Chapter Twenty-One

T wo days later, Hart walked over to Trudy’s townhome, the special license he had procured from the archbishop in his front pocket. The butler ushered him into the foyer and Hart gave over his hat and gloves. He glanced up to find Trudy descending the stairs her expression tight with annoyance, she frowned down at him.

“You’re early.”

“Am I? I thought your note said eleven.”

“Oh dear, yes. I’m sorry didn’t I inform you? I was sure I had,” she muttered. “The minister couldn’t make it until one.” Trudy descended the last couple of stairs and came over to look him over from head to toe. “You look very handsome in your morning suit.”

Hart rolled his eyes. “Very handsome, my foot.”

Trudy harrumphed. “But you needn’t look as though you are about to be executed. When our guests arrive, perhaps you can look as though you are happy to be getting married and less like this was all hastily arranged to avoid scandal.”

Having Lucy for a wife was going to be messy. She was not going to be happy just spending his money and leaving him alone. She was going to be around. Challenging his moods, making him go for walks, prodding him to eat his damn breakfast. He didn’t need messy. Didn’t want to feel the way he did about her. “But it was hastily arranged to avoid scandal.”

“That may be, darling, but is it so terrible that you are gaining a witty, beautiful wife?”

He cleared his throat of the lump of guilt that suddenly lodged there. “No, of course not. It’s just—” Hart cocked his head as a loud grunt echoed from across the foyer. It was followed by more noises of exertion and then a loud clatter. “What’s that?”

Trudy sighed as she looked over his shoulder at the closed door to the music room. Which was odd, as the last time he’d looked into the room, it had been mostly empty.

His aunt raised a hand and gestured toward the door. “You might as well find out now. Perhaps you can convince her to come out and get ready for her wedding day.”

“Find out what?” he asked cautiously.

“You’ll see. Go on in.”

Hart crossed the foyer and hesitated for a moment outside the music room with his hand on the doorknob. A rhythmic sound like the dull thud of something being struck filtered out. Carefully, he opened the door. Nothing could have surprised him more when he saw Lucy, her back to him, holding a wooden staff, both hands gripping it about six inches from each end. She repeatedly struck a large hanging bag. Her motions were graceful as she hit the bag in a pattern of precise movements.

She wore a skirt over a sleeveless shift, and he spotted the matching jacket flung over a nearby chaise. The muscles in her shoulders and arms, sinewy and lean, captured his attention as she continued to maneuver the wooden staff. He licked his lips, his throat suddenly parched at the way her muscles shifted under all that creamy skin.

Suddenly conscious that anyone in the hallway could see into the room, he quickly stepped inside and shut the door with a snap.

Lucy whirled around, her feet planted wide, and the staff pointed directly at him. Her hair was loosely knotted at her nape, and several strands from the front floated down around her flushed cheeks. The energy that poured from her hit him like a hard punch in the gut. God, she was so beautiful.

“Hart! What are you doing in here?” Her breath came out fast and shallow.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “That was going to be my question.”

The red stain on her cheeks deepened. She looked down at her staff. Lowering it to the ground, she held it loosely in one hand as the other hand moved to her hip. “Yes, well, who let you in here anyway? I didn’t hear a knock.”

“I guess Trudy thought I should know that my future wife could be a danger to my person.”

Lucy huffed and tucked a piece of her hair behind one ear. The bruising around her right eye was a dark bluish green. He had seen worse in the mirror in his younger days when he spent time boxing at Gentleman Jim’s. But to see Lucy’s porcelain complexion marred gave fire to his anger toward Fitzwilliam all over again. He was going to ruin that man. Hart tried to keep his tone light for Lucy’s sake.

“I had no idea you were so fierce. I mean with something other than that sharp tongue. This explains how you handled my cane so gracefully when you threatened Seaton. Is this part of the defensive tactics you mentioned?”

“When I was young, there was an incident while my father was away. Some local thugs thought my mother was the perfect target; she was assaulted.” Her eyes clouded with sadness. “Afterward, my father insisted on teaching both my mother and me some defensive skills. Basic fighting skills. How to escape a hold.” Her eyes drifted down to the front of his pants. “Vulnerable places to strike at someone bigger than you. Learning to fight with the staff was something I picked up in Italy two summers ago.”

“That was the tutor I paid for? I thought a trip to the continent was for culture and self-improvement.”

“It was self-improving.” She grinned. “I saw some men fighting in the square as a demonstration during a festival and became entranced. Now I use it to expend anger and alter my mood when I am having a bad day. Plus, it is just plain fun.”

She stood tall and powerful with that staff in her hand like some ancient goddess. Hart couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling over the length of her from her strong shoulders down to the tantalizing view of her decolletage through the summer weight white shift and all the way down to the sturdy brown half boots she wore on her feet.

She glanced down and seemed to realize how little she was wearing. With a small squeak, Lucy turned and strode over to the chaise to grab her jacket.

Hart followed her, coming to a stop just behind her. Lucy froze and gripped the garment to her chest.

He bent low next to her ear. “I was just admiring the beautiful lines of your muscles. I have never seen a woman exude such strength.”

A small shiver accompanied a long exhale from Lucy. He desperately wanted to kiss the hollow right below her ear. To feel her shiver again against his lips. But he meant to take things slowly, and at this moment, his blood was running far too hot. He stepped back so she could slip her arms into the jacket. Once she buttoned up the front, Lucy turned to face him, her blue eyes luminous with some emotion that he could not read. Was it desire? A man could hope.

“Trudy says I need to convince you to come out and get ready for our nuptials. Are you having second thoughts?” He clasped his hands behind his back.

She shook her head. “No. Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, I would never go back on my word. But perhaps we should speak about our expectations.”

“Our expectations?”

“Yes, will you join me?” He sat down on the chaise and patted the seat beside him. “Perhaps without the big stick?”

“It’s a quarterstaff.” She gripped the staff with white knuckles and didn’t move to put it away.

“The quarterstaff. Will you need a space at my house for your… um exercise?”

Lucy’s grip on the staff loosened. “That would be nice.” She walked across the room and opened a door in the wall that turned out to be a closet for instruments. After setting her staff inside, she returned to stand in front of him with her eyes filled with questions.

Hart reached out and tugged her hand, pulling her gently to sit next to him.

He ran his fingers over the top of her knuckles as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I know that neither of us was expecting this marriage to happen. And I am still not convinced it is in your best interests to be married to me. I am moody and still fight with my demons. I’m truly not fit to take care of anyone.” He would try his best to be a good husband, for her sake. “So, you must promise to tell me what you need, what you want from me. Can you do that?”

Lucy nodded as she bit her bottom lip, worrying it with her teeth.

“Lucy, I know that your affections are engaged elsewhere. I understand this must be difficult, but you are going to be my wife now. I won’t have my duchess be involved with another. You belong to me, do you understand?”

Her lips parted in surprise. Hart took a deep breath in. He hadn’t meant to come off so possessive. But the thought of her in any other man’s arms made him want to howl like a wolf.

He gripped her hand. “Have you spoken to Mr. Murdoch?”

She shook her head. “I did write to him to tell him I couldn’t marry him. I haven’t received any sort of response.”

Hart nodded. Perhaps the man wouldn’t become a problem after all. Something loosened in his chest as he stared at Lucy. She looked so uncertain, at odds with the fierceness she exuded a few moments ago with that staff in her hands. But he needed to make sure she understood what she was getting into.

“Lucy, I won’t be the charming, handsome husband you probably imagined you would marry, but I will always keep you safe. And you needn’t worry about the marriage bed tonight. I want you to take the time you need to feel comfortable in your role as my wife. Whenever you are ready to come to my bed, I will be waiting.” He let his desire for her show in his gaze. “I just ask that you come freely. Not because of any duty. Do you understand?”

“I guess so.” She bit down on her lower lip. “You don’t want me to share your bed tonight?”

“No, I mean yes, I want you more than you can imagine. But I want you to have time to get used to me… I mean to being married to me.” He was mucking this up. “What I’m trying to say is the choice of when and where to consummate our union is entirely up to you.”

Lucy nodded.

Hart plowed onto his next point. “I don’t know where you wish to reside. It matters not to me in the long run, but for now, I need to stay in London. I am a man with a mission to find a murderer. I must continue my investigation.”

“I can help you. We can figure it out together.” She gripped his hand. “Later, I think I would prefer to live at Belstoke. At least most of the time. Trudy loves town, but I am tired of the constant merry-go-round of social events in London.”

He squeezed it back. “Then we are in perfect agreement.”

Her gaze ensnared him as she looked up at him with those expressive cerulean eyes. What was she thinking so hard about? He could practically see the gears in her head turning. Her gaze flitted down to his mouth, and then she bit her lower lip again. Dear Lord, if she continued to worry that ripe berry of a lip, he would certainly lose hold of his tenuous control and devour that tart mouth.

He cleared his throat. “So, what is it that has you angry today?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you used your staff when you were in a bad mood? What has you beating that poor bag to death?”

She grimaced. “It’s the blasted Piccadilly Press once again.” She rose and crossed to a small side table by the window. She returned and handed him a folded newsprint. With one finger, she pointed. “That’s why.”

Hart looked down. The drawing portrayed the scene at the Bartleby ball. In a grotesque caricature, Lucy sat splay-legged on the floor between him and Fitzwilliam, crying big fat tears with her hair disheveled and stockinged legs showing. He, of course, was drawn to look like a villain, scarred and snarling. And Fitzwilliam, dressed foppish in the extreme, had his fists up and one arm winding up to throw a punch. The caption read “A Monstrous Night at the Ball.” Hart crumpled the paper in his fist. “What the hell does this ridiculous paper have against us?”

“I think it’s simply that it makes entertaining fodder to print.” Lucy’s bottom lip trembled. “I did not cry. That’s not at all what happened.”

Most women would be upset at being portrayed in such a disgraceful way, but Lucy was upset that they had shown her crying. “Scandalous, everyone knows fierce warriors don’t cry. They beat people with big sticks,” he teased.

Lucy was not amused. She glared down at him with arms crossed across her chest. Then a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. The single tear tore a hole in his chest.

Hart rose to his feet and brushed the tear away. “Unacceptable. No one makes my future duchess cry or portrays her as such.” For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about his own pain. Lucy was upset, and his need to champion her overwhelmed him. He grabbed her hand. “Gather your things; we are going to march down to the newspaper so I can give them a piece of my mind.” He headed for the door with Lucy in tow.

“What right now?” she sputtered.

“Yes.” He would tear that newspaperman to shreds.

“Hart! There is the small matter that we are getting married in a few hours.”

He stopped and blinked hard several times, trying to clear away the red haze of anger that had flared when he saw her tears.

Now, she looked up at him with amusement instead of sadness.

“You are quite right.” He took a deep breath and raised her hand to his lips. “We’ll save the set down for another day. Now go put on a pretty dress and get ready for our wedding.”

Lucy made a sour face. “I guess it’s best there will only be a handful of guests. I will make quite the spectacle with this black eye.”

“Don’t worry, you will be in good company standing next to me. We will make a spectacle together.” He winked. “The monstrous Duke of Hartwick and his pugilist bride.”