Chapter 12

L ucy was driving him to distraction. Two weeks had passed since their first ride in Hyde Park, and Holbrook's certainty about her had only grown. His heart was fixed on having her forever.

When he'd witnessed Cranston and Hargrove wrestle with their feelings about the women who would become their wives, he'd done what he could to help them overcome their reluctance. But it was an unsettling sensation to find himself on the other side of that equation. Especially when he found himself doubting he'd be able to convince her to marry him.

He'd never enjoyed a woman's company quite so much, and the more time he spent with the widowed baroness, the more intrigued he became. He wanted to know everything about her—her likes and dislikes and her opinions on all manner of things.

It was more than a little surprising just how often he thought about her.

She was unlike any woman he'd ever known. He hadn't lied when he'd told her that he'd had love affairs but there hadn't been anyone he'd ever wanted to see more than a handful of times. As far as he knew that casual indifference had been reciprocated by every one of those women. But despite her insistence that she only wanted a love affair, Lucy always seemed genuinely happy to see him.

They'd made a point of attending the same entertainments over the past weeks. When she told him which invitations she'd accepted, she teased him by saying she didn't want him racing through London searching for her. He hadn't denied the accusation because he would have done just that.

There'd been balls, routs, musicales. Once, during a play—he couldn't remember the name because he'd been so distracted by Lucy, who'd been one of the theatergoers sharing his box—she'd tugged him to one side during the intermission. He'd leaned close to hear what she was saying above the conversations taking place around them, and she told him that the theater box next to theirs was empty.

He'd raised his brows, thinking that surely she wasn't suggesting what he was imagining. But her wicked smile in response told him why she'd chosen to share that piece of information with him.

When they returned to their seats, she gave his arm a little tug as they were passing the empty box. And everything inside him screamed at him to accept her invitation.

The all-too-brief taste of pleasure he'd given her that first afternoon when he'd called on her had only whetted his appetite. He wanted to do so much more with her. To give in and engage in the love affair she'd told him she wanted.

But Holbrook was playing a long game. He couldn't deny he worried that if they made love, she'd take what enjoyment he could give her before moving on to another man. It was an irrational fear since she'd given no indication she was interested in someone else's attention.

And he was very aware of just how many were interested.

Which was why he found himself standing on the edge of a ballroom that evening and watching her dance with another man. Not just any dance—a waltz.

Since they weren't wed, he wasn't able to remain at Lucy's side. Because of that, he found himself standing on the opposite end of the ballroom when he heard the opening strains of the waltz. He sought her out, of course, but it was too late. She'd already accepted another's invitation, and the man was leading her onto the dance floor.

He tamped down his frustration and resisted the urge to barge between them and drag Lucy away. He was courting her, yes, but they hadn't made any promises aside from agreeing not to have physical relations with anyone else. And waltzing could hardly be seen as a betrayal of that promise.

He didn't recognize her partner, which meant he was probably a second or third son. Even if they weren't personally acquainted, he knew most of the titled gentlemen on sight from those endless sessions in Parliament. There were a few who didn't take their responsibilities seriously, ignoring their duties to the House of Lords, but he knew those gentlemen as well.

He supposed the younger man could have been a baronet, but his position in the ton didn't really matter. He was dancing with Lucy, bringing her body a little too close to his and all but leering at her.

It would be unbearably rude to interrupt and drag her away from the impudent youth, but Holbrook might be able to carry it off. He inched closer to where they were moving together. The ball was crowded, and it was possible he'd be able to come between them and whisk her away before anyone realized what he was doing.

And even if anyone witnessed his churlish behavior, it certainly wouldn't be the worst thing to happen in the midst of a crowded ball. No worse than the handful of men who were even now pressing themselves crudely into their partners.

He saw the stumble that proceeded Lucy's wince and he had no doubt the youth—was he even of age? He seemed ridiculously young to be there—had caused it. Having danced several times with her, he'd never seen her falter in such a manner.

He was considering pushing his way through the middle of the dance floor when he saw her take a step back and curtsy.

They were leaving the dance floor early. Relieved, he continued his circuitous route around the room. He was so close, but waltzing couples kept passing between him and his target and he lost sight of them.

When he reached the side of the room where Lucy and her partner had been headed, he didn't see her. The young man was also missing.

His eyes darted to the open garden doors that were only a few feet away. He couldn't help but remember the Clarington ball when he'd worried needlessly that someone had spirited her away into the gardens. He'd been mistaken that time, but Lucy wasn't in her own home now. His instincts were telling him to head outside.

He quickened his pace and exited onto the terrace, his eyes roaming across the outdoor space in search of her.

He found Lucy at the bottom of the terrace steps. Her back was to him, but he recognized the gown she'd been wearing. It was yet another blue gown, this one so light it was almost white. He'd come to realize that blue was her favorite color.

She was standing at a strange angle, leaning forward a fraction. Not wanting to draw the attention of those standing just inside the garden doors, he crossed the space that separated them without a word.

A masculine curse had him breaking into a run and dashing down those stairs. But when he reached the bottom, he froze in place, shock taking hold as he took in the astonishing scene before him.

The young man was lying on the ground, face down. Lucy held the arm closest to her at an awkward angle behind his back. One slippered foot rested between his shoulder blades, and every time he struggled to get up, she twisted his arm further.

He must have made a sound because Lucy's head whipped around. When she saw him standing there, she gave him a strained smile.

"I was wondering what I should do next. Are you here to offer assistance, my lord?"

Another jerk of the young man's arm had him uttering a string of epithets. She dropped his arm and stepped back quickly, out of his reach.

"You belong in Bedlam," the man hissed as he struggled to his feet. He cradled the elbow of his abused arm in his other hand.

Lucy remained in place, her arms folded across her breasts and a fierce scowl on her face. "I may be a widow, but that doesn't mean you can take liberties with me. A gentleman asks first, and he takes no for an answer."

The man's immaculately coiffed hair had flopped down over his forehead. Holbrook didn't see any reason to mention the dirt that covered the front of his waistcoat. And his cravat was soiled beyond repair.

The youth made to brush past them, but Holbrook clamped a hand on his injured shoulder. Satisfaction surged through him at the youth's grunt of pain. "Leave now and I won't call you out tomorrow morning. And if you possess even an ounce of self-preservation, pray that I never see you near Lady Mansfield again."

He released his grip, and the youth scurried off. He was smart enough not to return to the ball, choosing to circle around the side of the house so he could make his exit.

Holbrook turned to stare at Lucy. He would have thought he'd imagined the entire incident, but she was still glaring after her would-be assailant.

"What…? How…? I don't understand."

She shifted and met his gaze. "Excuse me?"

Somehow he managed to gather his wits enough to speak. "I rushed out here in case you were in danger, but you had the situation in hand. How did you even know what to do? He could have overpowered you…" He shook his head, refusing to dwell on what-ifs.

Lucy grinned. "I've been taking lessons."

"Lessons? From whom?" And what type of lessons would have taught her how to take a man down in that fashion? Not fencing and certainly not boxing.

She shrugged, the movement casual. "The Countess of Brantford and her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Castlefield. They're providing private lessons to women on how to defend themselves when faced with unwanted advances. It's not widely advertised. Women are passing along the information to others."

He supposed it made sense. Brantford had a formidable reputation. Before he'd married, everyone had called him the Unaffected Earl. That moniker had lost favor over the years when it became obvious that he was utterly devoted to—and affected by—his wife.

Some thought he was a spy, but others called such speculation nonsense since he spent most of the year in London. But whatever the truth, it was evident the man had seen to it that his sister and his wife could handle themselves when faced with danger.

And apparently the two women had gone on to teach others how to do the same.

"Who told you about their lessons?"

"Charlotte has been attending for a couple of years. I've only just started. I don't think Mr. Larson expected me to defend myself or he would have been able to stop me. Thankfully, men are notorious for underestimating women."

Holbrook dragged her into his arms, hugging her to him for almost a full minute. When he finally collected himself, he stepped back but still held on to her hands. "Well, I for one am very thankful to the duchess."

With reluctance, he dropped her hands and offered her his arm. "Shall we return to the ball, my lady?"

She smiled up at him, a gleam in her eyes. "Or perhaps we should head into the gardens for a few minutes. Since we're already here, it would be a shame not to enjoy them."

It was sorely tempting. The Lord must have put Lucy Mansfield in this world just to test his willpower.

He held out his arm for her, intending to return to the ballroom. Eyebrows would rise when the two of them entered together, but as a widow, Lucy was free to spend time alone with a gentleman. He no longer cared that people would talk. She wouldn't be ruined, and there was no danger of her being ostracized by society.

When she tucked her hand into his elbow, he saw the slight tremor she was trying to hide. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. She was taking deep breaths, and he realized she was shaken by what had just happened.

Of course she was. He cursed himself and changed direction, taking them deeper into the garden. He took a few turns, glancing about to ensure there were no other couples looking for a few moments of privacy in the gardens. The last thing he needed tonight was to interrupt a clandestine tryst.

Not when he wanted nothing more than to be engaging in one himself with this woman.

He spotted a bench in a secluded bower and headed in that direction. He glanced at Lucy when they reached it, and she was smiling at him again. His heart turned over.

"You've changed your mind," she said as she settled onto the bench.

He sat next to her and placed an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him without a word of protest.

"I realized you might need a few minutes to settle your nerves before returning to the ballroom."

She shuddered. "I've practiced that move so often but never thought I'd actually have to use it. I didn't think, I just acted."

She needed to process the encounter in her own time, and so he didn't say another word. But he wanted to chase the youth down and smash his hand into his face. Perhaps he should call him out after all.

He was brought back to the present by her gloved hand settling against his cheek. "You're angry."

He pressed a kiss into her palm. "Not with you."

"Of course not. But you needn't worry about Mr. Larson. I doubt he'll trouble me again."

He forced his tense muscles to relax. "I hate that you were put in the position of needing to defend yourself against him."

She took hold of his hand, twining their fingers together. "It is the way of the world."

He raised their joined hands and turned them so he could place a kiss on the soft skin of her wrist above her white glove.

Her breath hitched and he looked up, meeting her gaze. Unable to resist, he licked her skin.

"Holbrook…"

He was only human. The hitch in her voice as she said his name on a soft breath had him hardening instantly. He reached for her shoulders and turned her carefully until they were facing each other. His eyes roamed over her face.

When he saw no hint of uncertainty, he kissed her. It was supposed to be a quick touch of his mouth to hers, just one taste, but her soft moan was nearly his undoing.

She deepened the kiss immediately, and he returned it with equal fervor. His hand was already on her breast when her gasp of pleasure had him freezing in place.

Every part of his body, every bone, every sinew, urged him to continue. But they were at a ball, and at any moment someone might stumble upon them.

He didn't know where he found the strength, but he forced himself to release her soft breast and raised his head. They stayed like that for several seconds, staring at each other, their breaths coming fast.

Finally Lucy sighed and framed his face between her hands. "You need to put us both out of our misery. How much longer are you going to keep denying what we both want?"

Until you say you'll be mine forever. But he wasn't foolish enough to say the words aloud.