Teresa Medeiros (22 page)

In the past she’d always had innocence as her defense against the Admiral’s spoken and unspoken accusations.
She’d bitten back her anger at his unfairness, swallowed her hoarse cries of denial, and hugged the knowledge of her virtue close to her heart.

Now she had no defense at all. She was guilty as charged. Condemned for loving the wrong man.

She rested her brow against the cold glass. Captain Doom might have stolen her soul, but she was in grave danger of bestowing it freely upon Gerard Claremont.

Dawn found Lucy huddled on the far side of the ancient oak, watching her nervous puffs of breath drift off like so much flotsam in the frigid air.

She had already determined that subterfuge was a poor weapon against Mr. Claremont, given his tendency to see right through it. He was far more likely to be swayed by a rational, adult discussion of their awkward situation. Surely even a sophisticated man such as Gerard would find her logic irresistible.

From the other side of the tree came the brittle crunch of footsteps approaching across the sleet-glazed grass. Lucy pressed her back to the gnarled trunk and squeezed her eyes shut in miserable anticipation. A curl of cheroot smoke wafted by. She sucked it into her lungs as if it were magical incense burned to give her courage.

Fighting to separate the threads of her intellect from the tangle of her raging emotions as the Admiral had taught her, she swept her woolen mantle in a graceful bell and stepped out from behind the tree.

Gerard halted as if his feet had shot down roots. His eyes reflected only mild surprise and an alarming wariness, as if he had sensed this confrontation was inevitable, but still hoped to avoid it.

Lucy’s words were stymied by the presence of her heart in her throat. Her bodyguard’s open coat was rumpled, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. A smoking
cheroot hung from the corner of his mouth. His hair was tousled as if he had rolled out of bed without combing it, its rich hue gilded cinnamon by the winter sunshine burning through the morning mist.

But it was his face, that boyish face shadowed by the weary cynicism of manhood, that devastated her hard-won composure.

He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels, giving her a quizzical look from beneath his striking brows.

Now was the time, she mentally nudged herself. Time to calmly present the well-rehearsed dissection of their feelings and realistic prospects for the future that she had spent a sleepless night formulating.

She opened her mouth. “I love you” tumbled out.

Gerard felt as if he’d been struck both deaf and dumb. He couldn’t trust himself to maintain his mask of indifference beneath Lucy’s imploring gaze. He couldn’t trust himself to speak without revealing how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t even grant her freedom from her father’s tyranny. All he had to offer her was another sort of bondage, sensual and brief, that she would regret long after he was gone.

The cheroot hung limp on his bottom lip for what seemed like an eternity before tumbling end over end to the grass. It fizzled in the frost like Lucy’s dreams as he turned without a word and marched back toward the gatehouse.

“Was it something I said?” she whispered.

Lucy laid her cheek against the rough bark of the oak, seeking solace from its ancient and uncompromised dignity. A warm fog of tears blinded her to the brittle glint of sunlight reflected from a third-story window of the house.

The Admiral snatched the spyglass from his eye as Smythe entered his private sitting room, balancing a breakfast tray and various newspapers with the skill of a professional juggler.

“Dammit, man,” the Admiral snapped. “How many times have I told you never to enter a room without knocking?”

“Sorry, sir. My hands were occupied.”

“They’ll be occupied with seeking a new position if you come barging in here again in that deplorable manner.”

Smythe deposited his burdens on an oak pedestal table while the Admiral resumed his unabashed spying. Under the pretense of arranging the papers for his employer’s perusal, Smythe sidled past an adjacent window to find Lucy drifting like a wraith across the lawn toward the house, dejection weighting her every step. He frowned.

“Damn chit’ll be the ruin of me just like her blasted mother was,” the Admiral grumbled, snapping the telescopic neck of the spyglass shut. “Should have never hired that Claremont fellow. Thought he was made of sterner stuff. Man enough to resist all that feminine cunning.”

“I’ve found his performance to be acceptable, sir. I’ve observed no impropriety in his behavior toward Miss Lucy.” Smythe prayed he wouldn’t have cause to regret his defense of Claremont.

“Ah, but your standards aren’t as exacting as mine, are they?” The Admiral settled his bulk into a wing chair and drew the silver lid off a chafing dish, unveiling the steaming feast of buttered eggs and fresh kippers he always indulged in before joining Lucy in the dining room for dry toast and tea. He gestured toward the newspapers. “Any mention of Doom?”

“None at all, sir. Perhaps he realized it was futile to engage a man of your skill and bravery in open battle.”

Fortunately for Smythe, his employer’s colossal ego precluded any appreciation of sarcasm at his own expense.

The Admiral speared a kipper with his fork. “I should have crushed the worm beneath my boot heel when I had the chance.” He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. “Has Lucy an engagement tonight?”

“Aye, sir. The winter masque at the Howell estate.”

“Excellent!” He chewed with relish, grinding the fish between his blunt teeth. “See that my uniform is pressed. I shall put in an early appearance, then be off to my own pursuits.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll see to it.” Smythe turned to go.

“Oh, and Smythe?”

“Sir?”

“Tomorrow morning, before oh nine hundred, I’d like you to contact Mr. Benson about a replacement for Mr. Claremont. I don’t care for the man’s attitude.”

Smythe kept his face a careful blank. “What reason shall I give Mr. Claremont for his dismissal, sir?”

The Admiral waved his fork, spattering undercooked egg yolk across the newspapers. “Just tell him we appreciated his services keenly and will be pleased to provide the appropriate references, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Very well, sir.”

Smythe clicked his heels and snapped off a smart salute, thinking it a bloody shame for England that a man of Lucien Snow’s innate military skills had been cursed with the fatal flaw of underestimating his enemies.

The Howells’ winter masque was a cherished annual tradition. It had been conceived by Lady Howell over a decade ago to brighten the long, barren months when the city pleasure gardens were closed and many of the
ton
had retreated to their country estates. To those remaining, the masque was anticipated more eagerly than Christmas.

As they descended the shallow marble steps to the ballroom, Lucy tucked her gloved hand into the rigid crook of her father’s arm, expecting to feel the familiar surge of love and pride. Instead, she felt curiously empty, as if the hours of weeping she had done in her bedroom that afternoon had washed away her precious childhood illusions, stripping her heart bare.

Longing to recapture even a shadow of emotion, she slanted a gaze up at her father’s face through the eye slits of her silk loo. His own mask of gold tissue was a mere formality, designed to complement the cluster of freshly polished medals that starred his chest. There was no one in this stellar crowd of the military elite who could fail to recognize him. He exuded all the majesty and romance of the Royal Navy itself in his full-dress uniform, fringed epaulettes, and shiny boots. She should be honored that he had chosen to lean on her this night instead of his cane.

His thick mane gleamed like hoarfrost beneath the radiance of the chandeliers. For a fleeting instant, as he angled his head to receive the homage that was his due, that old adoration squeezed at Lucy’s heart. He was once again the most handsome man in the world to her.

She seemed to be shrinking, clinging not to his elbow, but to the starched tails of his uniform, tugging, always tugging, in a wordless plea for him to stop and notice her.

Christ, Smythe, why isn’t she in bed? If there’s anything I cannot bear, it’s a clinging brat
.

Lucy’s fingernails clenched involuntarily, digging into her father’s arm. He shot her a disapproving look and disengaged his coat sleeve from her grip to smooth the unsightly wrinkle she’d caused. As their host and hostess approached, he pasted on a jovial smile of greeting.

Lord and Lady Howell’s warm welcome did nothing to dispel Lucy’s chill. It emanated from the empty place where her heart had been before she’d been fool enough to offer it to Gerard Claremont. What must he think of her after her ridiculous divulgence? That she was a light-skirted hussy? A lovestruck child? She had studiously avoided his eyes as he’d assisted them into the carriage earlier, afraid she’d find amusement, condescension, or worse yet, patronizing pity in their hazel depths.

“Why, Lucy dear, your hands are like ice!” Lady Howell exclaimed, chafing them between her own.

Her face was a well-worn version of Sylvie’s, blurred by time like a tissue paper mask that had been left in the rain.

The twinkling of her blue eyes dimmed as Lucy coolly withdrew her hands, afraid she would crumble beneath the burden of the woman’s compassion. “Forgive me. It’s quite cold outside.”

As Lady Howell excused herself, gracefully accepting the rebuff, Lucy found it even colder inside. The plastered walls of the ballroom had been draped in layers of white chiffon. Genuine frost sparkled along the panes of the floor-to-ceiling French windows. The marble fireplaces flanking the far ends of the cavernous room shed little warmth, and in keeping with the theme, many of the guests had retained their mantles and hooded cloaks, adding to their air of disguise.

A galaxy of tiny crystal chips suspended from gold threads dangled from the vaulted ceiling in a dazzling imitation of snowflakes. Their reflected light hurt Lucy’s eyes. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to re-create winter indoors when the entire universe seemed to be trapped in its frigid grip.

Lord Howell and her father wandered off to discuss Napoleon’s scandalous appointment of himself as lifetime First Consul of France, leaving her standing alone on the stairs. The masked dancers whirled across the Venetian tiles, the invisible notes of the quadrille jerking them to and fro like winged marionettes.

An inaudible groan of dismay escaped Lucy as she saw Sylvie weaving her way through the dancers, her baby brother propped on her hip. Unlike her mother, Sylvie had not yet learned to be politely daunted by rejection.

The Howells held the uncommon belief that children should not only be seen and heard, but fussed and cooed over at great length. The placid Gilligan had been garbed in the hemp-belted robes of a medieval monk. One of his older brothers had pasted a ragged tonsure of horse’s hair around his bald pate. A reluctant smile quivered on Lucy’s lips as the enormous baby reached out without his sister’s knowledge, plucked a fistful of boiled shrimp from a footman’s tray, and ate them, tails and all.