“Let me in.”
And it was for that reason that she could never marry him. Passion—on her own terms—was the only consideration. For once, she was ruthlessly honest with herself. Part of her dislike of Sussex stemmed from the realization that she would never be in control with him. He would look deep inside her, into the secret places she hid, and refused to glimpse at. She had known, almost at once, that Sussex would not be satisfied until he completely broke down her defenses, leaving her that shattered and lonely girl, whose dreams had been dashed away by a father who dictated what her life would be.
Never again would she be that pathetic creature,forced to obey. She would rebel against his wishes, and his wish was an unfulfilling union with the duke.
“Let me go,” she whispered, struggling. But it was weak and ineffective, and Sussex would not obey. Only held her tighter, gazing down into her face with the same type of eyes that had once stared at her with the same disconcerting effect.
She tried to protest, to beg him to unhand her, but she was struck mute, and immobile. And then suddenly, he was releasing her, and she was left feeling, not grateful, or relieved, but slightly disappointed. The moment had been fraught with tension, with the temptation of a forbidden kiss amongst the flowers, and the distant trickle of water.
But the duke did not make use of it. His passion, whatever miniscule amount he possessed in his breast was locked up tighter than the crown jewels in the Tower of London.
“Good afternoon, Lady Lucy,” Sussex said, as he bowed before her. “I shall be anxiously awaiting this evening.”
“Well, I will not,” she snapped as she made a brilliant exit—full of feminine hauteur and indignation.
“Nevertheless,” he called after her, “I shall be there. Remember, the very air you breathe… ”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“M Y HEAVENS, THAT was the oddest conversation with his grace, wouldn’t you agree? Highly peculiar and verging on improper, as well.”
“Hmm?” Lucy murmured as she gazed out the carriage window. It was late afternoon, and Grosvenor Square was bustling with carriages. Through the window, she saw the familiar faces, women who had once been friends with her mother.
Even though the Season was completed, many families with unwed daughters stayed in the city, and the pale faces of those daughters stared back at her. These were the same girls who should have been Lucy’s friends, but were not.
She didn’t have friends, not in the true sense of the word. At least not until Isabella and Elizabeth had come into her life.
“I said, verging on improper, cousin. The duke…being improper? Queer, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Issy, my mind is wandering. You were saying?”
Lucy saw the way Isabella was watching her—studying her, more like.
“The duke.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I would rather not talk of him.” Infuriating, perplexing man!
“I’m worried. That discussion of gossip was rather opportune, don’t you think? Do you believe his grace overheard us talking of Alynwick?” Isabella asked, her voice laced with concern.
“I don’t care if he did,” she replied irritably. “His grace can go hang for all I care.”
“Lucy!”
Reluctantly Lucy tore her gaze from the rain-streaked window to where Isabella sat in shadow, the brim of her feathered bonnet casting dancing shadows across her pink cheeks. Even after marriage, there was still an air of innocence about her cousin. Lucy marveled at it, and wondered what Isabella saw when she looked upon her. Unbearable sadness, in all likelihood.
“About Sussex—”
Lucy thought back to their brief encounter in the conservatory, and the same strange—and perplexing—feelings flared once again. She would not think of Sussex. She would not attempt to understand him, or to recall those seconds, when he had held her face, and stared down into her eyes. She
And it was for that reason that she could never marry him. Passion—on her own terms—was the only consideration. For once, she was ruthlessly honest with herself. Part of her dislike of Sussex stemmed from the realization that she would never be in control with him. He would look deep inside her, into the secret places she hid, and refused to glimpse at. She had known, almost at once, that Sussex would not be satisfied until he completely broke down her defenses, leaving her that shattered and lonely girl, whose dreams had been dashed away by a father who dictated what her life would be.
Never again would she be that pathetic creature,forced to obey. She would rebel against his wishes, and his wish was an unfulfilling union with the duke.
“Let me go,” she whispered, struggling. But it was weak and ineffective, and Sussex would not obey. Only held her tighter, gazing down into her face with the same type of eyes that had once stared at her with the same disconcerting effect.
She tried to protest, to beg him to unhand her, but she was struck mute, and immobile. And then suddenly, he was releasing her, and she was left feeling, not grateful, or relieved, but slightly disappointed. The moment had been fraught with tension, with the temptation of a forbidden kiss amongst the flowers, and the distant trickle of water.
But the duke did not make use of it. His passion, whatever miniscule amount he possessed in his breast was locked up tighter than the crown jewels in the Tower of London.
“Good afternoon, Lady Lucy,” Sussex said, as he bowed before her. “I shall be anxiously awaiting this evening.”
“Well, I will not,” she snapped as she made a brilliant exit—full of feminine hauteur and indignation.
“Nevertheless,” he called after her, “I shall be there. Remember, the very air you breathe… ”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“M Y HEAVENS, THAT was the oddest conversation with his grace, wouldn’t you agree? Highly peculiar and verging on improper, as well.”
“Hmm?” Lucy murmured as she gazed out the carriage window. It was late afternoon, and Grosvenor Square was bustling with carriages. Through the window, she saw the familiar faces, women who had once been friends with her mother.
Even though the Season was completed, many families with unwed daughters stayed in the city, and the pale faces of those daughters stared back at her. These were the same girls who should have been Lucy’s friends, but were not.
She didn’t have friends, not in the true sense of the word. At least not until Isabella and Elizabeth had come into her life.
“I said, verging on improper, cousin. The duke…being improper? Queer, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Issy, my mind is wandering. You were saying?”
Lucy saw the way Isabella was watching her—studying her, more like.
“The duke.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I would rather not talk of him.” Infuriating, perplexing man!
“I’m worried. That discussion of gossip was rather opportune, don’t you think? Do you believe his grace overheard us talking of Alynwick?” Isabella asked, her voice laced with concern.
“I don’t care if he did,” she replied irritably. “His grace can go hang for all I care.”
“Lucy!”
Reluctantly Lucy tore her gaze from the rain-streaked window to where Isabella sat in shadow, the brim of her feathered bonnet casting dancing shadows across her pink cheeks. Even after marriage, there was still an air of innocence about her cousin. Lucy marveled at it, and wondered what Isabella saw when she looked upon her. Unbearable sadness, in all likelihood.
“About Sussex—”
Lucy thought back to their brief encounter in the conservatory, and the same strange—and perplexing—feelings flared once again. She would not think of Sussex. She would not attempt to understand him, or to recall those seconds, when he had held her face, and stared down into her eyes. She
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