Lord of Fire (23 page)
Authors: Gaelen Foley
The red-haired lad they called South was the next contender. He charged into the square and managed to land a blow on Lucien’s cheek before he, in turn, was on the floor. This was repeated several times before
She jumped to her feet. “Stop!”
Every man went motionless and looked over at her in perplexity.
“You really should stop before someone gets hurt,” she said awkwardly, turning red.
Lucien exchanged a mirthful look with the old prizefighter as the boys cleared their throats and swallowed their chuckles. He walked toward her, brushing the sweat off his brow with his forearm. She could not help but let her gaze travel down his gleaming chest. She turned even redder.
“No one’s going to get hurt, love. It’s just a sport,” he said, catching his breath.
“It’s brutal.”
“But a man must do it so he may stand and defend his lady’s honor,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I am touched beyond words that you should fear for my safety.”
“I’m more worried about them,” she retorted, nodding toward the lads, who were openly eavesdropping on their exchange. They grinned when she looked over at them.
“Nonsense, you should worry about me,” he said indignantly. “I’m outnumbered five to one, and those hell-born babes are all at least five years younger than I. I believe that gives all the advantage to them.”
“Well, I don’t want to see them thrash you, either!”
He smiled roguishly. “You see? You do care. I think you are beginning to like me in spite of yourself. Now sit down and try to enter into the spirit of the game, girl.” He slammed his fisted knuckles together and pivoted, swaggering back to his companions. “She says you’re not to hit me in the face, lads. She especially asks that you take care not to bruise my lips.”
The young bucks laughed and pretended to be scandalized by her supposed request, while
He really was the most provoking man,
she thought. A little sigh escaped her.
Lucien did not know what angel had visited
After a hasty but thorough bath and a change into fresh clothes, he led her through the woods on the same path they had trod yesterday. It was a good deal muddier after the rain. They were bound for the tiny hamlet of cottages in the valley to visit his elderly, boyhood tutor, Seymour Whitby.
If Lucien’s pace was slower today, it was because every muscle in his body was already feeling the extra effort he had put into his training. Knowing that Bardou was out there somewhere had driven him to push himself to the limit—and of course,
she
had been watching. He had been aware of her gaze clamped on him from the second she had tiptoed into his studio. He had been sure she would lock herself in her chamber and pout all day, but he had managed to hide his exultation at her arrival. The ruse had worked.
The hungry admiration in her stare had filled him with lusty pleasure.
It was shameless how he craved her attention,
he thought,
but there seemed no remedy for it.
He had wanted to treat her with a certain distance today, but one look into her Chartres-blue eyes had dissolved all his resolution. Merely being near her helped to ease the knot in his stomach about Bardou.
As they marched through the woods in companionable silence, he slung the leather bag of books up higher onto his sore left shoulder. It contained the latest tomes he had ordered for Mr. Whitby from his favorite
They stopped briefly at the limestone outcropping, as they had yesterday, to enjoy the view. The sky had turned overcast. It looked like rain. As they gazed at the valley, side by side, he sensed her nervousness, as though standing on this spot reminded her afresh of how passionately she had kissed him.
He slid a hopeful, sideward glance at her, more than willing to endure another, but if she felt his gaze, she did not turn to him. He smiled to himself, studying her in soft delight. Such graceful, long lashes. Her lips were the color of a dewy pink rose. Seized with the desire to sweep her into his arms once again, he quickly reined himself in, keeping a firm grip on his impulses, for he was determined not to do anything wrong. Today he was bent on showing her what a very good boy he could be when he chose.
She turned and walked back to the path. He followed obediently.
“Lucien?” she asked in a thoughtful tone.
The sound of his name on her tongue swept him with shivery sensations of pleasure like the tickling breeze. “Yes?”
“May I ask you something?”
“Yes,” he cautiously agreed, steadying her by her dainty gloved hand as she stepped up onto a fallen log that barred their path.
She hopped off it, the basket swinging in her grasp. “I’m curious. Why did your father leave
“Actually, Damien is to be made an earl by virtue of our father’s bloodlines.”
“Really?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. As I mentioned, Carnarthen had no legitimate heir. He was so devoted to my illustrious mother, Georgiana, that he never married—four-hundred-year-old lineage be damned. She was the love of his life. He refused to marry another. At any rate, he had a great many friends in the House of Lords who saw his situation and said to themselves, “There but for the grace of God, go I.” They rallied together after his death to petition the Crown that a new title be created to ensure that even if the name of Carnarthen would be lost, the ancient bloodlines would not. As Damien is older than me by twelve minutes, the title will go to him. Of course, the decision was influenced by Damien’s fame as a decorated war hero and his reputation for courage and integrity—not to mention his private assurance to the prime minister that he and his descendants can be counted upon to vote Tory for three generations.”
“I see. Lord Carnarthen must have been mad over your mother to forsake his heritage for love,”
“He was. He had met her when she was a young girl, before she wed the duke of Hawkscliffe, but he overlooked her. He told me the story when he was dying last year.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It was for the best. He was very ill.”
“It’s good that you were with him. Was Damien by his bedside, too?”
“No, Damien could not leave the
She gave him a sympathetic wince.
“I prefer the truth. Would you like to hear their story?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Georgiana had a year at the Sorbonne to finish her education before her debut. Edward—that was Carnarthen’s name—was a twenty-one-year-old dandy on Grand Tour. He first saw my mother one sunny afternoon when she was taking an art lesson with her classmates in the garden at
“How romantic,” she murmured with a smile.
“Yes, but unfortunately, he paid her little attention, too busy chasing French courtesans. The next time he saw her, she was a fast young Society wife. He realized he had made the mistake of his life, letting her get away. They were meant to be together, but of course it was too late.” He did not mention aloud the exhortation that Carnarthen had given him at the crux of this conversation:
When you find the one, my lad, grab her up in your arms and never let her go. You may never get another chance.
“He begged her to divorce Hawkscliffe,” Lucien continued, “but she would not because she knew the duke would have kept her children. She had Robert and Jack at that point. At any rate, Damien and I were born. Hawkscliffe had his various mistresses; Georgiana had Carnarthen. Things continued quietly that way until Damien and I were four years old.”
“What happened then?”
“Carnarthen was a high-ranking navy man, you see. He had to go off to sea from time to time for long periods. When I was four, he came back to find that my mother had comforted herself in his absence with—”
gasped. “Her husband, the duke?”
“No. No, that would have been much too tame for Georgiana,” he said drily. “This time, it was Sir Phillip Preston Lawrence of Drury Lane, a Shakespearean actor renowned for his looks more than his talent. Once more, Georgiana was in the family way.”
“Gracious!” she said, blushing.
“Do you know my younger brother, Lord Alec?”
“Of course,”
“Yes, that’s Alec. It is that showman’s blood,” he said with a chuckle. “You would do well to warn your friend never to let Alec beguile him into sitting down with him at cards. Alec is a cardsharp with the devil’s own luck.”
“I will,” she answered with a smile. “You have an interesting family. But I wonder, does it bother you at all that Lord Damien will be made an earl and you won’t?”
“Not at all,” he said at once. “He deserves it. Besides, I’m quite used to being in Damien’s shadow. I don’t really mind it.”
“Lucien,” she protested. “I’m sure you’re not at all in his shadow.”
“Of course I am. You’re just being polite. I always have been.” He stopped to wait for her as she negotiated her way around a slippery patch of mud.
“Lucien, really.”
“It’s true. Ask anyone. There’s Damien and ‘the other one.’ I’m ‘the other one.’ I don’t really mind—only, I admit, it does render one a bit redundant.”
With a soft, tender laugh, she caught up to him and laid her hand on his back, caressing him as she came up beside him. “I don’t think you are at all redundant. If it’s any consolation, to me, Damien will always be the other one.”
“Why, it is, Miss Montague.” He flashed her a rueful grin. “It is a very great consolation, indeed.”
“Good.” She gave him a pert smile, the dappled shadows of the leaves playing over her smooth ivory skin, then walked on ahead of him. “Now, come along.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Tell me something no one else knows about Alice Montague.”
She cast him a wry look. “You mean a deep dark secret?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“Sorry, I don’t have one.”
Lucien smiled and marched on, swallowing the remark before he uttered it that he had more than enough for them both.
“Tell me something good, then. Tell me the best day you ever had.”
“That’s easy. My tenth birthday party. My father gave me my first horse—not a pony—which meant I was terribly grown up. Everyone was there.”
