Chapter One

One year later

T he moonlight enticed Lucy to step outside the ballroom. Night air, fresh and cool, skated over her overheated skin. The dancing inside was in full swing. Not a soul lingered on the veranda. Lucy fled down the steps that led down to the gardens. Her gaze scanned the great hedges that cast long shadows across the manicured lawn. Realizing she was alone, Lucy glanced backward at the lights spilling from the house. There were plenty of young debutants for men to dance with; no one would miss her. She followed the moonlight through the opening in the boxwoods and into the center courtyard that featured a large stone fountain.

She came to a stop and turned her face to the sky. What a beautiful night. It was a shame she must attend these social functions. Tonight would be a perfect night for stargazing. The scent of jasmine filled her nose, and she drew in a breath to savor the sweet smell. In the next moment, that breath left her in a sharp gasp as a pair of arms banded around her from behind.

“Miss Middleton, didn’t anyone tell you young ladies should not be found unchaperoned in the gardens?”

She closed her eyes. Fitzwilliam. Blast the persistent rogue. “Unhand me immediately, or you will certainly regret the consequences,” Lucy growled.

The man who stood behind her, pinning her arms to her sides, chuckled into her ear. “Miss Middleton, how could I possibly regret the consequences of being caught in a compromising position with you? That is exactly my objective. You are what I want. And I always take what I want.”

“And if I don’t want to be taken?”

“That is inconsequential, my dear. You will marry me. This will ensure that you will. Don’t worry; you’ll enjoy it as much as I will.” He licked the shell of her ear.

Lucy choked on her outrage. Fitzwilliam really didn’t know how to take no for an answer. The despicable bastard thought he could coerce her? Unbelievable! She lifted her foot and stomped down hard on his instep with her heeled dancing shoe, his grunt of pain satisfying. His arms loosened enough for her to turn and thrust the heel of her hand sharply up at his weak chin. He stumbled back a step. She hiked her skirts up and delivered a swift kick between his legs like her father had taught her. Fitzwilliam crumpled to his knees with a wheeze.

Lucy sent him a look of disdain as she smoothed her skirts. “I told you that you would regret the consequences. Do not come near me again.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes burned like hot coals as he stared up at her from the grass. “You bitch,” he hissed. “You will marry me. And mark my words; I will punish you for this.”

A sharp sliver of fear pierced her chest. Lucy filled her lungs with cool night air. He couldn’t make her do anything. Although this had been a close call. She had not realized he’d followed her from the ballroom. A foolish mistake on her part to wander outside to the gardens by herself. But she had so desperately needed some fresh air. Stupid. She turned on her heel and strode away.

Her footsteps crunched on the pea gravel of the path. At the break in the hedge, she paused to glance around. No one was in her vicinity. Although she could see people further down the veranda. She quickly made her way through the shadows to the last door, which led into the ballroom. Spotting Aunt Trudy, she slowed her pace as she made her way to her, smiling at people that she knew. She let out a breath of relief as she stepped up to Trudy’s side.

Aunt Trudy looked her up and down with her shrewd blue-grey eyes. “What’s happened?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy replied.

“You are clearly flustered. And your dress looks wrinkled.”

Lucy smoothed her gloved hands down the peach silk of her gown. Damn him to hell. She stepped closer to Trudy and opened her fan in front of her mouth. “I was ambushed by Lord Fitzwilliam, whose intention was to compromise me so that I would consent to marry the snake.”

“He did what?!” Trudy raised her own fan to cover her shocked expression.

Lucy nodded. “He came up behind me and pinned me against him. He spelled his intentions out very clearly.”

“Well! And I thought he was halfway decent. I hope you took care of him.”

Lucy nodded. “But I fear he will only be more of a problem now. He was incensed.”

Trudy let out a long sigh.

She tucked her arm through Lucy’s. “Time to go home. We will figure something out.”

*

The next day, Lucy joined Aunt Trudy in the morning room for breakfast. The older woman sent her a bright smile. “Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning, Trudy. You are up early.” Lucy sat down. A footman poured her tea. The fragrant smell of orange blossom wafted pleasantly from her cup.

“Yes, I can’t seem to sleep well anymore. Age ruins that for you. My rheumatism made me ache.”

“Do you have enough salve? Do I need to order more?”

“Yes, dear, that would be nice. I could use a fresh jar.” Trudy picked up a folded newspaper from next to her plate and slid it across the table. “You might be interested to read the scandal page today.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow. She picked up the paper. The Piccadilly Press was Trudy’s favorite of all the scandal rags. She claimed it was not all gossip but that it also contained insightful articles. But Lucy didn’t believe her for a minute. Trudy lived for the gossip. Glancing over the gossip page, she immediately saw Fitzwilliam’s name in bold print.

Last night at the Jackson’s ball, Lord Fitzwilliam was seen hobbling in from the gardens quite disheveled, according to one witness, a bruise blooming across his chin. This author would like to know who he was fighting with. And who won said scuffle? My bet is on the other fellow, as no one else was reported to look worse for wear. Unless you consider the perpetual unkemptness of Lord Wentsforth when he is in his cups…

The article continued a running diatribe of comments on the appearances of guests at last night’s event. Lucy looked across at Trudy with a grin. Nobody had seen her! And Fitzwilliam would be mortified at the press.

Trudy took a sip of her tea, her eyes serious. “You shouldn’t be smiling. His pride wounded, Lord Fitzwilliam will be looking for retribution. What did you do to him last night?”

“Just what my father taught me. He gave my mother and I both lessons in defending ourselves against those who were bigger and stronger. Life can be hard for a woman when your husband is always at sea.” Lucy tried to wipe the grin from her face, but her lips still twitched as she remembered his groan of pain when she had kicked him in his manhood. “Fitzwilliam is a bully and a brute.”

“No doubt. And I am glad you are safe. But he will not be easy to shake off. Especially with wounded pride at stake.”

Lucy’s glee drained away. Trudy was right. Lord Fitzwilliam had been hunting her all season. She had politely turned down his offer of marriage. But he was persistent, even after she had refused his invitations to the opera and to the races. She had avoided him at social functions, hoping someone else would catch his eye. Instead of his attention being flattering, his persistence made her skin crawl. Last night’s behavior confirmed what her instincts had been telling her about the man.

Trudy picked up a cream-colored card and waved it back and forth. “Luckily, I know just who can help you. He’s back.”

“Who’s back?”

“Hartwick, of course.”

Lucy set her cup down with a clatter. Hart was back in town? “How long? Is that from him?”

Trudy shook her head. “I left instructions to the staff to inform me of his whereabouts. He arrived in London two nights ago.”

Hart was back in London. Her heart beat an unsteady rhythm in her chest. What had brought him out of his self-imposed exile? Would he come to see them? Don’t be foolish.

“Doesn’t matter. He won’t help. He made it very clear that he wanted to be left alone when he threw us out of Belstoke Manor last summer.”

“He was wounded and lashing out. He didn’t mean the things he said, my dear. I’m sure he regrets what happened.”

Lucy stared down at her half-empty cup of tea. Did he? She doubted it. “If he did regret his words, then we wouldn’t have to hear of his return to town through the servants.”

Trudy would never fully understand the pain he had caused Lucy by ejecting them so abruptly from his life. Not one word from him for the last ten months. No responses to her letters, which she had filled with news and tidbits of her life, her attempt to entertain and distract him from his melancholy. And he had shut out not just her and Trudy, but all his friends. Even his closest confidants like Lucius Grisham, had written to her concerned about Hart’s worrying silence.

She stood. “Please excuse me. I think I will go work with my quarterstaff.”

Lucy stalked down the corridor to the music room. She shut the door with a snap. Crossing the empty room, she pulled open the instrument closet and retrieved her quarterstaff. The weight of the carved oak staff provided an immediate balm to her jumbled emotions. Lucy toed off her slippers and headed to the opposite end of the long room. The windows had a view of the back gardens. Shaded by the large oak trees outside, this room was always cool in the spring and summer months.

Neither she nor Trudy were at all musical. So, Lucy had turned this room into a training room when they returned from Italy last year. Unorthodox perhaps, but Lucy had no use for the vapid pastimes of a gentlewoman. Stitching bored her to tears, and she had no talent for painting or music. She did love to read and often read aloud to Trudy in the evenings. But when she was upset, like now, what she really liked to do was fight.

A large, heavy, sand-filled bag hung down from the ceiling in the far corner. Nearby, under the window, a long chaise stretched out, its turquoise velvet a cheery focal point in the largely empty room. Lucy leaned her staff against the wall and swiftly undid the small pearl buttons on the front of her dress. She stepped out of the simple cotton day dress with its tight-fitting sleeves and carefully laid it across the chaise. Stretching her arms above her head, she twisted her torso gently from left to right, her chemise swirling around her knees. Next, she rolled her shoulders. Lastly, she tipped her head to the left to stretch her neck, then repeated the movement to the right. Usually calming, this morning the simple stretching routine did nothing to soothe her. Lucy snatched up her staff.

She placed her feet wide and used her staff to strike the bag with a satisfying thump. Twisting, she landed another blow with the opposite end of the staff. She let out a long breath as her memories from last summer flooded back. On the awful night of the attack, she had paced the hallway outside his room. Not allowed inside, she had relied on Trudy to tell her the extent of his injuries. The surgeon, Mr. Madewell, had stayed for days to supervise his care. Staving off infection had been his top priority.

Trudy reported that large ribbons of skin had been burned across Hart’s shoulder and along his right side, leaving the skin there waxy and pink. Over the first few days, blisters had formed and then burst. Burns also snaked down his right arm, singing off the dark hair that had covered his forearm. But the worst injury had been to his eye. Shards of crockery from the homemade bomb had lacerated the right side of his handsome face. The surgeon had carefully removed one of the slivers from the corner of his right eye.

They’d had to keep him dosed with laudanum the first fortnight lest the pain had him thrashing and moaning. After the first week passed with no fever, she and Trudy had made the decision to move him to Belstoke Manor, the ducal country seat, to remove him from the grime and disease of the city.

Lucy had spent two months watching and waiting for him to surface out of the worst of the pain. It hadn’t helped that three weeks into being at Belstoke, Townson informed her that Hart refused to take any more laudanum. Stubborn fool. Lucy had taken to distracting him from his discomfort by reading Shakespeare, acting all the parts with different voices. She started with As You Like It and moved on to A Midsummer Night’s Dream , thinking that comedy was what he needed. But one day, he had asked her to read from Hamlet , saying it matched his mood much better.

Lucy beat against the bag in a familiar rhythm. Thump, thump, twist, thump. She increased her pace, taking her frustration out on the heavy bag. Often, she would picture it as someone specific. Today, it should have been Lord Fitzwilliam, but all she could see was Hart. His cold expression and rigid posture when she had confessed how much she cared for him. That day, at the manor, she’d walked into his bedroom to find him pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Agitation stamped across his face.

She had hurried over. “Hart, what’s the matter?”

His gaze swung to her in surprise. “Nothing.” He came to a stop. Then he ran a hand through his hair; his lips pulled down into a grimace. “What am I going to do with myself now?”

“What do you mean? You will do as you always have.”

He huffed, then slumped into a nearby chair. “I certainly cannot, not with this ruined face and body. I’ll scare small children as I walk down the street. Actually, I will probably trip over them as I try to navigate the city streets with only one working eye. This morning, I ran into the door jamb twice just trying to enter and exit the dressing room.”

“It will take time to adjust. You must allow yourself grace while you recover.”

A loud snort was his only response.

She approached and sank down to her knees in front of him. “Hart, you will be fine. Life might be different, but you will adjust.” She smiled at him. “You might have to give up your harem.”

His lips twisted into a self-deprecating half-smile. “I doubt they’ll still want me.” His gaze shifted from her to stare at the empty fireplace grate.

“I still want you.” She took a deep breath in. Marshaling her courage, she placed her hand on his knee. “I love you. No scars can change that.”

Hart abruptly stood, jostling her back onto her heels. “No, Lucy, save your affection for someone worthy of it. You could choose anyone. Your whole life is ahead of you.” He stepped past her to pace to the fireplace.

She scrambled to her feet. “But I want you.”

His broad shoulders rose and fell with his rapid breaths. Then he turned to face her, his features set in a cold, distant mask. The bright pink scars across his cheek like claw marks added to the harshness of his expression. “Lucy, you are acting like a child. We could never become romantically involved. I wouldn’t allow it.”

His words sliced through her. A child? Was that how he still viewed her? Nothing but a responsibility, a burden?

Hurt and embarrassment fueled her already raw temper. “I’m acting like a child? You are the child, moping around here as though your life is over. Worried about your good looks being damaged. Not one ounce of gratitude that you are still alive.”

“How would you know how I feel,” he roared. “Get out.”

Seeing the pain flash in his eyes, she immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorr—”

“Get out!

The door to the room swung open and Trudy stood in the threshold. “What in god’s name is going on in here. I could hear you bellow as I walked down the corridor.”

“I want you both to get out of my house,” Hart shouted. “I don’t need your pity or your coddling.” He turned his back to them and placed his hands on the mantel. “Go home. Leave me alone.”

Thump, thump, twist, thump. Lucy continued her assault on the sandbag. Tears she didn’t want threatened the back of her eyes. Dammit! She planted the staff on the floor and panted, trying to catch her breath. It still hurt. Even though she understood that he had been lashing out. The problem was that she couldn’t convince herself to stop loving him. She had tried all year. Flirting with gentlemen at balls, dancing in other men’s arms. Logically, she must marry. Trudy wouldn’t be around forever; she was seventy-five years old, for goodness’ sake. And being Trudy’s companion was not a plan for her life. She must marry. But certainly not to the likes of the despicable Fitzwilliam. She only wanted one man. But he didn’t want her.

Hart would never see her as a woman. Only as the girl he had been tasked to watch over. Lucy’s only saving grace had been the distance he had put between them the past year. It had hurt, but it had also made it easier to not think about him. And now he was back in town and back in her thoughts. She pushed a damp tendril of hair from her brow. Well, she refused to be the first to reach out. If he wanted to see her and Trudy, he would damn well need to darken their doorstep.

Unfortunately, the next edition of the Piccadilly Press the following Thursday forced her to take action. Lucy sighed as she stood outside Hart’s townhouse in St. James Square. The day was lovely, the weather sunny and warm. In contrast, her thoughts were thunderous. She hated that she must ask for help. She hated that he would probably not be happy to see her. She hated him. She bit down on her lower lip. Well, she hated that he had not come to see them this past week. Blast it, girl, just knock. Lucy grasped the brass knocker and hammered it twice against the dark green door.