Princess Charming by Beth Pattillo Page A

to him, she felt no anticipation, no tingle along her spine, just a deep sadness. She placed her foot in his joined hands but held back from touching him elsewhere.
    “You’ll have to put your hands on my shoulders,” he pointed out, his voice detached and almost bored. Resolutely, Lucy did as he said, and he hoisted her up. Her fingers scrambled for the lock on the window and flipped the catch. With a shove, she lifted the sash.
    “Can you lift me higher?” She needed only another six inches or so.
    “On the count of three,” he instructed, his voice still cold. “One, two—”
    It was like flying. She managed to duck under the sash, but her momentum scraped her shoulders against the window frame. She ignored the pain and pulled herself through the opening. When she stumbled to her feet, she found herself near the service door where she’d entered the house. No one was about on the street above. She turned back to the window and knelt. Nick had moved to the middle of the room, and she could see him clearly framed in the morning light.
    “Can you find your way back round?” he asked. From that height, he looked smaller and much less formidable. “I can only hope that Crispin left the key in the lock.”
    “It’s of no account,” she said, and he looked up in surprise.
    “Of course it is of some account. I’ve no desire to remain in here any longer than necessary.”
    “No, I mean it’s of no account, because I’m not coming back for you.” She watched his face as her words registered.
    “You little—”
    “I’m sorry, Nick. But given your feelings toward the reformers, it’s time we parted ways.” She paused, wanting to say something, wanting to take away the sting of what she knew she had to do. “Thank you, though, for everything.”
    It was a feeble peace offering and one he brushed aside. “Lucy,” he warned, his hands clenching into fists, “don’t do this. You’ll regret it. I swear you’ll regret it.”
    This was the second time she had cried since the day before, and she never cried. “Good-bye, Nick.”
    She looked at him one last time, taking in the memory of his face as if she were drawing her last breath of air. Something shifted deep within her, something breathtaking and important, but Lucy refused to analyze the feeling. She stumbled to her feet and ran, but even the pounding of her half boots on the stairs did not drown out the deep voice furiously calling her name.

Chapter Six
     
    LUCY PEERED around the hedge she’d chosen for concealment as she surveyed the garden of Nottingham House. Her heart still raced from her mad dash around the corner and through the mews at the back of the house. She’d only stopped long enough to shed her boy’s attire and trade for an old dress and shoes she kept hidden in the stables. She’d often donned breeches in her reform efforts, and the habit of concealing a change of clothing in the stables had served her well more than once. The duchess was sure to be livid over her absence, much less her unorthodox costume, and Lucy was not certain what punishment she might mete out.
    With one hand she brushed back her hair, but that simple action reminded her of Nick’s touch and her susceptibility to him. Lucy sighed. She had allowed herself to believe in his heroism, had allowed herself to be rescued, had allowed herself to be weak, to depend upon him. But despite his myriad attractions, Nick was no knight in shining armor, no prince disguised in a gardener’s smock, although his response to her passion for reform had been worthy of any aristocrat. No, he was not the man of her dreams. He had responded to her as he would any young, reasonably attractive scullery maid.
    Voices floated across the garden, interrupting her reverie. Her stepmother and Bertha appeared, marching across the path in her direction.
    “You claimed to have searched quite thoroughly yesterday,” the duchess snapped. They were within a few feet of Lucy now, and she