Page 67 of A Lady in Name

Stefan looked around the table, noting Sarclet’s high colour. “Now, for God’s sake, let us at least try to be civilised!”

To his intense relief, Corisande rose for once to the occasion. “I am reminded of nothing so much as the old manor houses of the early twelfth century. You could not help but have your personal business overlooked by all your acquaintance. I believe this accounts in large measure for…”

After a moment Stefan tuned out, allowing his mother’s monologue to drift gently over his lacerated senses. Had he allowed his instincts sway, they would have led him to plant a useful blow from his fist in the self-satisfied bullfrog features. There was little point in dwelling upon it. What else was to be expected from a man whose actions were dictated by Paulina’s whining complaints? How two women springing from the same seed could grow up to be so different was a mystery. The one, self-centred and mulish; the other, generous to a fault. Yet both exhibited, in highly different forms, the passion that had characterised their father.

The thought of the other passionate side he had discovered in Lucy only last night made Stefan acutely uncomfortable. He took a sip of wine and tried to think of something else. But Lucy’s image persisted in his mind. He saw her features in all their phases, and it came to him how infinitely complex was her character. Just when he thought he had begun to understand her, some other facet came to the surface to confound him. She was endlessly fascinating, and wholly necessary to his comfort.

Shock ripped through Stefan as he tried to recapture that thought. It wafted away from him, together with its message. Lucy had all but unhinged his mind. What had she said? That she intended to leave this house? The better for him if she did, and quickly.

By the time Lucy got to her room, the desire to weep had left her. She felt cold and dead inside. But a thread of resentment could not but meander its way into her heart.

She had not asked for quarter. From the outset, she had set herself to manage her own affairs. Had she not had the misfortune to lose her heart to the unattainable, she would likely have removed much sooner. Lord Sarclet had succeeded better than he knew, his intervention reminding her that she had no business in this place. Last night felt an aeon away. If Stefan had indeed kissed her near senseless, it proved nothing. Had he not said such things happened between men and women?

The reflection left her forlorn, but she set about removing her gown and petticoats. She was down to her chemise and stays when a tapping at the door made her start. Lucy’s heart made a wild leap and hammered painfully. Breath held, she called out, “Who is it?”

“Turton, Miss. I was sent by Mr Hawkesbury.”

Disappointment crept like a stinging serpent into her bosom and Lucy almost wept. But she went to open the door, to find the maid bearing a covered tray.

“His lordship said as how Cook was to send you up a little something, miss, seeing as you had no dinner.”

Stefan’s thoughtfulness was near her undoing. Fortunately the maid, having set down the tray, distracted her with an offer to help her undress. Attired for the night and left alone again, Lucy investigated the contents of the tray. Rejecting the piece of cold pie, she buttered two halves of a roll and slid a slice of succulent ham between them. She ate without enthusiasm, listlessly wandering about the room, her concentrated mind going round and round the problem of how to get away. Or rather, how to persuade Stefan of her urgent need to depart.

A filter of memory gave her back an echo of last night’s discussion. Was it only last night? She had wanted to leave after Mrs Ankerville had observed the likeness between herself and Paulina. Matters having drastically deteriorated, that desire was now acute. Had not Stefan made a suggestion of some merit? For the life of her, Lucy could not remember what it had been.

She swallowed the last of her roll and looked at the tray again, her palate urging something sweet. There was a syllabub, which she did not fancy. Regretfully, she sipped water instead and made ready to go to bed, drawing the curtains around the four-poster. As she made to climb in, there was another soft tap upon the door.

Lucy hesitated, fighting an obstinate slow thump at her heart. An absurd hope. Why would he seek her out? And in her bedchamber. It must be Dion. Lucy weighed the desirability of reliving the unhappy moments of tonight’s events, interspersed with Dion’s exclamations, against the more sensible course of pretending to be asleep.

The tap came again, a little louder. Sighing, Lucy left the bed and padded to the door. She opened it as she spoke. “Is that you, Dion?”

Stefan stood in the passage. His chestnut locks were a trifle dishevelled, his cravat askew. His waistcoat hung half open and his hands were out of sight behind his back.

Lucy’s pulse skittered out of control and she forgot her own state of undress. One hand holding to the door handle, she stood staring at his face, mesmerised by the gleam in his eyes as they travelled down her person and back up to her face.

“I’m not supposed to come in,” he said, slurring his esses slightly, “but you look altogether inviting in that nightgown.”

In shocked realisation, Lucy looked down at herself. “Oh, no.”

She took several steps backwards, leaving the door open. His gaze riveted on hers, Stefan came into the room, and kicked the door to with his heel. It clicked shut. “That’s a degree safer.”

“Safer?” echoed Lucy, retreating to the four-poster.

His brow lifted. “From prying eyes, I meant.” Again his gaze ran down her body, and Lucy saw him draw in a breath. “For God’s sake, find something to cover yourself with! Haven’t you got a dressing gown?”

“Of course I have,” Lucy retorted, driven into irritation as she ran to the press and frantically hunted through the drawers. “How was I to know it would be you?”

The dressing gown proved elusive, and Lucy’s trembling hands found instead her black woollen shawl. Dragging it from the drawer, she shook it out and threw it around her shoulders, wrapping its voluminous folds about her in an effort to conceal as much of herself as she could. When she turned, trusting her body was less exposed, Stefan had brought his hands from behind him.

“I thought you might be in need of comforters.”

In one hand he held a glass of ruby liquid, in the other a small china dish. Warmth flitted through her. “That was thoughtful of you, Stefan.”

A muscle tightened at his jaw line. “It is time someone spoiled you a little, Lucy Graydene.”

Her eyes pricked as remembrance of all she had undergone today swept back. She was unbearably touched and hardly noticed Stefan was moving until he proffered the glass he held. Lucy took it and looked up, ready to thank him. But as she opened her mouth, his fingers popped something between her lips, mischief flashing in his eyes.

Lucy had perforce to close her mouth, tasting instant sweetness and the hard surface beneath. Automatically she bit into whatever it was, and could not help making a sound of deep content.