On A Cold Christmas Eve (2 page)

There was a soul-deep hurt in Adam St. Vincent's eyes, one that Lucy knew resided in her own as well.  It was the look of someone who had seen the worst of life, who had expected great things as a child and been harshly disappointed as an adult.  Oh, he covered it well, just as she did, but it was there, lurking beneath the air of jaded danger and disinterest that he projected to the 
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.

Lucy had also heard the men at the various balls she'd attended speak highly of the duke's sense of honesty and fairness.  He was held in high esteem by many, including the Prince Regent himself, and it was well known that Prinny held very few men in such regard.  There was a sense of morality about the duke that few men of the 
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 could match, and it was that sense of ethics that Lucy would appeal to, if she could.  It was her last, best hope before being cast into the streets or attempting to find a position some place in the home of a peer.  At the moment, that scenario was the best she could hope for.

If nothing else, life with her uncle had taught Lucy several very harsh life lessons, chief among them that she could only truly rely on herself.  Her uncle might put up a good front for the 
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, making sure she was appropriately clothed and that she appeared in all of the "right" places when it was socially demanded, but he didn't truly care about her.  All he wanted was her fortune, the one left to her by her father, the former Earl of Wellsford, a title now held by her uncle.  The very fortune that Lucy herself couldn't touch until she was over the age of thirty or married, whichever came first.  The same fortune that would fall to her uncle if she died, or was disgraced in some way before she reached her majority.

And she had no doubt in her mind that somehow, someway, her uncle and Archibald St. Vincent had joined forces in an attempt to get their hands on her fortune.  A fortune that she knew her uncle needed, given his profligate spending, and a fortune that she suspected the not-so-reformed rakehell second son of a duke probably needed as well.

In the end, whatever the reason, Lucy would be the one to pay the price for the men's machinations.  They would remain untouched while she became some kind of fallen woman, even if she was somehow able to remain chaste.

So rather than leave her fate up to chance, Lucy had quietly slipped out of the inn while the innkeeper's back was turned and took the first road to the right that she'd seen, one a mere half a mile, or there abouts, from the inn.  That road, she knew, based on her uncle's discussions with his coachman, led to Fairhaven.  And that was where she would go.

Adam saw the small, slender figure trudging up the winding drive to Fairhaven before either Simmonds or Harry did, and he was out the door before either of the other men could react, heedless of the driving rain which was rapidly changing to snow.  After his short, but rather bloody, conversation with the man, whose name Adam had learned was Ezekiel McTavish, or just Mac for short, who had come to collect the "package" from Archibald, Adam knew to expect a woman.  A lady.  The daughter of a peer.

Damn it all to bloody hell.

A well-placed fist to the nose had assured Adam of Mac's cooperation, especially when Simmonds and Harry had held the man down as Adam prepared to pound the flesh from his body a bit more.  There was a reason Adam was called the "Devil Duke," and it wasn't entirely because of his way with the ladies.  

Adam had grown up quickly after his father, the previous duke, had died when Adam was a scant nine years old.  As the eldest, he'd learned early that strength, both physical and mental, was essential for a peer of his stature.  Too many people, even family members, were out to take what they didn't earn, and that included other members of the aristocracy, especially those who thought they could prey upon the insecurities of a young, green noble suddenly thrust into power.  By the time Adam had reached the ripe old age of fourteen, the 
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 had learned that no one tangled with the young Duke of Enwright and escaped without some type of injury, be it mental, physical or financial.

It was, Adam reflected, too bad that Archibald hadn't learned that lesson as well.

Now, he was once more left to clean up his brother's mess.  This time, however, the woman was still an innocent, or at least he assumed she was.  That was more than could be said for the last one.

As Adam ran through the rain to intercept the woman, he was quick to note several things.  First, she was tall, much taller than any of the London chits he'd been introduced to previously, though there was a slightly familiar air about the way she walked, slow as she was moving at the moment.  The second was that she was blessed with a woman's curves, which, given the way her soaked clothes clung to her wasn't too difficult to see.  Last, and certainly not least, was that she was thinner than her fame suggested she should be, indicating that she would most likely be prone to illness if kept out in this weather much longer.

He could tell the moment she caught sight of him because her steps faltered for a moment and she stumbled a bit, though she did manage to catch herself on one of the trees the lined the drive.  He also saw her eyes widen, probably in fear, as most women did when they first saw him.  There was, unfortunately, no help for that.  His looks were what they were and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about them - not that he normally wanted to.  Still, it would have been nice if every woman of his acquaintance didn't flinch in fear when she saw him.

Adam St. Vincent was not a small man.  In fact, he towered over just about every other Englishman he'd ever met, owing, he always figured to his Italian heritage.  His mother had been from Genoa, a scandal of the highest order in his father's time, and while the taint of "foreign blood" had eased over time, one look at Adam made it clear that his bloodlines were not completely English.  In the rainy darkness, with his clothes plastered to his body and his dark eyes unreadable, he imagined he looked rather worse than normal.  His assumption was proven correct when the woman, whose own darker looks complimented his own he noted with surprise, took two more steps towards him before collapsing into his arms.

"Bloody hell," he swore under his breath as he scooped up the prone form, which, he was disturbed to note, was far lighter than he had anticipated.  If she wasn't already ill, she would be soon.  She needed proper care, something he could not give her here with only minimal staff.  "Simmonds," he bellowed, already striding back towards the manor house, "get the coach ready!  We ride for Overlook Hill tonight!  I do not wish to delay!"

Then he turned to see Harry looking at him, no sign of alarm or fear in his eyes, but merely a steady resolve.  Patient and waiting, there was no question that he was awaiting his orders as well, knowing that a task awaited him.  That was one of the reasons Adam liked Harry so well.  He was always ready, ever discreet, and never questioning.

"Ride for London," Adam nearly growled, hoisting the woman higher into his arms as he saw the butler scurry for the stables where a coach and driver waited at the ready.  "Find out all you can about this chit, about my bloody imbecile of a brother, and what the hell he's done this time."  A dark rage threatened to overcome him, but he forced it back.  Now was not the time.

When Harry just raised an eyebrow, Adam bit back a snarl.  This man didn't deserve his anger.  Another did.  Harry, of course, knew that, and was bold enough to ask a question, the very thought of which might leave a weaker man shaking in his boots.  "And if I find the wastrel?  Any of them?"

"Turn them over to the authorities," Adam growled, before thinking better of it.  "No, better yet, bring them to me at Overlook.  I wish to have a word or two with them."  Then he flashed a smile, a dark, wicked thing that had sent more than one man racing from a card room.  "There is much, it seems, that I need to say."

After a quick bow, Harry closed his coat tightly around him and turned up his collar to protect himself from the wind and snow.  "Of course, my lord.  I will see to it personally."  Then he was gone into the night, the darkness swallowing him up as if he had never been.

That was another reason Adam liked Harry so much.  Like Adam himself, Harry was a man of mixed parentage.  Unlike Adam, however, Harry hadn't been born wealthy, and that limited him in many ways.  However, he'd overcome many harsh circumstances to rise to the top of the ranks of the Runners, with a case record that many envied.  It was an early case in Harry's career that had brought him into contact with Adam, and it had been Harry who had saved Adam's life when a distant relative had tried to take the dukedom by force.  Ever since, there was no one that Adam trusted more.

That was also why he knew that when he issued the order for Archibald to be brought to Overlook, he would be.  No questions asked.

Just then, the woman in Adam's arms stirred, and her eyes fluttered open.  A rich aquamarine color, they reminded him of the sea on a calm day.  She opened her mouth to speak but was racked by a cough, which was followed by a sigh, as if it hurt to breathe.  Damnation.  It would not do for her to die while under his care.

When she tried to speak again, Adam held a finger to his lips as he crossed the front lawn with her still in his arms.  "Shh.  Don't try to speak.  Just know that you're safe.  I'm Adam St. Vincent, Duke of Enwright.  No harm will come to you, I swear."  Then he looked down at her and swore again.  "Bloody hell!"

The woman had fainted again and this time, given the blue tinge to her lips, he didn't think she would wake up any time soon.

Chapter Two

She was warm.  And dry.  Those were Lucy's first two thoughts as she awoke.  The second was that there had to be a massive bear sitting on her chest since drawing a breath was somewhat of an issue.  Upon opening one eye, she found that it wasn't a bear, but rather a great beast of a dog, one with dark, soulful eyes that seemed to be watching her intently.

When the dog realized that she was awake, he sat up and emitted one low, mournful howl and then settled back down, crushing the breath from her once again.  "Fenster!  Down!"  It was only the sharp command of a deep male voice that made the dog rise and leap away, easing the pressure that had been preventing her from drawing a normal breath.

Down?

Sitting up a bit, Lucy realized that she was lying in a bed much softer than she'd even been in, her form piled high with thick blankets and an assortment of coverlets and pillows.  To her left, she could see a woman with steel-gray hair tucked up under a cap snoozing peacefully in a chair.  She was snoring so loudly that Lucy had no idea how she'd not heard that before.

"Wondered how long you'd sleep through Ethel's rumblings," the deep voice said and Lucy turned just in time to see the most strikingly handsome man she'd ever laid eyes upon rise and cross the room to stand by the bed.  The Duke of Enwright himself.  She had succeeded, though she hadn't a clue how she'd accomplished it.  "Actually, I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake up."  He frowned at that, as if he hadn't wanted to even consider the possibility.

Looking around, Lucy knew that there was no possible way she was back in her uncle's home.  Firstly, she'd never been treated this well there, and secondly, her uncle was so cheap that he'd never, ever, allow a maid to sit and watch her sleep.  That would have been too wasteful.  Wherever she was, it wasn't the Mayfair house she'd last slept in only days before.

"Where am I?" she managed to ask, even though her throat was parched, and she felt as if she hadn't spoken in a week.  Considering that the last thing she remembered was the hard, driving rain slowly changing to snow, maybe she hadn't.

Instead of immediately replying, the man in front of her sketched a deep bow before rising again with a grin.  "Lady Lucy Cavendish, may I welcome you to Overlook Hill, country estate of the Duke of Enwright.  Which," he said with a smile, one that reached his eyes and made him all the more handsome, "just happens to be me."

She should have been surprised that he knew her name, but she wasn't.  He was a duke, after all, with more connections than she could ever hope to have.  Not to mention that she doubted there were many society misses who were currently missing.  It wouldn't have taken long for him to deduce who she was.  In fact, she didn't doubt that he had a full dossier on her already waiting on his desk.  That was simply how men like Adam St. Vincent conducted business, even that of a personal nature.

Lucy took a moment to gather her thoughts and study the man in front of her the way she had always wished to in the ballrooms of London.  At the moment, he wore no cravat and his shirt open at the throat to reveal a sprinkling of dark hair on his chest that matched the dark and thickly curly hair on his head.  He was beyond tall and his shoulders were the broadest she'd ever seen.  They were, quite simply, massive, tapering down to a narrow waist.  His calves were encased in riding boots, but his thighs were heavily muscled, at least if the way the fabric of his breeches stretched over them was any indication.  She had lusted over his body behind her fan many times, but now, in this bedroom, it was different.  More intimate.

It was his eyes, though, that completely transfixed her.  A rich, deep brown, they seemed to hold all of the secrets of the universe, as well as things of a darker and far more sensual nature.  They were also guarded, as if he was as unsure of her as she was of him.  This situation was highly improper, but at the moment, she didn't particularly care.  It was unlikely that anyone would discover that she'd been here, not to mention that, at the moment, she had far more pressing problems to occupy her mind.  Namely what this man's brother and her uncle had planned for her.