Page 18 of To Break the Rules

“I’m afraid men, myself included, are avaricious creatures,” he said, a wry set to his mouth. “We see something lovely and we feel the urgent desire to possess it, and there is nothing lovelier in all of England than you.”

“Prettily said, my lord,” she replied, feeling heat creeping under her skin but certain it was just another tack he was taking. Some had tried to overwhelm her with promises of money, jewels, and every kind of extravagance. Some had tried seduction, others bullying. This flattering approach was hardly new, either. “So, what is your offer?”

“No offer,” he said, staring at her, his expression open. “I know there is only one offer you would consider, and I cannot promise I will make it but… I should like to know you better and see if….”

Lucia’s breath caught, and she realised her hand had gone to her throat as the shock sank in. He couldn’t be serious. She wouldn’t believe it.

She snorted at him, dismissing the idea before he could laugh at her for believing it. “Oh, yes, because a man of your ilk is so desperate for a ruined bride. Surely you know the stories of my heritage?”

He shrugged, and she found her eyes drawn to broad shoulders. Unwillingly, she wondered what it might be like to be held in his arms, to feel the shelter of his powerful body surrounding her. She shivered.

“I know the rumours,” he said, smiling a little. “But I’ve heard enough of those on my own account to know how wrong they can be.”

Lucia stared at him. No. It was a game. It had to be a game. She just hadn’t figured out his motivation yet, but she would. She pursed her lips and toyed with the lace at the neckline of her gown, watching his gaze follow the movement, watching his eyes darken. She sneered a little. Men were so easy to manipulate. Show them a little flesh and they salivated like hounds.

“And what if the truth is far worse than the rumours you’ve heard?” she asked, dropping her hand and turning away, the words hard and angry.

Before she could leave, he’d reached out, taking hold of her fingers. He didn’t wear gloves and she stared down at a hand that was scarred and calloused as it curled about hers. His touch was gentle, and she looked up, bewildered by the concern she saw in his eyes.

“I don’t care for what the ton, think, Lucia,” he said, shocking her further by using her given name. “And I don’t care for propriety in the same way as they do. Sometimes people must do things to survive, things they’d not do if they had another choice. Sometimes we don’t have choices, I understand that.”

Lucia’s breathing picked up, her chest rising and falling so fast she felt giddy with it.

What was he saying?

What did he mean?

He stepped closer and the urge to take his words at face value—to cling to him and believe herself safe—was so overwhelming that she ached with the desire to close the distance between them. She wanted him to act on the look in his eyes.

“I know you don’t trust me, not yet. I know you can’t let yourself, but I will prove myself worthy.” His grasp on her hand tightened a little, a smile curving over his harsh features. “You can trust me, Lucia. Let me help you, love, whatever it is.”

She stared at him, unable to breathe, to think. His blue eyes were so certain, so honest, and there was such surety in his manner, in everything about him, such certainty of his own worth, his capabilities.

He was an illusion and not one she could risk believing in

Perhaps if she truly had been what he saw before him, if she’d truly been Lucia de Feria, she could have put her trust in him, but she was as much of an illusion as he was, and he couldn’t trust her any further than she could trust him.

“You don’t want that,” she said, ensuring the words were hard enough, cold enough to warn him off, so he’d not make the attempt again. “You don’t want me. I can promise you that.” She tugged her hand from his grasp, meeting his eyes. “Goodbye, Lord Cavendish.”

***

Matilda watched the little scene play out between Lucia and Lord Cavendish with a frown, saddened to see Lucia so obviously warn him off. The viscount looked up and, seeing her watching, returned a bemused smile. Matilda moved towards him.

“Don’t give up,” she said to him, her voice low. “I… I worry for her. I….” She trailed off, unsure of what to say. There was nothing she could say, certainly not to a man she hardly knew, though there was something solid about him, something that felt inherently trustworthy.

“Yes,” Cavendish said, apparently needing no further words to agree that Lucia was worth worrying about. “I agree. Though I do not understand how to help her. I’m afraid I was my usual charming self when we first met, and insulted her rather badly. She has no reason to trust me, and I can’t offer her any. My own reputation is hardly unsullied.”

“You’re in good company here, then,” Matilda remarked, laughing, though it wasn’t an entirely happy sound.

“I hardly think so,” Cavendish said, smiling at her. “I actually earned my reputation.”

Matilda smiled, pleased to discover she’d been correct in her estimation.

“Thank you.”

The viscount snorted and shook his head. “For what? Believing what was perfectly obvious to all concerned? The story was preposterous then, and so it is now. Your father was dying, for heaven’s sake! Hardly the moment you’d dally with Montagu, of all men. Though,” he added, a considering look to his eyes, “I’ve no idea what would induce any woman to dally with Montagu, if I’m honest.”

Matilda laughed—a proper, mirthful laugh of surprise—at his comment.