Chapter Twenty

T he Bartlebys led them to an empty receiving room, where Hart gently deposited Lucy onto a chaise. Lady Bartleby moved about the room, lighting candles, bathing the room with soft light. Lucy lay flat, staring up as Hart towered over her, his harsh features etched with concern. She attempted to scoot herself up to a sitting position, but Hart laid a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t move,” he commanded. “How much does it hurt?”

Her eye throbbed like a beating heart and hurt to open the eyelid. Lucy sank back against the cushions. “It hurts something horrible. I still can’t believe that he hit me. Why do men do this to each other for sport?” The pillow behind her head was soft and forgiving as the ache in her eye spread to thrum throughout her head.

Hart chuckled. “Only you could make me laugh when I am this furious.” He sat down on the edge of the chaise next to her hip. “Can you open it and tell me if you can see my finger.” He held up his pointer finger in front of her face.

She ordered her eyelid to open and blinked several times as she tried to focus with that eye on Hart’s finger. “It feels too swollen to open very much. But I can see with it.”

“All right. Can you follow my finger without moving your head, just with your eyes?” His finger went slowly right, then back again all the way to the left.

She felt foolish lying on her back watching his finger move around above her. “It’s fine. I see you. Can I sit up now?”

“Yes. Your movement of the eyeball is good. I don’t think he damaged it. But I’m afraid to say that your eye is definitely starting to bruise.”

“Wonderful.” Lucy shut her eyes. “Now, would someone explain to me what just happened in there? I know that Fitzwilliam is delusional, but his attack was out of character even for him.”

Trudy stopped her pacing. Lucy could smell her perfume as she came to a stop by the chaise where Lucy lay. She peered out of her left eye to find Trudy glowering across at Hart.

“What exactly did the man say to you?” she demanded.

“He said I refused his suit so I could snatch her into my clutches.” His wry tone melted into another chuckle.

“Clearly, he reads the scandal pages too.” Trudy sighed and then turned her attention to Lady Bartleby. “Eloise, thank you so much for your discretion. Could I have a moment alone with my family?”

“Of course, dear. Whatever you need,” Lady Bartleby replied. A light knock at the door sent Lady Bartleby across the room to answer. “Ah, here is the compress for Miss Middleton’s eye. Thank you, Mildred.” She took a bowl and cloth from the maid and passed it to Hart. “I’ll leave you then. Ring if you need anything, and I expect to hear from you very soon, Trudy. You well know how many questions I will be asked.” She gave Aunt Trudy a loaded glance from under her eyelashes before quitting the room.

Hart again took his seat next to her on the chaise. This time, Lucy managed to push herself up to a reclining position, leaning back against the tufted backrest. He dipped the cloth in water to soak, carefully wrang out the excess, and then placed it gently on her injured eye. “That should help, I hope.”

Lucy held the cool compress against her eye and sighed. It did feel good. She glanced at Trudy with her good eye. The older woman’s expression was grim. Her brow furrowed and her lips turned down into a frown.

She paced away across the plush carpet and then turned and marched back to them. Her fan jabbed the air in front of Hart’s chest. “You will have to marry her.”

“Pardon?” Hart’s lips drew into a thin line.

“What?” Lucy’s mouth fell open.

“Two men came to blows in public over Lucy’s affections. She must marry one of them or be painted forever as a loose woman. If not you, then she will have to marry Fitzwilliam.”

“No!” She and Hart said in tandem.

Hart rose and placed his hands on his hips. “You cannot order us to marry. A scuffle over a misunderstanding is no reason to marry.”

“Scandal is always a reason to marry. It is the reason many marriages happen.”

The panic on Hart’s face was entirely unflattering. “I’m not fit to marry anyone right now.” He glanced down at her. “And what about Lucy’s choices? What about her beau?”

Good Lord. Lucy glared at Hart as best she could muster with only one eye as her lies reared their ugly head. She risked a glance over at Trudy.

“What beau?” Trudy asked.

“You should tell her now. Perhaps we can arrange for you to marry him quickly. Then you can have who you really want.”

Lucy twisted her body toward Trudy, so her back would be to Hart. She tried her best to convey her panic at the tenuous situation with a small shake of her head. “He is a solicitor that works for Lord Blakely. We were waiting to tell anyone of our affection for each other until he had enough money to ask me to marry him.” She told her lie, her foolish lie, once again. Then she lay back against the pillow, her headache at full volume now.

Oh dear, how could she marry a phantom beau when he didn’t even know she existed? And Trudy was right; her reputation would be forever tarnished by tonight’s incident. No respectable man would want to marry her. The thought suddenly bothered her. Without her dowry she would have to spend her life as a spinster governess teaching other people’s children good manners.

Trudy’s frown deepened. “That sounds like a plan for seduction, not for marriage. How could you fall for such a thing, young lady? Haven’t I taught you better?”

Hart’s heavy-lidded gaze raked over her. He ran a hand through his hair. Then his chest rose and fell with a deep intake of breath. “She’s right. The only way to protect you is for us to marry. I can damn well recognize a rogue. I didn’t want to tell you before, but I saw him flirting quite shamelessly with your friend. You would not be safe with this Mr. Murdoch. And I’m certainly not letting Fitzwilliam anywhere near you.” He sat down next to her again and lifted her free hand. “What say you? Marry me?”

Her heart stuttered for a moment. Then it soared. But her mind panicked. Do you really want him like this? Honor bound to marry you? She searched the lines of his face. Under her scrutiny, one corner of his mouth tipped up in that wry half-smile that always made her heart flip flop. Who cares? You will be the Duchess of Hartwick. You will have all the time in the world to make him love you.

She lowered the compress to her lap. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

“I told you I would always protect you.” He cupped her jaw, his thumb brushed across her cheek. “I’m just sorry that you are stuck with me now.”

“Good.” Trudy clapped her hands. “Take her home. Send the carriage back for me later. Let us see if I can course correct this disaster. What we need is a plausible story of how the two of you have fallen in love. Everyone loves a love match. Leave it to me, my dears.”

*

Hart was bone weary when he entered his home later. This was what he got for leaving the house. For listening to Trudy. For losing focus on what he was actually in town to do. Good Lord, what the hell was he going to do with a wife? And not just any wife. Lucy.

Townson took his hat and gloves. “Did you have a good evening, Your Grace?”

“It was eventful,” he replied dryly. “I have news. I’m getting married.”

Townson’s eyebrows rose imperceptibly. He exchanged a look with an equally surprised footman as he passed Hart’s effects to Timothy. “Congratulations, sir. May I ask who the lucky lady is?”

“Miss Middleton.” Hart did not miss the slight quirk of a smile on the butler’s face before his features settled back into their normal polite fa?ade. “I don’t know how lucky she is to be getting me as a husband. But we got into a bit of a scrape tonight, and the sensible thing to do is to marry her.” He turned and headed for the stairs. At least the staff would be happy. “Bring me up a bottle of whisky,” he called back over his shoulder.

After his valet helped him out of his blasted evening clothes and into the soft, silky fabric of his banyan, Hart slumped down into his favorite chair and stared into the fire in the grate. He raised the bottle of whisky to his lips. He hadn’t allowed himself to indulge since the night he had been stabbed, but getting engaged to the one woman he had tried his best to avoid entangling himself with the last three years called for the mind-numbing effects of a good bottle of whisky.

The memory of his father’s voice echoed in his head. “Miss Lucy Middleton is coming to stay with me. She’s lost her family, and in his will, her father asked me to take care of her. You boys be respectful and kind. She has been through a terrible time. She is under our protection now.”

Robert and he had exchanged a glance and a shrug. They had both been grown at twenty-four and twenty-seven and living in their own bachelor accommodations. Why did it matter if a slip of a girl shared their father’s large mansion? Lucy had promptly been sent off to finishing school anyway. But it had always been Hart that his father had sent to handle the headmistress and admonish Lucy when she caused trouble. And that had been plenty.

Lucy was a spitfire, that was for sure. He chuckled. A sharp pain in his side made him wince. He pushed aside his banyan, and glancing down at the wound on his side, some blood seeped out between the stitches. Damn, he must have aggravated it tonight when he picked Lucy up off the floor. He frowned at the four-inch slash of angry red skin. Just another injury to add to his collection.

Would Lucy recoil in disgust at the raised, twisted burns and scars that marred his body? She had only seen a small portion of what covered the right side of his body when she massaged his shoulder before. Well, he didn’t have to subject her to them. It wasn’t necessary to take off his shirt to swive his wife. His cock agreed enthusiastically.

Thoughts of Lucy in his bed, naked beneath him, soft and eager, rose unbidden. All that silky dark hair threaded through his fingers, and her eyes luminous with desire as she begged him to make love to her. He groaned and took another swig from the bottle. He was getting ahead of the situation. Lucy was as trapped as he by their impending marriage. She had affections for another man. His gut tightened at the thought. But Murdoch’s claim to her was tenuous at best. The man should have married her already if he wanted to secure her hand.

Hart would take things slowly with his new wife. First, he would give her a chance to get used to living with his surly, morose self. Let her come to his bed when she was ready. When she had let go of her feelings for that rogue Murdoch. Hart could be a bloody gentleman. Even if he wanted her with every fiber of his being.

He would focus his attention on his search for the answers to his father’s death. He set the bottle down with a clank against the wooden table. Closing his eyes, he let out a long sigh. This marriage was an inconvenience, that was what it was. He didn’t need a wife. What he needed was to find the killer and exact some well-deserved revenge.