Teresa Medeiros (25 page)

Snowflakes dusted his shoulders and hair. To reassure herself that he was truly her genial bodyguard and not some dangerous stranger, Lucy reached up to unmask him.

A quizzical smile touched her lips. “Why, Mr. Claremont, I thought you were blind as a bat without your spectacles?”

His eyes darkened, devoid of the sparkling humor she had come to expect from them. “I am. Blind to everything but you.”

Gerard reached down and drew off Lucy’s mask, stripping her exquisite face of its only defense. He knew it was an unfair blow, worthy of the street fighter he’d had to be to survive, but somewhere along the way, winning the game had become more important than playing by the rules.

At his first glimpse of the tender yearning in her eyes, Gerard knew he had to get her home. Out of his reach.

He captured her hand and pulled her into a run. They pelted across the frosty grass, braving the night and the wind hand in hand.

Lucy laughed aloud, exhilarated by the challenge. A thread of memory spun through her brain, but in her state of delightful befuddlement, she couldn’t seem to weave it into a recognizable pattern.

They stumbled to a halt in the cobbled drive to find the Snow carriage nowhere in sight.

“The Admiral must have taken it,” Lucy said, rubbing away a stitch in her side. “He was probably planning to send it back for me later.” At Gerard’s scowl, she added, “You didn’t expect him to walk, did you?”

“Only on water,” he bit off.

He dragged her toward a deserted carriage parked on the opposite side of the drive. The evening was still early and the driver was probably off gambling away his monthly wages with the rest of the servants. The flawlessly matched bays nickered nervously at their approach. Steam puffed from their aristocratic nostrils.

“This will have to do.” Gerard framed Lucy’s slender waist in his hands and swung her into the opulent interior, shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.

Before he could close the door, she wagged a pink-tipped finger under his nose. “Confess, you wicked man. Were you the one to divest that unfortunate nobleman of his clothes?”

He splayed a hand over his heart as if she had struck him a mortal wound. “You’re accusing me? A man who’s devoted his life to the preservation of law and order?”

“A man who’s not above stealing a carriage if it suits his needs,” she pointed out with a hint of her tart logic.

“Borrowing,” he corrected her.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m not sure I should accompany you, sir. What if you should try to divest me of my clothes?”

Gerard’s loins hardened with the decadent urge to press her back into the plush squabs of the carriage and do just that. With a lecherous growl that would have put the faux pirate to shame, he caught her nape
in his palm and drew her face down until her succulent mouth was only a breath away from his own.

“Don’t tempt me.”

He gave her a harmless push. She fell back among the cushions, giggling and kicking her slippered feet, giving him a dazzling view of her lace petticoat and pink stockings.

Groaning, he slammed the carriage door. He rested his fevered brow against its cool shell, wondering what madness had possessed him to feed the staid Miss Snow that last glass of champagne.

As he waited for his breathing to steady, he became aware that an eagle was embossed on the gilded door, its outspread wings entwined with an elaborately scrolled name:
Mannington
. The same ducal crest he had seen that chill autumn night when this very carriage had heedlessly struck a child and left her crumpled in the rain.

Gerard threw back his head with a harsh bark of laughter. He seemed fated to mete out justice to others and damned to never winning even a scrap of it for himself.

On the ride to Ionia, Lucy kept Gerard entertained with several inventive, if somewhat obscure, verses of “That Banbury Strumpet, As Sweet As a Crumpet.” Truth be told, he rather suspected her of making them up as she went along. He rolled his eyes at a particularly ribald turn of phrase, knowing she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was implying or the effect her throaty contralto was having on his ravenous body. He slapped the reins on the horses’ backs, driving them to a brisk trot.

He brought the carriage to a halt at the far end of the drive, hoping to avoid attracting attention to his
borrowed
vehicle and his inebriated young charge. No groom ran out to greet them. As he’d intended, their early return from an event that traditionally lasted until dawn had caught the household staff off guard.

He yanked open the carriage door, not sure himself whether he should spank Lucy for her naughtiness or kiss her even more insensible than she already was.

He staggered as she tumbled face first over his shoulder, putting her in an ideal position for the former. He gave her bottom a sharp whack, keeping his palm molded over her delectable curves. She kicked her feet in protest, setting up a flurry of silk.

“Dammit, Lucy, stop wiggling,” he commanded, more out of self-preservation than genuine annoyance.

His hands seemed to have a life of their own. He could feel the right one creeping up her stocking beneath her skirt, intent on some devilish mischief beyond his control.

“How dare you!” she gasped out as he started across the lawn, bouncing her unceremoniously with each step. “My father never spanked me.”

“He should have. Daily. With great vigor.”

Her injured sniff was ruined by a giggle. “I gave him no excuse. I was a good girl. Don’t you find me a good girl, Mr. Claremont?”

“Delicious,” he replied as his questing fingertips came into contact with the smooth, bare skin above her garter.

“Sylvie’s oldest brother taught me a new song while we were dancing. Would you care to hear it?”

“No.”

Undaunted, she threw back her head and roared:

Across the midnight sea sails Cap’n Doom
.

Yer noble birth he’ll make ye rue
.

He’ll snatch yer lady’s heart right from her bosom

Then rob her of her virtue
.

Gerard winced and gritted his teeth. Christ, he hated that bloody pirate! He only regretted that Lucy’s position made it impossible to put his hand over her mouth and under her skirt at the same time. That enticing vision made his palms sweat so profusely that he almost dropped her.

The front door swung open as they approached. Gerard hesitated, fearful of exposing Lucy’s undignified state to a smirking footman. He sighed with relief when Smythe stepped to the fore, the candle in his hand casting wavering shadows over his bland face and flowing dressing gown.

Without so much as blinking an eye at Lucy’s unusual mode of transit, the butler said, “Good evening, Mr. Claremont, Miss Lucy. I trust it was an enjoyable one.”

“Tolerable,” Gerard replied. “We had to end it a bit prematurely.”

Smythe addressed Lucy’s squirming bottom. “A prudent idea, it seems, sir.”

Lucy twisted around to see him. Gerard obliged her by turning sideways.

“I learned a new song tonight, Smythe. Would you care to hear it?” she asked earnestly.

The butler laid a finger against her lips. “Perhaps in the morning, Miss Lucy. I’m suffering from a dreadful megrim.”

The man did look pale, Gerard noted. Lines were etched around his eyes like the shading in one of Lucy’s drawings. He couldn’t help but wonder if Smythe was suffering from an ailment more severe than a simple headache.

“Poor Smythe,” Lucy crooned, adjusting the tassel on his nightcap. “Poor, dear Smythe.”

The butler rested his candlestick on a pier table and held out his arms. “May I, sir?”

Gerard’s arms tightened around the limp bundle draped over his shoulder in primitive reflex. He hadn’t realized how unprepared he was to let her go.

As if sensing how little it would take to make him bolt into the night with Lucy in tow, Smythe offered him a smile that was both kind and weary. “I’ll look after her, sir. I always have.”

Gerard lowered Lucy into the cradle of the butler’s arms. Smythe wasn’t a large man, but he bore her weight as if it were no burden at all. She snuggled against his chest, already half asleep.

Gerard’s arms ached with emptiness.

As Smythe started toward the stairs, Lucy peered over his shoulder, blinking drowsily.

“ ’Night, G’rard.”

“ ’Night, mouse.”

Her wistful little wave tore at his heart. He touched his fingers to his lips in one final salute. Then there was nothing left for him to do but melt back into the darkness where he belonged.

Lucy kicked off her slippers just outside the door to her room. “I’ve been a very wicked girl, Smythe. I had three glasses of champagne. Are you shocked?”

“Scandalized.” Smythe’s dry tone implied the opposite.

Without bothering to undress her, he tucked her beneath the counterpane with his usual matter-of-fact efficiency, then moved to add a fresh log to the bedroom fire.

Lucy was caught off guard by the sudden plunge of
her mood into dejection. “It doesn’t truly matter, does it?”

Smythe lowered the poker and straightened. “What, Miss Lucy?”

“Whether I’m wicked. Or good. Or even perfect. The Admiral’s never going to love me, is he?”

Smythe gazed into the dancing flames, his profile pensive. “I don’t think he’s capable of it, miss. It’s really not your fault.”

Defiance and pride swelled in her heart. “Mr. Claremont said I was magnificent.”

Smythe came over to sit on the edge of her bed. He’d been her nanny, her governess, her cherished friend for as long as she could remember. Her earliest memory was of his sober face bending over her cradle. She knew only too well when he was about to do something he dreaded.

“You’re rather fond of your Mr. Claremont, aren’t you?”

The champagne had robbed Lucy of any eloquence she might have possessed. She could only nod. Her head felt loose, as if it might topple off her neck if she didn’t take care.

“Would it make you terribly sad if he went away?”

An icy fear seized her. She gripped Smythe’s arm. “What is it, Smythe? Are you afraid the Admiral will dismiss him if he discovers what a goose I’ve made of myself tonight? You won’t tell him, will you? I’ll swear off champagne for the rest of my days, but please don’t tell him.”

He eased her back to the pillow. “Your secrets are safe with me, dear. Just go to sleep. Everything will be better in the morning.”

His hand was on the doorknob when Lucy softly said, “You’re a poor liar, Smythe.”

He gave her a sad little smile. “I’m afraid I’m a much better liar than you’d ever suspect.”

Lucy lay flat on her back, watching the reflection of the fire flicker across the tester. Smythe’s enigmatic words had deflated her golden champagne bubble, leaving only its bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Her mellow glow faded to bleak gloom as she contemplated a future without Gerard.

There was really nothing new to contemplate. Her life would revert to its former orderly state. She, Smythe, and the Admiral would grow old together in this house, their daily habits carved from her father’s indomitable will. The regimented minutes stretched into eternity, the sand in her father’s treasured hourglass trickling through one agonizing grain at a time.