that I practically threw myself at Mr. Kendall. I even kissed him the other night in the gazebo. He could have taken advantage of me; I would have welcomed it. Yet he acted the gentleman."

The earl whirled around to face Lucien. "You bloody bastard," he swore viciously, taking a step toward his adversary.

Diana tugged at his arm. "Didn't you hear me, Christian? I was the one who behaved badly."

"He's corrupted you. He'll do anything to pay us back for what Father did."

Lucien glanced down at Fancy. "Are you getting all this, Lady Francine? I am a rogue and a scoundrel, completely unfit to be any young woman's protector. You could use this information to get the magistrate to assign you a new warden, my dear. You could be free of my tyranny once and for all."

"Is that what you'd like?" Fancy asked softly, knowing that Lucien had never wanted the responsibility for her.

His gaze narrowed on her face. "You still have that annoying propensity for asking questions rather than answering them."

"Is that what you'd like?" she persisted.

He glared at her and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't know, damn you."

"You don't want her, but you don't want anyone else to have her, do you?" the earl spat.

"Not at all. I just don't want you to have her."

"Please," Fancy begged, a strangled sob welling in her throat. "Stop this."

Lucien stared down at her, a spark of regret in his eyes. "Fancy—"

"No." She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes even as she tried to hold them back. "Don't say any more. All I wanted was to stay in Cornwall, to live a simple life with the people I love. I didn't want expensive gowns." She gripped the material of her skirt. "I didn't want tea parties and maids and empty flattery. I just—" Choking back tears, Fancy lifted her hem and fled the room.

Lucien's gaze followed her departure, a yawning void engulfing him as he fought every instinct that shouted to go after her.

"I hope you're proud of yourself, Kendall," the earl said caustically. "You don't have a single damn clue what you've got in Fancy. But I do. And if she'll still speak to me after all this, I will do whatever it takes to win her heart. I don't care anymore about your vendettas. There isn't a thing I can do to change the past—but I sure as hell don't intend to be like you, and spend my life living in it."

He took his sister by the arm and headed toward the door. As they passed, Diana laid a hand on Lucien's forearm.

Lucien slid her an impersonal glance. "Listen to your brother, my lady. Go home."

She bowed her head and nodded. He watched her walk away, knowing in his gut that he had lost his last chance to strike at the heart of the man who had ruined his life, a man long dead and buried, but who Lucien could never forgive. He'd had a golden opportunity to avenge his mother's pain, his family's ostracism, and he had opened his hand and let it fly away.

He had never handled anything in his life the right way. It was a curse, and he had afflicted Fancy with it, taken her down with him when he had never meant to hurt her. He should find her another guardian. He should walk away.

He turned and headed out the door.

Then he swung back and strode across the room, to the garden where Fancy had gone.

 

Fancy escaped out the French doors and hastened down the stairs into the deeply shadowed comfort of the Fordhams' garden. The scent of honeysuckle enveloped her as she moved along the rows of flowers and hedges, wanting only to be alone. She could not face another person.

But most of all, she could not face Lucien.

She didn't understand what had come over her. It was not like her to have such emotional outbursts; she had always prided herself on her calm sensibility. But Lucien had a way of shaking her very foundation. He was so tied up in his revenge against the ghosts from his past that he could not see what was right in front of him.

She now knew enough to piece together a part of his life, to envision the story of a young man seduced by a wealthy woman and sentenced to the worst of punishments by her cuckolded husband. A young man who hadn't possessed either money or influence to save himself.

Fancy didn't blame Lucien for the bitterness he felt, for the dissolution. It was his inability to lay any of it to rest that broke her heart. She couldn't turn his life around; only he could do that. And he wasn't willing or able to do so.

"Beautiful night."

Fancy whirled around to find Lucien leaning against a gnarled beech tree, dark and still, a cheroot illuminating the solemn planes of his face, his unearthly beauty, the torment in his eyes.

Unable to bear that look, she turned away and closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her waist. She wanted to cry but couldn't. Perhaps tears would have washed away the indomitable sense of loss. She wanted her life to be simple again. She wanted to turn back the clock and be the carefree girl she had once been, with a brother who adored her and a grandmother whose love had been freely given and all-encompassing.

"Cold?"

Fancy's head jerked up, and she found Lucien standing beside her, his expression unreadable, his eyes as mysterious as the night.

"No." She stepped away from him, the sound of an owl hooting to its mate filling the silence.

"When I was a lad," he said, staring down at a patch of night-blooming jasmine, "I used to sneak over to the West End and spy on the rich people. I'd watch the women dancing in their silks and satins, the men dressed in their knee breeches, not a single scuff on their shoes. I used to wonder how those glorified peacocks could move their necks with their shirt points so stiff and their cravats wound so tightly in all those intricate knots. I once thought I was luckier than they were because I was free. I could come and go as I pleased, while they were tied down to estates and tides.

"It wasn't until I was about seven or eight that I realized being poor was its own trap and that having no money meant you were a lesser person. I had only known people like myself up until then. My mother had never let me venture far, but that year the Thames had frozen and the dockworkers were all let go. So, being the oldest, I went out and found work gathering up pure from the streets."

Compelled, Fancy turned to face him. "What's pure?"

"Petrified horse shit," he answered bluntly, as though daring her to show her disgust. "My father took me to Mayfair and Kensington in the hopes of getting a better price for it. I remember how excited I was. I'd never been that far from home before. I thought it was going to be an adventure.

"The first time I was spat on and called a filthy guttersnipe, I knew I wasn't like those people. It was as though I was a stranger in my own country."

Until that moment, Fancy had fought against feeling anything, too afraid to open her heart as Lucien related his story without a hint of self-pity. But now all she could see was the child who had been deluded by a world that did not care for everyone equally.

"When I told my mother what had happened," he went on, "she took me outside, and we sat together at the end of the wharf. She said that all people were created equal in the eyes of the Lord, but that some of them hadn't been blessed with much sense."

Fancy smiled through a haze of tears. "Your mother was a very wise woman."

He ground out his cheroot beneath his heel. "You remind me a lot of her."

"I do?"

He nodded slowly. "You have that same kind of wisdom in your eyes, an innate understanding of people."

Fancy wanted so desperately to reach out to him, to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close. He had opened a door, and she suspected he hadn't done so in a long time. But the revelations felt like confessions, and in a place deep down, an unease began to build.

"Would you tell me what happened between your mother and Christian's father?"

He shifted, staring off into space, and Fancy could tell that he struggled with the memory. "It had been snowing that day. I remember how raw it was. My hands were cold." He looked down at them, his thumb digging into the opposite palm, as though trying to warm them. "My mother feared we would all starve that winter because there was no work and my father's drinking had escalated. For more than a month, she had applied for employment everywhere she could.

"One night she fainted in the street, clutching my sister, Jensyn, who was only six months old at the time. My mother had to take her along because Jensyn was still nursing." His profile, limned by shadows, was stark. "I think she had also grown to fear my father more than ever. He had become meaner as the years went by, prone to jealous rages. He seemed to feel it was his duty to keep her pregnant." He looked at Fancy then. "She had three babies that were stillborn and one who died when she was two months old."

He took a deep breath and gazed up at the sky. "When my mother came to, she found herself on a small cot, face-to-face with the Earl of Redding's formidable housekeeper. Whether it was my mother's story about her search for employment or the sight of my baby sister's thin, pale face, the housekeeper took pity on her and went to speak to the earl about giving her work. That night, my mother's determination saved us all. But when my father heard the news, he slapped her so hard he cracked her jaw. He claimed she must have done something to get the job."

Fancy's hands dug into the material of her skirt, understanding what Lucien meant by "something." Never had she hated a man more than she did his father.

"He was a bully."

"He was," Lucien quietly agreed, "but he let her keep the job, though he always found something to berate her about when she came home. That was about the time my brother Dorian began getting into brawls and stealing. I don't think he knew any other way to handle the emotions churning inside him."

"How did your other siblings behave?"

"Jillian withdrew, more so if the neighborhood boys showed her any attention. I think she believed all men were like my father. Hugh and Gavin took to staying away from the house as much as they could."

"You were the strong one, then. The protector."

"That's me," he said in a bitter tone. "The protector. The problem was, I could never protect anyone. If I had, my mother would never—"

Even in the darkness, Fancy could see the tension that coiled through his body, the brittle posture that said he was on the verge of destruction.

"Say it, Lucien," Fancy whispered. "You've held it inside long enough."

He expelled a breath and ran a hand over his face. "The earl raped my mother," he told her in a deadpan voice. "He raped her and had two of his thugs hold me down to watch."

Fancy raised a trembling hand to her lips. "Oh, God."

"He said it was what I deserved for sullying his wife with my fisherman's hands, that I would learn who my betters were and never think of trying to climb out of the gutter again."

Fancy reached toward him, but he angled away, not wanting to be touched. "You couldn't have known he would do something so horrible," she murmured.

His mouth set in a grim line. "The stupid thing was, I really thought Lady Redding felt something for me. I couldn't believe someone so beautiful and socially influential wouldn't think I wasn't beneath contempt. For me, it was never about the physical aspect. Hell, I don't think I even noticed her body. I just wanted…" He shrugged. "I don't know."

"You wanted to fit in," Fancy answered for him, understanding, as she had felt the same thing, mostly during the years her parents were alive and her mother would dress her up like a doll and parade her about for her society friends.

The other girls her age seemed to enjoy emulating their mothers. They could sit in a chair for hours with their ankles demurely crossed and their hands neatly folded in their laps. They could curtsey perfectly and smile with an inborn talent. Fancy never could.

She had always been restless, wanting to study things and play with George and his friends. Her mother despaired. Her father wasn't around enough to care.

"My mother never shed a single tear," Lucien said, and when he looked at her, Fancy saw a blackness that eclipsed the night. "Not one. She wouldn't let him defeat her."

"She was a strong woman." Strong for her family, Fancy thought. Strong for her son. "Did you report what happened?" she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.

"To the law, you mean? The justice system that favors the wealthy and pisses on the rest of us? No. The East End breeds its own form of justice."

"What did you do?"

"I followed the bastard all the next night, waiting for my opportunity to strike. My rage was so strong, I was blinded by it, not thinking clearly. He had been ready for me all along. And when I made my move, the men he had watching me made theirs. The blow to my head caught me unaware, and when I awoke hours later, I found myself shackled in the hold of a ship bound for India."

Where he had been kept as a slave. Never had Fancy felt ashamed of the world into which she had been born. She had never had a reason until now. No wonder Lucien held the aristocracy in contempt. She had once thought the vagaries of her life had been cruel, taking her family away one by one, but she had not known how deep cruelty could truly cut.

"What did your father do when he found out about your mother?" she asked.

"He never did."

Fancy stared at him. "I don't understand."

"We didn't tell him. My mother made me promise. She said it had to be our secret, that my father would kill her, and I knew she was right. He would think she had done something to warrant the attack. He had always taken the coward's way out."

Fancy closed her eyes and shuddered, grief rising inside her for a woman she never knew and a young boy who had been forced to keep a horrible secret locked away all these years, eating away at his soul until nothing but a shadow remained.

Taking a step closer to him, she said, "Do you think you're like your father, Lucien?"

A long stretch of silence enshrouded them, filled only by the rustling of leaves, until finally he said, "Yes."

Fancy moved in front of him and took his hand. "You're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because you care. You did what you had to do. You had the weight of the world on your shoulders at a young age." She raised his hand to her mouth and gently kissed his palm. "You're a good man, Lucien Kendall."

He reached out and cupped her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing over her bottom lip, gently touching the small cut. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"It was an accident." When he wouldn't meet her gaze, she said, "You're not your father, Lucien."

"Sometimes I think I've become him. I see in myself that same detachment, and I can't change it. It's part of me."

"You did the best you could. You lived with violence, and no one expects you to pretend it didn't happen. But you can't let it rule your life."

"I don't know what happened to any of them. The only thing that kept me alive was thinking that some day I'd get back to my family. But when I returned, everything was gone. They never knew what happened to me, never knew if I was alive or dead all those years. And my money couldn't change one damn thing. The only man who might have known the truth told me that he'd take the secret to his grave. And he did."

"I understand why you hate him so much. But if you hold on to that hate forever, he will have won." She stroked her fingers across his cheek and whispered, "I don't want him to win."

"Fancy," he uttered in a wounded voice, curling his fingers over hers. "My sweet, sweet Fancy. What will I do without you?"

She wanted to tell him that he wouldn't be without her, but he leaned down and kissed her, the tender caress sending waves of pure joy through her as she lifted up on tiptoe to return his kiss with everything she felt for him.

One hand slid around the back of her head to hold her close while his other settled at her waist, his arousal a tantalizing heat against her belly.

His tongue mated with hers, swirling and tasting and delving until she was intoxicated. She pressed tighter to him, needing more.

She laid her hand over his at her waist, entwining their fingers, feeling the strength tightly contained in those hands. And with the boldness she had never been able to suppress, she guided his hand over her stomach and then upward to cup her breast, her nipple begging for his touch.

He moaned and gripped her tighter, a feeling so strong bursting within her that she knew it had to be love, for she had never wanted to give a man everything, offer all that she possessed. She had never thought she'd be able to walk away from one world and live in another. But she would if it meant having Lucien.

Fancy drifted to the ground with Lucien clasped tightly in her arms, his weight bearing down on her, the smell of crushed grass and the sandalwood he wore an intoxicating blend.

She arched up against him as he tugged her bodice down and laved her nipple, his beautiful mouth sucking, creating a throbbing heat in her loins.

"Fancy," he whispered over and over again, his tongue moving from one distended tip to the other, his hands hungry against her, pushing under her skirt, sliding along her calves to her knees, then her thighs, where he gripped her, bringing her up tight against his groin, his erection a hot, hard length, burning her.

She moaned and surged up against him, her fingers digging into his upper arms, hard bands of muscle holding his full weight from her as he stared down at her, his eyes hot with desire.

"Make love to me, Lucien," she whispered in an aching voice, reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt, her palms sliding across the solid planes of his chest, the satiny disks of his nipples, and then downward, over his stomach, the waistband of his trousers stopping her exploration.

When she flicked open the first button, he took hold of her wrist. "Don't do this to me, Fancy."

"I want you."

He bowed his head and pushed up hard against her, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his lips as she met his thrust, one hand cupping her breast, toying with the tip before he leaned down to draw it deeply into his mouth.

Fancy whimpered and sought for her breath as her hands reached between them, praying he didn't stop her as she undid the next button on his trousers, and the next, until he slid into her hands, silky and hard.

He watched as she gripped him with both hands, touched him as he had touched her, discovering more with each moment what he liked, his teeth gritted as he pumped in her hands.

When he pulled back, she reached for him, thinking he meant to deny her. But instead he separated the material of her pantalets and stroked her wet folds with his erection, guiding the head of his shaft over her swollen nub, the pleasure building with each glide until her release washed over her with surprising force.

When she opened her eyes, she found Lucien staring down at her. He swept her hair away from her face and caressed her jaw with his thumb. "I love watching you when you're being pleasured," he murmured. "You're going to make some lucky man very happy."

Fancy froze, all the warmth draining from her. "What are you saying?"

He rolled to his back and braced himself on his elbows. "You know what I'm saying."

She stared at him. "You still want me to marry."

"I never stopped."

"But what just happened—"

"Is another guilt to add to all the others I've accumulated. My special talent has always been doing the wrong thing. But I won't compound it by taking your virginity. You were never mine, Fancy." He glanced sideways and said in a soft voice, "But God knows I wish you were."

Fancy closed her eyes. "So I was just your responsibility, is that it?"

"Your brother never would have wanted this."

"What about what I want?"

"If you want Slade, I won't stop you."

Battling tears, Fancy remained silent, hating his blind conviction and the way he could so easily hurt her, even when he hadn't intended to. And when he finally pushed to his feet and walked away, she promised herself that it would be the last time.

Seventeen

The rookery was a place no one went if they didn't have to. Where on any given day a mother might lace her baby's sugar water with laudanum to keep the child under so that it didn't disturb her sleep, or cry incessantly because it was slowly starving to death.

It was a place where weak souls crawled into bed as soon as the sun set and lay awake listening to the rats scurry beneath the floorboards. Where only the faintest sound of church bells could reach, and no one believed in God.

To Lucien, it was home.

He stood on the curb and watched the hackney rattle off into the darkness, the nearest streetlamp a dozen houses away, the cracked pavement showing intermittent pools of yellow from the gaslight. All else was black.

Since the night he had first ventured back into the slums where he was born, waking from a delirium to find himself bruised and bleeding, he had tried to stay away. But he was tired of fighting it.

Tonight he needed to forget how close he had come to making love to Fancy. And how, in the end, he had opened the door for Christian Slade to walk through. Redding had as much as said he would marry Fancy, and though the idea was killing Lucien, he couldn't deny her the chance at happiness.

She was right. It was time to let go of the past. He had lost. Tomorrow or next week, or perhaps next year, he would start over again. But for the present, he would find heaven in the arms of the only mistress he couldn't hurt.

 

Fancy stood in the front parlor, looking out the window. Christian would be arriving soon to take her to the theatre and a late supper.

She had spent the last three days with him, meeting him each morning for a ride in Hyde Park. While they trotted among the daily crush of people, he amused her with anecdotes from his youth, impressed her with the depth of his knowledge, and charmed her with his ready smile. He possessed all the qualities a woman could hope to find in a man, yet Fancy could not summon up any feelings for him.

She wanted to blame Lucien for how she felt, but it was not his fault that she didn't love Christian. She had discovered she didn't want a man who was so perfect, so predictable. But what she wanted, she could not have.

The doorbell chimed, and Fancy moved to answer the summons, never having had a butler to get the door for her at Moor's End. Pierce had gently chided her for doing his job, yet it seemed silly to simply stand there, especially when it was most likely Christian.

Though a headache earlier in the day had nearly been her excuse for canceling the evening, Fancy knew she could no longer put off the inevitable. She had to let Christian know how she felt about him. She should have done so before now, but she had wanted to strike out at Lucien by doing exactly what he had given her his blessing to do. She soon realized it would not make Lucien love her, though, and only made her like herself less.

But when she opened the door, it was not Christian she found standing there, but Heath. For a moment, Fancy could do no more than blink.

He swept her into his arms. "Dear God, how glad I am to see you. You don't know how worried I've been about you."

"Heath, put me down. You're squeezing the breath out of me."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking chagrined as he lowered her to her feet. "I just didn't think I would find you before Kendall did something horrible to you."

Before she could remark, Pierce appeared, his brow drawn together in disapproval, though whether it was due to Fancy opening the door or to their newest arrival, she couldn't be sure.

"May I help you, sir?" he queried, an intimidating figure in black.

"I'm here to see Fancy," Heath replied, clearly not appreciating the interruption.

"Lady Francine, you mean?" Pierce corrected in a reproving tone.

"Yes, Lady Francine. Now, will you please give us a moment?"

Pierce looked to her. "Is everything all right here, miss?"

"Yes, Pierce. Thank you."

Giving Heath a cursory glance that could have been construed as a warning to behave, Pierce disappeared down the corridor.

"Insufferable servant," Heath said. "Are they all so lofty here?"

Fancy didn't intend to discuss the servants. "I don't understand why you're here."

"Is there somewhere we can talk alone?"

Fancy was growing to dread such conversations. But she said, "Follow me," and led Heath into the library, where he closed the door, taking a moment to scan the ceiling-high shelves packed with books.

When his gaze returned to her, it drifted over her in a way that made Fancy uneasy. It was the way a man looked at a woman he found attractive, and while Heath had often told her she was beautiful, she had never seen the blatant desire that she saw now.

"You have blossomed into a stunning woman," he said, moving forward to take her hands in his.

"Thank you."

"Is this outfit one that he picked out for you?"

"If you mean my guardian, the answer is no. This dress was my choice, as were all my others. Lucien would never dictate what I should wear."

"Lucien… how very familiar that sounds. Have the two of you become better acquainted since he brought you to London?"

Fancy stiffened, hearing his subtle undertone. "I don't see what business that is of yours."

"There was a time you used to confide everything to me."

"I was a child."

"So you've outgrown me, then?"

Fancy tugged her hands from his and took a step away. "I don't know what this is all about."

"It's about your guardian," he said, tossing his gloves onto a side table and moving toward the liquor cabinet to take down a bottle of port.

Though it was not her house, Fancy bristled at the way he acted as though he had the right to do as he pleased.

Once he had poured himself a healthy glass of the strong wine, he shifted to face her, leaning a hip against the edge of the table and regarding her over the rim of his glass.

"How much do you know about your guardian?"

"Why do you ask?"

The tensing of his jaw told her he didn't appreciate having his motives questioned. "Perhaps I'm wondering what he's told you about his time in India… and about George's death."

The mention of her brother brought Fancy to attention. Heath knew she had always wondered about the circumstances surrounding George's death, as they had never been quite clear.

"What about George's death?" she asked, forcing herself to meet Heath's gaze squarely.

"That night you were to meet me at the cove, do you remember it?"

"Yes."

"You didn't come."

"Because of the weather." And Lucien. When she had come upon him in the library and seen him gently holding the kitten in his arms, she had felt the earth move beneath her.

Perhaps that was the moment she had first fallen in love with him. And there had been many other moments since. She realized that she wasn't ready to give up on him and walk away.

"Yes, the weather," Heath said. "Then you went off to London, and I was left in the dark about where you were. I had to squeeze it out of Jimmy. The brat wouldn't tell me for the longest time."

"You didn't threaten him, did you?"

"Of course not," he replied tersely, scowling at her. "I simply thought he would take my money and be done with it. But it seems your guardian gave him a considerable amount not to tell me your whereabouts. The lad was disgustingly noble to the cause."

It bothered Fancy that Lucien had used his money to buy Jimmy's silence. But perhaps Lucien's motives hadn't been entirely self-serving. In many ways, Jimmy's life seemed to mirror his. Maybe what he saw in Jimmy, he saw in himself.

"So how did you get him to tell you where I was?" Fancy asked.

"I told him it was a matter of life and death, and that if I didn't find you, something terrible might befall you."

Fancy's temper flared to life, and she swept across the room to face him. "That was a loathsome trick, and I can't believe you could even face me after spouting such a lie to that young boy."

"It wasn't a lie," he said, suddenly gripping her upper arms and giving her a shake. "Your life is in danger."

"You're talking nonsense."

"Am I? Have you ever queried your guardian as to what exactly happened to George? Or have you stopped caring, now that Cornwall is a dust speck behind you? Perhaps you've forgotten the horrible way your brother died."

Fury gave Fancy a strength she hadn't realized she possessed. She wrenched an arm free and slapped him across the face. "How dare you question my devotion to George! You know how much I loved him, how I could barely go on. I cried on your shoulder too many times to count, yet you stand here telling me I've forgotten about him? I'll never forget! Now get out," she demanded. "And don't come back."

"I'm not leaving until you've heard me out."

"Then say what you have to say and leave."

"Fine," he said through clenched teeth, his gaze raking over her as though she had become something to be loathed and pitied. "You've changed, you know. You were once a sweet girl; now I barely recognize you. I would have married you, taken care of you and that run-down house, but you wouldn't have me. You wanted nothing more than to hold on to Moor's End. I thought that when you almost got caught by the gaugers, you'd cease in your behavior, but it only made you more determined. I truly thought you'd have to be arrested before you'd learn you wouldn't win."

"You never believed in me, did you?"

"I indulged your whim. That's all it was—you would never have been able to save Moor's End without financial help."

"But you never offered, did you?"

"That would have defeated the purpose, wouldn't it? I wanted you as my wife."

"And you were willing to watch me be run to ground in order to get me?"

"If that's what it took."

Fancy recognized the depth of her gullibility. "It was you who alerted the gaugers when the shipments would be arriving, wasn't it? You set out to keep me from making that money." When he didn't refute her claim, she felt the final piece of the life she had known fall away. "No wonder George didn't name you as my guardian. He knew what a fraud you were."

"And you think he made a better decision with Kendall?" he scoffed. "At least my only crime was trying to get you to see how foolish your quest was. I never murdered anyone."

Fancy went completely still. "What are you saying?"

"What I wanted to say two months ago. Your guardian is the reason your brother is dead. The bullet that killed George was from Lucien Kendall's gun."

Fancy felt as though the earth had just opened beneath her feet and sent her tumbling into a dark abyss. "No," she said in a barely audible voice. "He would have told me."

"And why would he do that? You didn't know the truth, and there wasn't any reason for him to enlighten you. Perhaps he hoped you'd marry him. He knew about the trust you would be inheriting, and his chances would be considerably lessened if you knew he had caused your brother's death. If that wasn't enough incentive, then there was your stature as an earl's daughter, which would have given him social status."

"And you," Fancy found the strength to say, struggling to absorb it all.

George had taken a bullet to his side. The wound had slowly and irrevocably bled into his stomach. They said he had been killed in the line of duty, but never anything more. Not how or why or where.

"I wasn't the one who kept this from you," Heath retorted angrily.

"No? Then how do you know all this now?"

He shifted under her scrutiny. "George wrote to me the day before he died. He didn't want you to know."

"You're lying."

"Would I have come all this way if I didn't have proof?" He extracted a folded piece of parchment paper and handed it to her. "Go ahead. Read it."

With shaking hands, Fancy unfolded the letter that had begun to yellow with age, its edges frayed. Tears sprang to her eyes when she saw her brother's familiar scrawl. She had never thought to see it again. And as she read the last words he had ever written, it was as though he stood before her, his voice a haunting whisper in her ear:

 

Courtenay,

By the time you read this missive, I suspect I will be dead. I have been wounded and am not sure if I shall survive the night.

But I write to you not about myself, but about Fancy. My only regret in this world is leaving her. While other siblings quarreled and resented one another, Fancy and I had a special bond. Perhaps it was due to feeling we had no one to depend upon beside each other. Perhaps it was simply that Fancy just didn't care that the world had dictated that siblings be rivals.

She never was like anyone I had known, and my heart aches at never seeing the man she chooses to love or the babies she will have, beautiful, smiling children with eyes as green as ferns and an innate sense of curiosity about the world. Sons and daughters who would have called me uncle.

 

Tears blurred Fancy's vision, and silent sobs racked her body. Oh, God, how she wanted George back. How desperately she missed him. She couldn't read any more. She could not bear another word. And yet her eyes went back to the page.

 

I hope she knows that I will always watch over her, no matter where I am. For now, however, I must leave her in the care of another and pray that he will cherish her as much as I do.

I know you will wonder about my decision not to choose you. Perhaps it was simply your feelings for Fancy that kept me from doing so. I hope you will trust that I have done what I felt best, and that the man who is now Fancy's guardian will take care of her. He is my commanding officer, Colonel Lucien Kendall.

When I first met the colonel, I was in awe of him. Nothing made him back down. I doubted he had ever known a fear in his life. Time proved me wrong. We are all fallible. Even heroes.

A man came to visit him one day. No one knew who he was. But shortly thereafter the colonel left, telling no one where he was going. Patrols were sent out, seeking to arrest him. A week later he returned, and he was not the same man. Something had happened to him.

We found out that had had gone to Anandpur Sahib, home to the Sikhs, and a place no foreigner, most especially an officer in Her Majesty's Infantry, would travel if sane.

No matter what disciplinary action was threatened, he would not speak of what took him to Anandpur. He was thrown in the hole for three weeks. Most men could not have survived one. But the colonel did not break.

The first night of his return to duty, two days ago, he went into his tent and didn't come out. Concerned, I checked on him and found him unconscious on his bunk. When I turned to call for the medic, I found a Sikh standing inside the tent, a sword pointed at my throat. He spat words at me that I didn't understand and lunged toward the colonel. The next thing I felt was the bullet.

I remember waking and seeing the colonel kneeling over me, his eyes glazed and his face pale, a gun in his hand. The Sikh lay beside me, dead, the bullet having gone through him and into me. I don't think the colonel knew what had happened. It was as though…

 

"He wasn't there with me," Fancy read out loud, a wave of despair rolling through her, vividly recalling the look her brother spoke of, that vacant stare. That utter lack of recognition. Lucien had known all along how George had died, and he had never said a word.

She remembered wondering if guilt was the weight on his shoulders, if he felt as though the death of his men were somehow his fault.

This time it had been his fault. He was to blame for her brother's death, and whatever she had felt for him withered and died as she read on.

 

I don't know if I've made the right decision, but the colonel needs someone to believe in him, someone to turn him around, and Fancy has always been a healer. I think she can heal him.

Watch over her, my friend. Never tell her what I have revealed to you this day. She might never forgive Kendall. I already know he will never forgive himself.

Farewell,

Fitz Hugh

 

Fancy closed her eyes, and the papers fluttered to the ground.

"Do you believe me now?" Heath asked, a hint of triumph in his voice. "I told you Kendall was a murderer. He should have been hanged instead of honorably discharged."

Fancy turned away from him. She couldn't think. It was as if she had lost George all over again, and she feared the anguish would defeat her.

"Come back to Cornwall with me, Fancy," Heath beseeched, coming to stand in front of her. "Now. Tonight. You need never see Kendall again."

Fancy dropped her head into her hands, and she hadn't the strength to fight when Heath drew her into his arms. Every image of her time with Lucien flashed behind her eyes like a timeline.

She didn't hear the knock on the door or Pierce clearing his throat until Heath demanded, "What is it, man?"

"Lord Redding is here for Lady Francine."

"Send him away, Pierce," she begged. "I don't care what you tell him."

"Perhaps you'd like to relay the message yourself," came the earl's voice, bringing Fancy's head up and her gaze to the doorway where Christian stood, stoic in the face of her rude dismissal.

"Dear God, what's happened?" he said when he caught sight of her tearstained face.

Fancy could only shake her head. She couldn't bear it. Picking up her skirt, she ran from the room, to the sounds of Heath calling after her and the scent of scattered rose petals from the bouquet she had knocked from Christian's hand as she raced by him.

Before colliding into someone.

She looked up to find Tahj holding her at arm's length, wind blowing in through the open front door, the smell of incense clinging to his orange robes.

"You are needed," he said in an urgent tone. "You must come with me."

"No." Fancy shook her head. "Leave me alone."

He looked over her shoulder, and Fancy knew the men were standing there. She backed away from Tahj and whirled toward the stairs.

"He's killing himself."

Fancy gripped the banister. Everyone and everything she had known was crumbling before her very eyes. She didn't want to care about what Lucien did, yet George's words reached out to her.

Fancy has always been a healer. I think she can heal him.

She couldn't heal him. She didn't want to even try. She wanted to believe the inner voice that said she hoped he suffered for what he had done to George, even as she turned back to face Tahj.

"Come with me," he asked again, holding out his hand to her.

And Fancy took it.

Eighteen

Fancy said nothing to Tahj as the coach rattled down the nearly deserted streets of Mayfair and into a part of town that she had never entered.

The farther they went, the more inhospitable the area became, with fewer and fewer lamps dotting the street to give even the illusion of safety, small groups of rough-looking men congregating in alleyways and dark corners, bursts of bawdy laughter filtering out tavern doors.

Fancy could still feel the impact of each word in her brother's letter, hear each labored breath as he fought to write the last entry of his life and forgive the man who had been the cause of that life ending too soon. Nothing could hurt George now. The same could not be said for her.

The coach came to a jarring halt on a narrow side street. Fancy could see no signs of a bordello or rundown tavern or gaming hell, only a single, nondescript door.

"Where are we?" she asked, peering down at Tahj, who stood on the curb holding his hand out to her, once more expecting blind faith.

He led her toward a door and opened it to reveal a long hallway like a tunnel with an odd blue phosphorescent light glowing at the end.

A strange odor coiled around Fancy as she moved down the corridor with Tahj, the scent sweet and pungent, making her lightheaded. She fought a need to turn back, not sure she wanted to know what she would uncover in that strange blue mist.

Then it was too late for retreat. As she stood at the entranceway to a vast room, she gasped at what she saw. At least fifteen people lay on the floor, some completely motionless and sickly pale, others glassy-eyed with long tubes in their mouths, white puffs of smoke a cloud above their heads.

"What are they doing?"

"Smoking opium."

Fancy's gaze jerked to his. "Opium?" She knew what opium was and how, if administered correctly and in small doses, the drug could ease pain. Abused, it could cause death. "Why did you bring me here?"

The moment Tahj's ebony eyes met hers, Fancy knew. It all seemed so dreadfully obvious now, and so horribly surreal.

"Where is he?"

Tahj pointed a finger toward the farthest corner, where barely a slice of light illuminated a huddled figure, set away from the rest. And not moving.

Fancy lifted the skirt of her evening gown and stepped around the mass of bodies, both male and female. She muffled a shriek as a hand clamped around her ankle.

"Give us a kiss, lovie," came a creaky voice, bringing Fancy's gaze downward to the hollow-eyed female grinning up at her, two bottom teeth missing, her lips cracked, her face looking as though all the youth had been drained from it. "Come on, Princess. Y'll like it."

"Release her," Tahj ordered.

The grin faded from the woman's face as she slithered back, allowing them to continue.

Fancy's first glimpse of Lucien made her stomach wrench. "Oh, God. He looks…"

"He is not. But he shall be if we do not get him out of here."

Fury rose in Fancy as she turned on Tahj. "Why didn't you take him out of here before this?"

"Because he ordered me away."

"And you listened?"

"The decision must be his. It is Buddha's will."

"I don't care about Buddha's will! He's your friend, first."

"Which is why I came for you." He peered at her long and hard. "Are you his friend?"

Fancy met his gaze for a moment and then looked away. She could walk away, turn around now, and no one would stop her. Lucien's just due, for George's death.

Instead she knelt down next to him and touched her palm to his brow. He was burning up. "How long has he been like this?"

"Since the night of the Fordhams' event."

For a moment, Fancy could not breathe. "That was three days ago."

"He has been gone longer."

Fancy closed her eyes and finally understood it all. Lucien was addicted, and had been for a long time. Then she noted the black box, the same one she had seen that night in the library. It was open now, the contents of a secret life revealed.

"Lucien," Fancy murmured, leaning close to his face, struck to the marrow by the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the sunken hollows beneath his cheekbones. She glanced up at Tahj. "Help me lift him."

"I cannot take him unless he says he will go."

Fancy stared at him. "What?"

"He must go willingly."

Fancy surged to her feet and faced him. "You will help me get him to the coach, or I promise I will make every day of what remains of your life a misery."

She prayed the threat worked, for she could not move Lucien without assistance, and none of the people around them would help. Desperation pounded away inside of her. She had to get him out of there. He needed a doctor. He would die, otherwise.

"He must go willingly," Tahj repeated firmly.

Fancy whirled away from him and dropped down beside Lucien again, lifting his head and lightly slapping his cheeks.

"Wake up," she demanded. "Please, Lucien, wake up?

He groaned and tossed his head. "Fancy…"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, it's me. Open your eyes, Lucien. I want to see your eyes." Those beautiful aquamarine eyes that had entranced her the first time she had looked into them.

Slowly his eyes opened, but they were dull and unfocused. Still, he looked at her. "Sweet Fancy," he murmured as his head began to roll to the side.

"No, Lucien. Stay with me." She shook him. "You need to come home. Tell me you'll come home."

"Home," he mumbled, though it was clear he didn't understand.

Her gaze lifted to Tahj. "He said it. Now help me!"

Tahj hesitated, then nodded, reaching down and hauling Lucien from the floor with a strength that seemed impossible in a man of his size.

Together they got Lucien into the coach, which hastened them out of the dark alleys of the rookery and raced through the night toward Charring House.

Only one light glimmered through the windows of the mansion on Charring Lane. The butler was awaiting them, helping to transport his employer to his bedroom, where he and Tahj deposited him on a massive four-poster of dark burl wood.

Tahj and the butler both looked at her, as though expecting her to make the decisions. Glancing at the butler, she said, "Call for the physician immediately."

"Will Mr. Kendall be all right?"

"Of course." Fancy wouldn't allow herself to think otherwise.

The butler inclined his head, but Tahj stopped him before he took two steps. "No doctor," he said.

"But he must have a doctor!" Fancy protested vehemently.

"By morning everyone would know of his shame. I cannot allow that to happen. I have given a solemn oath to protect him."

"This is not the same! He needs someone to take care of him."

"You will take care of him."

"No." Fancy shook her head and stepped away from him. "I can't." The very thought scared her senseless. If he died… She blocked out the image. And what of George? How could she nurse the very man who had taken her brother from her? She whirled around to face the monk. "It's impossible."

"You waste precious time." Tahj turned and propelled the butler toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Fancy demanded.

"Whatever you need will be sent up on the lift." He pointed to a panel in the corner of the room. At the threshold, he faced her. "Take care of him well, saba priya." Then he closed the door. The next sound Fancy heard was the key turning.

He had locked her in!

Fancy took a deep breath and forced her riotous thoughts to calm. She had to think clearly. Tahj had left her no choice but to tend to Lucien herself.

She turned to look at her patient, sprawled out on the bed, thinner but still intimidating. The first time she had taken care of him had been against her will; it seemed nothing had changed. This time, however, his wounds were not so simple to treat.

Moving to the bed, she sat down beside him, seeing him clearly now. Perhaps more clearly than she had seen anyone. He had been an idol to a young man. A hero to a country. A son to a broken legacy.

To her, he had been the man she loved.

Fancy heard the well-oiled hinges of the lift and hastened to the wall to open the panel. On a tray was a large pitcher of water, a glass, a bowl, and a cloth. She removed the items and set them down on the bedside table.

She poured some water into the glass, then leaned over Lucien. Lifting his head, she tipped the glass to his mouth. "Drink, Lucien," she whispered, and felt him stir, parting his lips to allow a little of the water to drizzle in.

Next she poured water into the bowl and dipped in the cloth. She gently smoothed it over his forehead; he was still far too warm. She needed to cool him down, and would have to undress him to do so.

Her fingers hesitated at the buttons of his shirt. They trembled slightly as the soft cotton slowly opened, revealing the chest she had felt beneath her palms, still smooth, still hard; his shoulders incredibly wide as her hands glided over them to remove the material and slide it down his arms, lightly trailing her fingertip over his bicep and down his forearm before realizing what she was doing.

There was a tattoo on his other arm, up near his shoulder—a fierce depiction of a tiger and dragon, done in black ink. A Shaolin symbol, she realized. The mark of a warrior.

Fancy noticed other signs of battle: a small scar above his right nipple, a jagged one along the left side of his stomach. Several others on his arms.

When she lifted him to pull the shirt out from underneath him, her hands found the raised lash marks that crisscrossed his back.

Fancy closed her eyes to keep from crying, but the tears slid down her cheeks and onto Lucien's shoulder. They continued to fall as she rolled him to his side and gently swept the cool cloth across his back, wishing she could make each scar disappear.

She ran the cloth down his arms, his hands, across his palms, where hardened calluses gave testimony to years of labor.

For long minutes, she kneaded the tiny knots with her thumbs, applying the same light pressure at his wrists, massaging his forearms, feeling the supple pliancy of his skin.

The cloth fell to the side as she worked her way over his chest, dipping her hand directly in the cool water and wetting him down, hesitating when she came to the waistband of his trousers.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, she removed his boots and socks, then undid the buttons on his trousers and peeled them down, remembering how Olinda had told Lucien that Fancy had never seen a naked man, that she was a good girl. Yet Fancy felt distinctly bad whenever Lucien was near.

Abruptly, she rose from the bed and pulled the sheet over him, recalling his teasing words to protect his virtue when he had been lying on her bed in Cornwall. If only he knew how indecent her thoughts had become since that day, how often she had pictured him like this, but awake and holding her in his arms.

The vision dissipated as he began to toss, his body shivering uncontrollably. She had seen this the night she had stayed with him and hillas had plagued his sleep.

Sitting down next to him, she took hold of his hand. "Ssh," she murmured. "I'm here." She stroked his cheek, her fingers drifting into his hair, the feel of it like silk against her palm as she whispered softly to him, trying to calm him.

He stopped thrashing but the shivering continued, and without thought, Fancy lifted the embroidered bedding and slipped beneath the sheets with him, pressing her body close to his side, murmuring softly in his ear until the shaking began to subside.

She lay with her head nestled on his chest, listening to each beat of his heart, lulled by the strong and steady rhythm, and feeling, for the first time since she had seen his unconscious form, that he would make it. She turned her head into the crook of his neck, the heavy elixir of sleep pulling her under.

 

Fancy awoke to the feel of Lucien's body on top of hers.

His hands tugging at her bodice.

Her skirt pushed up to her waist.

His hips between her spread legs.

His erection hard against her.

She panicked, her hands fisting against his chest to push him off, but his strength outmatched hers and she could not budge him.

She could feel the tension rippling through his skin, the wildness about him, and she whimpered as his mouth came down on hers, his hands gripping her wrists and pulling her arms above her head, leaving her helpless and burning with fear and anger and a burgeoning desire.

"Don't leave me, Fancy," he groaned as he pressed down against her. "Don't leave me."

Fancy knew then that the drug still held him in its grip, and yet he thought of her. She was now the hilla that stalked his dreams, and she wanted to banish the nightmare. She couldn't bear to be another pain he held deep inside.

He kissed her fiercely, hungrily, a moan rumbling up from deep in his chest each time she gave in another bit to his demand.

He rocked against her, his hard length sliding back and forth along her sleek valley, his chest abrading her nipples with each movement he made until Fancy clung to him, never wanting the pleasure to end.

She closed her eyes and arched up against him as he drew her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak. One touch at a time, he was siphoning away her ability to reason. She knew everything he had done now, yet her heart could not deny him.

He rolled her to her side and moved behind her, taking her hands and lifting them over her shoulders and onto his, his arms coming around her, strong and muscular, those beautiful, masculine hands cupping her breasts, leaving her nothing to do but feel him in front and in back. Yet she needed him to know she was not a dream; that she was there with him and she would not leave.

"Lucien, please…" She bit her lip as he gently rolled her nipples. "I need you."

"I'm here."

And in that moment, at least, Fancy knew he was.

"Put your leg over mine," he urged in a husky whisper, gripping her thigh, spreading her, making her vulnerable as one hand slid over her stomach and down into the nest of curls to dip inside her wet heat, coating his finger before stroking the ripe tip of her sex. One finger lightly circled her nipple while another circled her nub.

"You shouldn't have come for me. I didn't want you to see me like that." He pushed a finger partway inside her, and she moved against him.

"You're destroying yourself."

"Walk away."

"I can't." She didn't know why. She should never have gone to him, never have made his healing her responsibility. But she couldn't leave him. She was tied to him, whether she wanted to be or not, and when he touched her, she could barely think.

He pushed his shaft between her spread thighs, letting her feel him there, moving back and forth. She reached down and took hold of him, feeling his silky texture, his hardness, wanting all that heat and power deep inside her.

She pumped him until he removed her hands, wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders so that he could lean over and suckle her while he increased the friction against her taut peak.

Fancy writhed, nearly incoherent with need, but a small bit of reason remained. She couldn't let him do this, wouldn't let him leave her with one more memory of his hands and mouth, never knowing all of him.

"No." She pulled away and rolled to the other side of the bed to face him, and heaven help her, it was a mistake. For the way he looked at that moment would be forever emblazoned on her mind—his hair mussed and skimming his shoulders like dark silk, his body a monument to perfection, with its sculpted planes and taut surfaces, his manhood stiff and thick.

But it was his eyes that would be her downfall, the lost and vulnerable expression, the endless depths of hurt, the fear of being hurt again. And she understood then that as long as he was in her life, she would never be immune to him. Never be able to shut him out.

She crawled over to him and pushed him to his back. "Fancy…" was all he uttered before she kissed him, giving him what he had given her, taking his wrists in her hands and lifting them above his head as she straddled him, stroking her wetness along his hard length until they were both on the edge of madness.

Then she sat up, her gaze intent on him as she took his erection and positioned it beneath her, knowing with one downward stroke she would no longer be a virgin.

He grabbed hold of her hand, stopping her. "Don't, Fancy. Not for me."

"I know what I want, Lucien. I won't cry foul tomorrow. I won't say you forced me. No one is going to hurt you because of me."

And with those words, she took control of the only area of her life where she had ever felt any power, praying he wouldn't stop her as she slowly lowered herself onto his erection, feeling the stretching, the nearly unbearable fullness, and the barrier of her maidenhead.

"Break it," she urged. "Please."

He hesitated, then took hold of her waist, and before she could prepare, he thrust up into her and she cried out. He stopped.

Fancy shook her head, waiting for the throbbing to subside before she glanced down at Lucien, seeing the regret in his eyes. "You didn't hurt me."

She lifted up slowly and slid back down, the ache ebbing with each silken glide, her movements growing more frenzied as a renewed pleasure built.

He guided her, slowing her, letting her feel his full and total possession of her body. He sat up against the headboard and kept her straddled across his lap, the new position heightening the intimacy, allowing her to look at him with each movement, allowing him to see every expression on her face.

She tossed her head back as he leaned forward and mouthed her nipple, looking up at her as he gently tugged and licked, everything tightening inside her until the first deep pulse spiraled down through her body and tightened around him, over and over again.

In a fluid motion, he rolled her to her back and entered her in one swift thrust as the molten spasms rippled through her. She clung to his arms as he pumped inside her until he found his release, his body stiffening, shuddering, and then pulling out to spill his seed on the counterpane.

Nineteen

Fancy stood at the frost-etched window as the sun began to rise, the ground dusted with the winter's first snow.

She had heard the winch raising the lift earlier and found breakfast and a note asking if she needed anything. Her request had been met with a one-word reply: no. Tahj would not release her from her prison, a place that had become both heaven and hell for Fancy.

During the night Lucien had slept fitfully, awakening two more times, and both times they had made love. Behind these doors, in the dark, with Lucien's body moving in hers, his past was relegated to a place where it could not reach them.

Fancy sat down at the writing desk with ink and paper, staring at a water-filled globe of a village, the tiny inhabitants enclosed in their safe world, unaware of any turmoil that existed outside their glass home. Much as she felt now.

She quickly penned a note to Lady Dane, explaining where she had gone, and saying that Lucien was ill. Then she sent the letter down the lift.

An hour later, she received a missive back from Clarisse, who was clearly relieved to find her well. She had been dreadfully worried. She went on to impart news that struck at Fancy's heart.

 

Someone tried to harm Lady Rosalyn last night. The intruder must have scaled the side of the house and entered through an unlatched window. The prowler bound and gagged the poor girl. How terrified she must have been! He very nearly succeeded in kidnapping her. Only Pierce's tendency to sleep light saved her from whatever fate awaited her. What would I do without the man?

Upon hearing the news, Lord Manchester appeared on my doorstep and quite literally barged into the house! He demanded Rosalyn immediately pack her belongings, to her protests and mine, which were both ignored. Then he spirited her away, not even telling me where he was taking her. Rosalyn made me promise I would tell you she was fine and not to worry; she would be in touch with you soon. My dear, I must say that I'm very concerned about you both.

 

Fancy folded the paper and tucked it into her skirt pocket. Never had she felt so helpless. Rosalyn needed her, and she had not been there for her friend.

"Bad news?"

Fancy turned to find Lucien propped up against the pillows, the sheet pulled to his waist, the thin material hiding none of his virility. To look at him now, she would never have known how sick he was, except for the shadows under his eyes. And in them.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, coming to the end of the bed, noting the way his gaze narrowed on her, telling her he did not miss the purposeful distance she kept.

"Good as new."

"Do you feel feverish?"

"No, but I feel hungry."

"There's a tray." Fancy pointed to the food she had placed on a small round table in the corner, but he made no move to get up. Instead he continued to regard her, until she could no longer meet his gaze. "About last night," she began.

"You regret what happened."

Fancy frowned at him, then realized he had misinterpreted her words. "That's not what I was referring to. Lucien, I thought you were going to die."

"I'm too stubborn to die," he said lightly.

"This problem is serious."

"This problem," he said with a sharp look, "is not your concern, so leave off." He swept the covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes, and put a hand to his forehead.

"Are you all right?"

He gave a brief nod. "It's about the same as a hangover."

"But it's not, and you can't delude yourself that it is."

Lowering his hand, he squinted at her, as though the light hurt his eyes. "Your persistence is one of your more annoying habits."

Fancy wouldn't allow him to shift the focus onto her. "Why do you do it?"

"Do what?" he said, stepping into his trousers, leaving the top button undone as he moved around the bed to get a cup of the rich-smelling brew that had been sent up.

"Please do not play games."

Steam rose from the cup as he stood holding it in his hand. "Why do people do anything? Compulsion? Self-destruction? Boredom? It's all the same thing."

"It's not the same thing. You were in there for three days, Lucien. Three days! It's a sickness, not boredom."

"I can handle it. I have for more than ten years."

Fancy's mouth dropped open. "My God."

He ran his hand across his face, where several days' worth of whiskers had accumulated. "Jesus, I feel grizzly." He moved to the bell pull.

"They won't come."

He swiveled around. "Excuse me?"

"No one will come. We're locked in."

"Like hell we are." He strode to the door and yanked on the knob. When it didn't open, he drove a fist against the wood. "Open this damn door!" he bellowed. His demand received no response, so he grabbed the handle and rattled the door until Fancy was sure it would come off the hinges. "I swear I'll end your life this time, you bloody pious monk!"

As silence reigned on the other side, he growled loudly and spun around, leaning heavily back against the portal and banging his head once against the wood.

The sounds of the cables creaking brought his gaze jerking to the lift.

"Supplies," Fancy told him. Moving to the wall, she opened the panel and retrieved the tray. "Shaving supplies. Seems the bloody pious monk knows you well." She placed the tray on the bureau.

"I haven't shaved myself in years. I'll cut my damn throat."

"Maybe that's what he's hoping."

Lucien shoved away from the door, scowling. He stared down at the items in disgust and then glanced at her. "You could help, you know."

"I could—but you may not want the sister of the man you killed at your neck with a razor."

A heartbeat passed, and then he said, "So you know."

"Yes, I know. But I never would have heard the truth from you, would I?"

He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. "So many times, I wanted to tell you. I never could find the words."

Fancy fought to hold on to her anger and pain, but she couldn't forget the times he talked about George, the true regret he had expressed over his death, the way he had agonized. But she also couldn't forget the senseless way her brother had died. It would have been easier for her to accept had his life been taken in battle.

"You were smoking then, too, weren't you?"

He nodded slowly. "I thought I had beaten it, started over."

"What changed?"

He moved to a chair next to the bookshelf and dropped down into it, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "A man came to see me. Elhamed Jahmar. I had hired him to find Sanji's body. I owed it to her. My life had been saved, while hers had been forfeited. I knew her family would not bury her in holied ground. She deserved that much.

"It took nearly three years, but Jahmar finally found her in a graveyard for Untouchables on the outskirts of Anandpur Sahib. I thought I would find peace once she had been laid to rest, but something took hold of me." He shook his head. "I guess I couldn't deal with it."

He sat back in the chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I was beyond comprehending anything the night the assassin entered my tent in camp. I had defiled a grave, dishonored a family. I had escaped retribution once, and they would not let it happen again.

"I don't even remember grabbing my pistol. I only remember how loud it sounded when it went off. All I saw was one man. But after he fell…" His fingers dug into the ends of the chair.

"But your guilty conscience didn't stop you from taking the opium, did it? That's why you didn't realize what you had done."

He came out of the chair and reached for her, but Fancy moved away. "I tried to stop," he said. "I swear I did. But it got a hold on me. Smoking became the only way I could open my eyes every day. If I could have changed places with your brother, I would have."

Fancy could see by the look in his eyes that he meant it, but her heart still ached. In time she would forgive him. But not now. It was too soon; the hurt too fresh.

"Sit down," she told him.

He frowned. "What?"

"In the chair. You need a shave."

When he still stared at her, she took him by the hand and pushed him back into the chair. Then she stirred the mixture in the bowl and put the lather on the brush.

He watched her warily as she leaned down and lathered his cheeks and jaw, his gaze following her when she picked up the razor, which glinted wickedly in the light.

He took hold of her wrist as she put the blade against his neck, but he didn't say what she expected. "Why did you let me make love to you last night?"

Fancy stared down at his hand. "You needed to."

"You could have said no."

She hadn't wanted to say no. "It's done. Now, would you hold still so I can shave you?"

He looked like he wanted to say more, but she tilted his head away from her and began scraping his whiskers. The task felt intimate, and she didn't want to acknowledge that she enjoyed doing this for him.

Once she was done, she took his chin in her hand and patted his face with the towel, the look in his eyes as he stared up at her almost too much to bear.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his hands settling at her waist, slowly pulling her down into his lap.

"I know," she whispered, gently brushing his hair back.

"I'm sorry," he repented in a raw voice that threatened to tear down her defenses.

"Lucien…" she softly beseeched, an ache squeezing her chest.

"I'm sorry."

A tear slipped from her eye. "Don't…"

"I'm sorry." He wiped the tear away with his thumb, his gaze searching hers, asking for absolution—for more than just the death of her brother; for all those he believed he had failed.

Fancy combed her hands through his hair and lightly kissed his closed eyes. "You're forgiven, Lucien," she breathed against his warm flesh, feeling the tension flow out of him, as though a weight had been lifted.

His gaze never left hers as he undid the bodice of her dress, or when he raised her skirts and gripped her thighs, or when she reached between them and freed him from his trousers.

Or when he entered her, holding her tight as he thrust deep, an emotion far stronger than any she had felt for him before binding them in that moment.

Each time he touched her was better than the last, and Fancy had grown to need this from him, her head dropping back as he slid in and out of her with deliberation and precision, his hands massaging her breasts.

He cupped the back of her head, her hair fisted in his hand as he brought her mouth down to his, his hips grinding up into hers, his arm around her as her hands clutched his shoulders.

She whimpered and he groaned, their mouths barely meeting as the pleasure expanded and intensified, the feel of him inside her erotic and torturous. With one last deep thrust, she convulsed.

Fancy closed her eyes as he tenderly brushed the hair from her face, which she buried in the crook of his neck. She wanted him to stay inside her, for only when they were like this did nothing else matter.

She was drowsy when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, climbed in beside her, and took her in his arms.

"Did you make love to me just now because I needed it?" he quietly asked. She pressed a finger to his lips to silence him, for he must already know the answer.

When she next opened her eyes the afternoon had settled into dusk, snow whirling in a gust of wind, creating a fairy-tale landscape. This time it was Lucien who stood at the window. He turned when he heard her stir.

"Hungry?"

Fancy nodded, watching as he moved to the table. New dishes had arrived, and the food smelled delicious.

Rising from the bed, she found that all she had on was her shift. "I thought you'd be more comfortable without the gown," Lucien explained. "I left one of my robes on the bed."

"Thank you," she murmured, slipping her arms into the long silk dressing gown, which trailed behind her as she walked to the table.

Lucien put a plate in front of her, piled high with thick slabs of ham in a rich honey glaze, braised leeks and artichokes, thick wedges of Stilton cheese, and a flagon of wine. Fancy sighed in rapture as she took a bite of the ham.

Lucien chuckled as he poured her a glass of wine. "Good?"

"Delicious," she replied, devouring a piece of cheese. "I can't believe how ravenous I am."

"Lovemaking will do that to you."

Heat prickled Fancy's skin as evocative images rose to her mind—of him moving above her, whispering sweet words in her ear and against her lips, the rush of breath she felt with his first penetration, how he saw to her needs before his own, and how he held her afterward as though he would never let her go.

"Do you think Tahj will ever let us out of here?" she asked.

He speared a leek on his fork and held it out to her. "I don't know if I care anymore." He paused, then asked, "Do you?"

Fancy wasn't sure how she felt. Bit by bit, he was making her want to stay. But how could she ever be with the man who had caused her brother's death? She had forgiven him, but could she forget?

"Rosalyn needs me," she said instead of answering. "It seems Calder has found her again."

Lucien's hand tightened around his wineglass. "Damn that maggot. I only wish I had been able to get my hands on him back in Cornwall. I would have tied him into a knot and tossed him off the cliff."

"Calder has always been slippery." Over a bite of artichoke, she added, "It seems Lord Manchester has come to Rosalyn's rescue." From beneath her lashes, Fancy waited to see Lucien's reaction, considering he had played the role of savior up to that point.

The corner of his lips quirked up into a grin. "Derek is going to have his hands full."

"What does that mean?"

"That Lady Rosalyn is about as much trouble as you are."

Fancy glared at him. "I'm trouble?"

"Let's put it this way: you're the only woman who's ever shot me."

Fancy slapped her napkin down on the table. "How long am I going to have to hear about that? It was an accident."

Lucien leaned back in his chair, amusement in his eyes. "You don't think you're just a little bit of a handful?"

Fancy folded her arms across her chest and shrugged. "Perhaps a little."

He raised a brow. "I've come to think of the scar on my ankle as a battle wound." When her face clouded over, he hastened to add, "One I'm honored to have. The fire poker aimed at my manhood—now, that might take me longer to forget."

Fancy snorted. "Of course. Then you couldn't be a ladies' man."

"I'm not a ladies' man now."

She harrumphed, and the lout had the nerve to grin at her.

"You're jealous," he said, clearly pleased.

"I am not! Fancy shoved her chair back, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. "Let go of me!"

"Ssh," he murmured. "I only want to hold you." He gently stroked her arm. "I haven't told anyone this, but I lost interest in women entirely for a long while. There were times I thought my desire was gone for good. And then you came along."

Fancy relaxed a little against him. "What did I do?"

"You were just you. Vibrant and strong and brave. You were sunshine. And you made me want to be a better man."

Fancy couldn't help herself. She glanced at him. "I did?"

He nodded. "There haven't been many times in my life when I was able to put aside where I came from, where I had been. But for a while, you made me forget."

Fancy faced him fully. "You can change, Lucien. Everyone can change."

"I can't do it alone, Fancy."

"You won't be alone. I'll help you."

"Why?"

Fancy was afraid she knew why, but she couldn't say it, even to herself. "Because you owe it to George," she answered solemnly. "And you owe it to me."

"I know," he murmured, making her feel a spark of hope as he brought her head down for a kiss—praying they had turned a corner.

 

A noise awoke Fancy in the middle of the night. She rolled over and realized that Lucien was not in bed. She sat up and reached to turn up the wick on the lamp.

"Don't," came his gruff reprimand out of the darkness.

Blinking to clear the sleep from her eyes, Fancy found him pacing in front of the window, a wedge of moonlight giving him a ghostly appearance and showing the extent of his agitation.

"Lucien…"

"You have to get Tahj to let me out. I have to get out." When she made no remark, he snapped, "Do you hear me? Get him to open the goddamn door!"

"Lucien, please, come back to bed." She held out her hand, but he didn't seem to notice. He stalked about the room like a caged tiger.

"I need to get out. Just for a few minutes." He turned to her suddenly. "Please."

"No, Lucien," she murmured. "You promised you'd try."

"I will. I am." He ran a hand through his hair, which looked wild, as if he had been doing the same thing for hours. "I can taper off. You can't expect me to just stop."

"I know it'll be hard."

"Hard?" he bit out, swinging around and striding toward the bed. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing. But I do know that if you don't walk away from it now, you might never be able to. Please," she whispered, "lie down with me."

"God," he growled, gripping his hair in his hands. "You are so bloody self-righteous."

Fancy left the bed and stood before him. "You asked for my help."

"This is not the kind of help I need."

"Then what kind is it? Do you want me to just say, Go ahead, kill yourself?"

"That's not going to happen."

"Do you want a wife, Lucien? Children? Is there anything that means something to you?"

"Damn you. I know what I'm doing. Now call for Tahj."

"No."

He took a step toward her, and it was all Fancy could do to stand her ground. "Call him," he ordered.

"No."

He picked up the lamp on the bedside table and hurled it across the room. "Call him!"

An urgent pounding sounded at the door. "My lady," came Tahj's voice, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Shall I open the door?" the butler asked in an anxious tone.

"Yes!" Lucien bellowed.

"No," Fancy countered just as loudly.

Lucien backed her up until he had her pressed against the wall. "Tell him to open it."

"No."

"Do it now, Fancy, or I'll—"

"What?" she demanded as she glared up at him. "What will you do, Lucien? Hit me?"

A horrified look came over his face, but she needed to open his eyes, to see what the drug was doing to him.

He reeled away from her to the opposite side of the room, unable to remain still as his hands moved over the books, the table, the top of the chair, his fingers flexing and unflexing.

Then he leaned back against the wall and slowly sank to the floor, where he crossed his arms over the tops of his knees and pressed his forehead to them. "I can't do this."

Gathering up her courage, Fancy padded over to him, staring down at his bent head before kneeling before him.

She lightly touched his hair, smoothing the wild strands, wondering bleakly if they would both have the strength to see this through. He had been addicted for so long; what made her think she could help him? What did she know about what he was going through? All she knew for certain was the terrible withdrawal he would have to suffer.

She had seen it once before when her grandmother had nursed a friend for nearly a week while the man overcame his craving for morphine, which had taken hold of him after he lost the lower half of his leg to gangrene. For months afterward she had nightmares, remembering the ghostly sound of his moaning issuing from the attic room.

But as she looked at Lucien, she knew she would do whatever it took to get him through. "Come to bed," she murmured, tilting his face up to hers, seeing the barely suppressed hunger in his eyes, but not for her. He needed something else far more desperately, and the realization broke her heart.

She rose to stand before him, slowly slipping the straps of her shift from her shoulders, the material sliding down her arms and pooling at her feet on the floor, leaving her naked and vulnerable.

"Come to bed, Lucien." She held out her hand to him.

He looked up at her for a long moment, then lifted a shaking hand and put it in hers, rising unsteadily to his feet, his gaze drifting over her, his body tautening.

With a growl, he swung her into his arms and moved with urgency to the bed, laying her across it as he ripped at the buttons on his trousers. Then he spread her legs, coming down on top of her with a frantic need as he entered her in one swift thrust, taking the breath from her lungs as he pumped inside of her until he was spent.

Then he slept.

And she stared up at the moonlit-driven shadows on the ceiling, cradling Lucien in her arms, knowing the worst was yet to come.

 

The delirium began the third night, shaking Fancy from a fitful sleep to find Lucien crouched in the corner of the room holding the razor she had used to shave him against his wrist.

Alarm welled inside of her, but she was afraid that if she moved too fast it would startle him, and the sharp blade would slice across his flesh.

"Lucien," she whispered, inching toward the end of the bed.

His head bobbed and slowly rose, as though it was too heavy to lift. His eyes were bloodshot, his face dangerously pale. With each passing hour, he became more and more like a person who was passing to the next life.

He had not eaten since the day before, and the hollows in his face had become more pronounced. Whiskers once more darkened his jaw, but he had refused to allow her to shave him that morning. Delusions surfaced whenever she came near him with the razor. Why hadn't she thought to get rid of it?

"Please, Lucien, put that down."

He tapped the blade against his wrist, and she could see he had been doing it for a while. Tiny slashes marked his forearm. "He made us bury 'em beneath the tree," he said, rocking back and forth, his voice tinged with a cockney accent. "I told 'im we couldn't. It weren't right. They needed a proper burial."

"Who, Lucien?" Fancy quietly asked as her feet slid to the floor. "Who did you bury beneath the tree?"

He jammed a hand over his eyes, an anguished moan rumbling up inside him. "The babies," he responded in a choked voice. "He said he couldn't afford no burial, and dirt was dirt."

Despair closed Fancy's throat. "Your mother's stillborn babies, you mean? Your father made you bury them beneath a tree?"

He nodded. "Me and sometimes Dorian, but I didn't want Dorian to see, so I'd make him turn his back." His laugh came out a sob. "I stole holy water from the church in Bluegate to put over their graves." He glanced at her, his eyes tortured. "Do you think it was a sin, stealing water like that?"

"No, love," she murmured, shaking her head. "You did what was best for them."

"I waited for the vicar to go into the confessional," he said, his words their own confession. "Then I scooped the water into a glass and ran." He held the blade up and turned it into the light. "I didn't know any prayers, so I made one up."

"You were a good brother," she crooned, cautiously inching closer to him, her gaze focused on the hand holding the razor.

"A good brother," he repeated in a raw voice. "That tree was gone when I returned from India. Everything had been leveled to the ground—like my life." His gaze suddenly cut to hers, the blade slicing the air as he thrust it out toward her, just a foot away, the tip directly between her breasts. "Where are they?"

Her body trembling, Fancy reached out and gently curled her fingers over his wrist, lowering his hand. "We'll find them," she said, turning his hand over and carefully easing his fingers from the handle.

He watched her, the air vibrating with potential anarchy, until he loosened his hold and she slipped the razor from his grasp.

Relief rushed over her, and she closed her eyes, her heart beating like a hummingbird's. She had not realized until that moment how long she had been holding her breath.

"Don't leave me," Lucien begged her in a haunting whisper, his fingers trailing across her cheek.

"I won't," Fancy softly vowed, a promise from her heart.

Twenty

It took nearly eight days for the drug to work its way through Lucien's system.

There had been times when they almost hadn't made it, when the shaking and delirium got so bad that Fancy thought Lucien would disintegrate, seeming on the verge of madness, and other times when he would break down and cry, sinking so deep inside himself that she feared he might never resurface.

Now, as he slept for the first time without the nightmares, Fancy watched the sunrise on her ninth day of captivity, knowing that at last the worst was over. What would become of them now, she did not know. And perhaps that, more than anything, was what frightened her the most.

Lucien had left her no way to harden her heart against him, with his midnight confessions, poured out to her in heart-wrenching detail, painting vivid images of his youth, of the brothers and sisters he had loved and lost. Of the days he had thought to end it all.

There had been moments when she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and not hear another painful word, to think only of the brother she had lost at the hands of the man she had come to love.

Yes, she loved him. Loved him with all her heart and soul, though she admitted it only to herself in quiet moments like this. He had slipped into her heart and torn down every barrier she had erected to save herself from despair.

A knock at the door roused her. She turned her head and quietly called, "Come."

Tahj stood in the threshold, bearing the morning tray. He looked different somehow, at peace, much like Lucien. A silent message passed between them, no words necessary as he padded to the table on slippered feet and removed the items from the tray.

When he turned to face her, hands folded calmly in front of him, dark eyes solemn, Fancy knew she would never see him again.

"You," came a groggy voice from the bed, bringing both of them around to find Lucien sitting up, his hair mussed, his eyes heavy-lidded from sleep, but his gaze clear and direct for the first time.

"I see you have not lost your way with words, vajra," Tahj murmured in a dry tone. "And may I say that you look like a heaping pile of camel dung."

A smile teased the corners of Lucien's mouth, and deep, rich laughter rumbled up from his chest. It was a wonderful sound.

"I do, don't I? But I feel damn good." He looked at Fancy, his gaze tender. "You think you might be willing to shave me again?"

She folded her arms in front of her and said sternly, "You have two hands."

He shook his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You're not going to allow me to play the invalid at all, are you?"

"No."

He sighed. "Well, I guess I better get up then and start looking like a human being again."

Throwing the covers back, he swung his legs over the side, the impact of his presence just as dazzling to Fancy's senses as the first time she had seen him, her gaze drinking in every inch of him as he reached for his trousers and then walked to the table.

He was thinner now but still remarkably virile, his muscles standing out in stark relief on his leaner frame. The hungry way he had loved her during their confinement made an ache of yearning well up inside her.

What would happen now that he had recovered? The life she had wanted only a few short months ago was no longer enough to fill what was missing inside her.

"I must say my good-byes."

Cradling a steaming cup of coffee in his palms, Lucien frowned at Tahj. "What did you say?"

"I am leaving. It is time for me to go."

"Leaving?" Lucien faced his longtime friend and companion, his expression disbelieving. "But I've just gotten used to your annoying presence. You can't go now."

"You do not need me any longer."

Fancy's heart ached. The two men had a special bond, one she feared would leave Lucien adrift now that it was being severed.

"So that's it? You're just going?" He slammed his cup down on the table, coffee sloshing over the top. "Well, go then. Get the hell out."

"You will be fine without me."

In a way, Tahj had been Lucien's crutch, carrying him through the bad times. Now that Lucien had turned a corner, Tahj was not going to give him an excuse to fall.

He laid his hand on Lucien's shoulder, crossing the barrier between mentor and student. "You have found your true path, my friend. Now you must walk it alone. I will never be far if you need me, but I do not think you will," he added with a glance in Fancy's direction. "Good-bye, sweet angel of the night." He bowed his head to her, then looked back at Lucien. "Good-bye, vajra. May your life be one of many blessings." Turning silently on his heel, Tahj disappeared through the door.

Lucien walked to the threshold and placed his palms on the jamb, his head bowed. Fancy moved behind him, laying her hands on his arms and pressing her cheek against his back, the faint sound of the front door opening and closing drifting up through the hallway.

"He's gone," Lucien said in an empty voice. "I finally succeeded in pushing him out of my life."

Fancy gently turned him to face her. "You didn't push him out of your life. You've found your life. Don't you see? That's why he left."

He curled his fingers around her wrist, his thumb lightly tracing a vein. "What have I found, Fancy? What's waiting for me? Do you know? Because I sure as hell don't. All these years, I believed that I had lost everything. I raged against what had been denied me. And now I've awoken to discover that all the things I tried to put behind me, tried to forget, are still out there. I'm still alone."

Fancy slid her fingers through his and held his hand. "You're not alone."

"I won't ever be fully cured, you know—I suspect the need will always be there. I'm afraid of what might happen if I can't control it."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He gazed down at her with eyes like a wild Cornish sea. "Why, Fancy? You could have any man you want. Why would you want to be with me?"

At that moment, the answer seemed so clear. "I always thought I would instantly recognize the man I was suppose to love, and that I'd be able to catalog every reason why I loved him. I envisioned a sort of fairy tale. But it hasn't turned out that way."

Lucien closed his eyes at her admission, his hands sliding away. "I'm sorry."

Fancy captured his hand and held it against her cheek. "I'm not. I thought that I would never be able to forgive you for George. Perhaps I believed I shouldn't. But when Tahj came to me and told me you were hurt, I knew that I had to go to you. Nothing else mattered.

"And during these last few days, I realized what I was truly feeling—that the need to be with you was love, strong and steady." She shifted his hand and kissed his palm. "What I want is something real, Lucien. My heart skips a beat whenever I see you." She placed his hand over her heart, letting him feel the rush of emotions that flooded her whenever they were together. "My brother had far more foresight than I had ever imagined. He sent you to me."

"Fancy…" Lucien whispered in an aching voice as he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, holding nothing back as he gathered her tight against her body, his arms encircling her.

Love, the tie that would carry them through good times and bad.

Epilogue

Christmas Eve

 

The Cornish lights twinkled above a frothy night sea, scattering golden stars across the glassy surface and reflecting off the newly cleaned windows of Moor's End.

Fancy hugged herself, feeling sublimely happy as she stood where generations of Fitz Hughs had proudly surveyed their slice of heaven.

Once she had given herself over to loving Lucien, he had wasted no time; he married her by special license the same day they gained their liberation from his bedroom.

Since then, he had shown his love for her in so many ways. He had brought her home to Cornwall. He had found out about the taxes due on Moor's End and had secretly paid them, handing over full ownership of the house to her the day he carried her over the threshold. He had brought her life full circle, renewing the hope she had once believed gone forever.

A rush of anticipation sluiced through her as she spotted him balancing an armful of chopped wood for the fire, an image of him making love to her in front of it, as he had nearly every night that week, causing butterflies to dance in her stomach. Snow clung to his hair and shoulders. It had been coming down all day, ushering in the first of what Fancy hoped to be many beautiful Christmases to come.

Swinging away from the window, she hastened to check her appearance. Who would have thought a breeches-clad hellion would actually enjoy looking like a lady?

Fancy gave her cheeks a pinch and pivoted to face the door as her husband strode in with his burden, bringing a brisk snap of winter air and snowflakes.

"Need any help?" she asked with a coy look and a blatant shifting of her hips.

He smiled devilishly at her as he hunkered down in front of the fireplace to stack the wood. "I could use a kiss. Know anyone who might be willing to give me one?"

Fancy canted her head and tapped a finger on her chin. "I think I might be able to find one willing female."

"Do you think she could hurry up? My lips need a little warming."

Fancy needed no more incentive than that. She hastened to Lucien's side and sank to her knees before him, taking his cold, handsome face into her warm hands and pressing her mouth to his. It took only a second for him to fan the flames of a simple kiss into something much hotter, dragging her tight against his body, holding her as though it had been an eternity since he had seen her, rather than an hour. He had a way of making her feel loved, and she would cherish the blessing, for she knew George, in his way, had sent this man to her.

The sound of someone clearing his throat seeped into Fancy's consciousness, her eyes slowly blinking open to find Lucien's butler, Henry, framed in the doorway, his normally ashen cheeks ruddy with color, his gaze averted to the ceiling.

"What is it, man?" Lucien grumbled, his tone rough with desire.

"A package has arrived for you, sir." He produced a large envelope from behind his back and deposited it in Lucien's hands.

Lucien stared down at it; the imprint on the wax seal was unmistakable. The emblem of the Earl of Redding.

"If you require nothing further, sir?"

Lucien shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "No. That will be all."

The butler bobbed his head and departed.

For a long moment, Lucien stared down at the envelope. Fancy watched him, fearing what the missive contained, her gaze following him as he walked across the room.

Moonlight streamed in through the window, revealing the vulnerability in his eyes as he held the envelope out to her.

Her hand trembled as she took it from him, then slipped the letter opener along the seam to pull out the papers inside. The top sheet was written in a delicate female script.

"My dearest Lucien…" Fancy read aloud the words written by Lady Diana Slade.

 

I hope this letter finds you well and happy, and if you have not thrown it in the fire by now, then I feel a measure of hope for the future.

I suspect it would be too much to ask that you do not forever despise the name of Redding. I do not despise you, nor does Christian, though I doubt you will believe me. I understand far more than my dear sibling thinks, and I believe I understand you, as well.

My wish for all of us is that we can move beyond the sins of the past and look toward the future. To that end, I have enclosed several items I recently received from my father's old solicitor. Apparently these files were lost for a number of years, and forwarded after my father's death. Please do not think Christian had knowledge of this information and kept it from you. The box was not found and opened until yesterday.

I hope that you will find within these pages what you are looking for, and that it will bring you some measure of comfort. I truly wish to see you happy.

Merry Christmas,

Diana

 

Fancy looked into Lucien's eyes as she handed the documents over to him. He swallowed hard, hesitating before he lowered his head to read what Diana had sent.

Then he closed his eyes tight, the sheets curling in his fist. Fancy pried them loose, and as she skimmed the words, a tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

His mother's grave had been found.

 

The sun was budding in the sky when the coach rumbled to a stop the next day. Lucien had not spoken a word during the ride. He held out his hand to help her down from the coach, his bearing somber, and her heart ached for him.

Golden rays dappled the barely tended grass that marked Paupers' Field, where Lucien's mother had been buried for nearly twelve years, after she had contracted pneumonia in a debtor's prison. She and her husband had been sent there when they were unable to repay a loan.

Albert Kendall had been killed there, shivved in the back by a fellow prisoner when he tried to steal a dead man's shoes, and was now buried elsewhere.

There was one glimmer of hope, though. Included among the papers was a ship's passenger log dated only a few years earlier. On it were the names of Lucien's brothers and sisters. The vessel had been bound for America. So the Kendall clan was out there somewhere, and she and Lucien would not give up until they found them.

Lucien drew her to a halt in front of a nondescript marker that served as the only means of identification among the crowded rows.

Fancy knelt down and wiped away the dirt covering the small plaque, arranging the flowers she had brought with her.

"They buried her here like she was trash," Lucien said, a lifetime of bitterness in his voice.

Fancy gave his hand a gentle squeeze as she rose to her feet. "She can be moved. And I know a wonderful place."

"Where?"

"Alongside my grandmother. It's a beautiful spot, high on a hill overlooking Meadow's Cove. I think she'd like it there."

Lucien reached out and stroked his hand along her hair. "I love you, you know."

"I know." Fancy walked into his embrace and held him tight. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"I always expected that my father's end would be ignoble. But my mother…" He turned his head away.

Fancy cupped his cheek and made him look at her. "Your mother loved you. She would have been proud of the man you've become. And I know she would want you to be happy."

"Do I make you happy?" he asked, a tentative question in his eyes.

"Very happy," she vowed, kissing him. "And this is not the end, Lucien. Your brothers and sisters are still out there. We have a place to start. We'll find them."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes," she said. "You are my family now, and you may have noticed that I'm very protective of those I love. I've been known to clout a few heads."

"I know," he said with a chuckle, his hand going to the back of his skull.

"Keep that in mind, husband, for you have an obligation to fulfill."

"And what is that, my love?"

Fancy leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "To bless me with many babies to love and cherish."

A roguish grin tipped up the corner of his lips. "That, you may depend on, dear wife."