The Devil In Disguise (9 page)

Will could swear he heard Carmichael chortle, though not a hint of a smile spoiled his solemn demeanor.

“I am sorry for that.”

“No more sorry than I.” It was true that Will prized the stallion, but he’d been a Corinthian long enough to know that no horse was worth the life of a lady. He’d done his job to the fullest, securing a legitimate reason to spend time with Lady Lucinda so he could protect her. But he’d done vastly more than was necessary. He’d shamelessly flirted with the woman. He’d gone out of his way to impress her.

And the aunts. He’d held his tongue and smiled and did the pretty when he’d wanted to run from the room and break as many items in his wake as possible.

“Bloody hell,” Will growled. “I don’t know that I’m the right man for this.”

Carmichael watched the fighters resume their match, their rough dance gaining speed. “Clairemont, you know as well as I that there is no going back now. If it’s the horse—”

“It’s not the horse, it’s the woman. I want to—”

Carmichael applauded a particularly skillful blow. “Bed her? That’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Of course I want to bed her,” Will said impatiently. “A man would have to be dead and buried not to. No,” he said, his frustration growing, “I want to talk to her. I like talking to her. Dammit, the bedding part is natural. Wanting to spend time with her outside the bedchamber is not.”

Carmichael turned to look at Will, understanding written across his face. “I see.”

“Then you’ll find someone else—”

“Just because I understand the situation does not mean that I’ve any more options than before. You’re the man for this assignment.” Carmichael turned back to the sparring match. “You’ve already made the initial contact. To send in another agent at this point would cause suspicion.”

Will suppressed the desire to slam his fist through the planked seating and instead unleashed his anger on the tankard, nearly denting the tin. “You don’t understand; I fear that my preoccupation may put the mission at risk.”

“I trained you myself. I know what you’re capable of,” Carmichael answered, his tone slightly altered, the earlier understanding replaced with steel. “Are we in agreement?”

Will carefully set the tankard on the wooden bench. He knew better than to press Carmichael further. The man had the temperament of a bulldog, no matter how elegantly he dressed. Once his mind was made up, he was unswerving in his determination. Besides, Will knew that Carmichael was right; to bring in another agent at this stage of the game would be dangerous. In truth, his feelings for Lady Lucinda would only strengthen his resolve to keep her safe from Garenne.

Perhaps that was the answer, then: focus on his hatred for Garenne and let all other emotions go.

“Yes, we’re in agreement,” he finally responded, settling his elbows on his knees and massaging his temples.

“Good. Now, about Lady Lucinda. It seems she enjoys early morning rides—alone.”

Will dropped his hands and turned to Carmichael. “You mean accompanied only by servants, yes?”

“No, by ‘alone’ I mean just that. She’s adamantly opposed to having an escort, despite the best efforts of the Furies.”

“Good God, man, you must have been misinformed. Those women control all they survey. Not even Lady Lucinda would dare cross them.”

Carmichael rose. “As you’ve said, she’s a most remarkable woman.”

Lucinda wanted to scream with joy. The wind had pulled the pins from her hair and the thick braid blew free, whipping like a banner as she raced Tristan, her dapple gray gelding, through Hyde Park. The sun had only just come up, setting the birds to singing on what promised to be a fine day.

She slowed the gelding with a gentle tug on the reins and crossed to follow her favorite path. Lucinda lived for her morning rides, free of everyone, even the servants, and the expectations that normally followed her wherever she went.

It hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed to convince her aunts of the need for such a thing. Actually, in truth she’d blackmailed each of them into submission. And while reading to Charlotte each evening from the Bible, writing Bessie’s frightfully colorful dictation to her many admirers, and sneaking Victoria’s favorite brandy past the entire household on a monthly basis was not how Lucinda would ideally spend her time, it was worth it all the same.

She suspected that somewhere, amongst the groves of oak trees, near the eastern gate by which Lucinda arrived and left, a groom lingered for what must have been, at times, a miserably cold and dreary two hours.

Halting the gelding next to a large rock she’d used to dismount many times in the past, she gathered the skirt of her green riding habit and slid from the saddle. Tristan turned his head, ears pricking forward with interest at the sight of the lugh, green grass. Lucinda drew the reins over the gray’s head then allowed him to graze.

She gratefully sat down near him, dropping the reins to rest in the spring grass. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, nervous energy coursing through her veins and keeping her from soundly sleeping. Even with a pillow over her head. “Even with two,” she solemnly told Tristan, who simply paused for a moment, then continued to chew the flavorful grass.

The conversation with the duke plagued her conscience. “He is, after all, quite a horse,” she scoffed, wondering at the boldness with which she’d so easily responded. Really, the entire conversation had been altogether too bold, as Amelia would undoubtedly point out had she known of it.

But she didn’t. Not yet anyway. A twinge of guilt flickered. She’d not sought out her dearest friend’s company since the ball—or, if she were completely honest, since meeting the duke.

Lucinda pulled a daisy free and began to tear the white petals from the flower, one by one. She knew what Amelia would say of the scheme—even worse, what she would think of Lucinda’s obvious attraction to him.

And worst of all? Amelia would be right. Lucinda was treading on dangerous ground, which only made it all the more exciting. Actually, it rather shook the earth, if the current vibration of the ground beneath her had anything to do with it.

Puzzled, Lucinda looked up. A massive, coal black horse and its equally large rider were quickly approaching.

She jumped to her feet, holding tight to Tristan’s reins. For his part, the gray thought little of their impending guests, affording them only a slow glance before setting his sights on a patch of succulent overgrown blades.

The black horse was eating up the earth with his powerful strides, the rider sitting easily in the saddle despite the speed. Lucinda didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified by the sight and wondered for a moment at the curious relationship between the two emotions.

She couldn’t identify the horse and rider, for the morning sun hazed their figures. Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to make out the man.

With nary a second to spare, the rider reined in the big black and the horse immediately responded, slowing to a canter, then a trot, and finally a walk.

Lucinda gathered her wits about her and prepared to unleash a particularly pungent verbal set-down. She shaded her eyes from the sun in order to see the pair more closely.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Despite having met him only mere days before, Lucinda would have known that voice anywhere. The husky tone sent a shiver down her spine and all the way to the tips of her riding boots. She relished the sensation for a moment then remembered what she had been about to do. “Your Grace, how nice of you to join me. Oh, and I do thank you for refraining from running your overgrown mount over the top of—”

Her reference to the horse had been smartly punctuated with a sweeping gesture and sarcastic look in the horse’s direction. That was the moment Lucinda realized the identity of the horse.

“King Solomon’s Mine,” she breathed, dropping Tristan’s reins to rush to his side.

She stroked his head, pressing her own cheek to his before kissing his velvety nose. “It’s been so long since I last saw him,” she said, tears misting her eyes.

The duke dismounted and joined her. “Has Sol grown that much, then?” he asked playfully.

Lucinda rolled her eyes at him before turning back to the horse. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s the forelock,” she began, reaching for the long, glossy length of hair that fell just between King Solomon’s ears. “He used to wear it to the side much like the other young bucks about town. This is far superior, though, I must say,” she finished, giving him one more loving pat on the neck before stepping back to reclaim Tristan.

The duke led the stallion past Lucinda to where Tristan was happily grazing. He gestured toward a bench neatly tucked into a copse of trees nearby. “May I join you, or would sharing a seat be too scandalous an act for the proper Lady Lucinda?”

Lucinda knew from the amused half smile accompanying his question that the duke was simply quizzing her, but she desperately wanted to prove the blasted man wrong. “By all means,” she replied, failing to add that they were, in fact, not alone, if her suspicion was correct that a groom followed close behind.

She strode to the bench and primly sat down, taking care to arrange her riding havit and reaching to adjust her black beaver hat. She felt the loose braid at her neck and nearly yelped. What must he think? She was unaccompanied, in the middle of Hyde Park, and with her hair nearly falling in her face.

She looked up just in time to catch the duke tossing his crop, hat, and gloves on the ground before pulling at his somewhat wrinkled neckcloth. His hair had been tousled by the wind, the long dark locks escaping what looked to have at some point been a neatly combed style. The once severely pressed wool of his dark blue waistcoat was now creased across the shoulders, whether from the ride itself or simply from accommodating his massive muscles Lucinda could not say. His leather riding breeches were in fairly good condition, though they did mold to his legs in such a way that Lucinda found it troubling.

He looks good enough to eat
, Lucinda thought to herself, realizing that His Grace most likely would not give a fig whether her hair was finely coiffed or not.

He sat down next to her, running a hand through his thick hair, then turning his gaze to hers. “Good morning.”

Lucinda slicked her tongue over her suddenly dry lips before answering. “And good morning to you. What brings you to Hyde Park at such an early hour, Your Grace?”

He looked tired to Lucinda, his eyes still soft from sleep and his jaw rough with hair. Something in her begged to reach out and run her gloved finger over the light beard. Would it be soft, as surely his deep black hair was, or coarse? She wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—find out.

“What wouldn’t bring me, Lady Lucinda? The fine weather. A healthful ride. You,” he answered, resting one booted foot on the opposing knee.

His leg now touched hers, the fitted breeches and her bright green merino riding costume all that separated their skin. Her fingers tingled and she instinctively moved to touch him. With effort, she restrained herself, clenched her fingers, and tucked her hands beneath her skirts. She offered a small smile to the duke. “I find my hands in need of warmth just now. I am chilled—that is to say, my hands are, and I fear these York gloves are doing little to help.”

He looked slightly puzzled at Lucinda’s stammering, then understanding dawned. “Let me be of service,” he said, pulling one hand into his and then other, cupping both and gently rubbing back and forth with his own.

This is what I get for playing with fire
, Lucinda mused silently, the rhythm of his ministrations lulling her into a pleasant fog.

“Are we quite alone?” he asked, his tone gruff but not angry.

Lucinda sensed that she should rouse herself, but the feel of his hands on hers was overwhelming. “Yes.”

His hands stopped and tightened around hers. “The women I choose to court are not allowed to cavort through the woods like fairies, unattended and in a state of some dishabille.”

Now he sounded angry, the flecks of green in his eyes clouding to a deep moss. Lucinda bit her lower lip in response, her own eyes unable to hold his absorbing glance.

Lucinda very nearly felt embarrassed and apologetic.

Very nearly.

Her initial response shifted into something altogether different, something akin to outrage and sheer, hot fury. She pried her hands from his and took a deep breath. “You have absolutely no right to speak to me in such a superior tone,” she ground out, her hands balling into fists.

The duke was looking just past Lucinda’s head at the copse of trees behind them. His eyes were practically black, the pupils dilated with rage. Lucinda began to reconsider her words, though her anger at his ridiculous remark was warranted, on that whe would not budge.

And all at once, he grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved their combined weight against the back of the bench, upending the seat until they were delivered to the soft ground below. “You impertinent, impossible woman,” he bit out, just before he pulled Lucinda to him and kissed her.

Oh, God, this is madness
, Lucinda thought, wondering whether she’d hit her head and was now imagining the duke’s surprisingly soft yet firm lips on hers, his tongue as it nimbly attacked her own, his hands as they freed her buttons, revealing her thin white habit shirt beneath.

Lucinda’s leg hitched over his hip, confirming what she’d feared: This was not the product of a particularly nasty spill and she’d no hope of saying no, as her body clearly had other plans.

The duke growled low into Lucinda’s mouth, obviously pleased with her counterattack. He heatedly untied the bow at her neck, then pulled his mouth from hers, his lips traveling the length of her neck before setting to work on her shirt buttons.

Lucinda’s body pulsed with diminutive fireworks bursting into vivid colors with each button he released.

She ran her hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to entwine a lock between her fingers. She’d intended on pushing him away, but somehow the need growing inside of her wouldn’t let her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pleasurable sense of dizziness pushing her toward something that both thrilled and terrified her.