“Indeed I do. But telling you about them would make you blush. Suffice to say that I, too, will be in the vicinity.”
Lucy bit her lip, certain she didn’t want the details. A cad like himself would be up to no good, she was sure. The streets of Covent Garden were synonymous with pleasure and wickedness of all forms.
If only she could ignore the pang of jealousy for whoever he’d be getting up to no goodwith. It was foolish to wish it was her. She had a Phantom to unmask. She would forget about Arden and focus on her task; charming the ‘ghost’ into revealing his name.
CHAPTER3
Two things made William Arden, Viscount Ware, extremely happy.
The first was increased ticket sales at the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, of which he was a part-owner.
The second was Lucy Jane Montgomery. A woman so vexing, so gorgeous, so infuriatinglyelusivethat she’d been the bane of his life—and most ardent desire—from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Not that he’d ever toldherthat, of course.
A man had his pride.
And a healthy dose of self-preservation.
Ten years ago, at eighteen, he’d been arrogantly convinced the world was his for the taking.
Lucy had been the irritatingly memorable little sister of his schoolfriend. In other words: untouchable. Completely off-limits. A Female Not To Be Trifled With Under Any Circumstances On Pain Of Death.
Will’s heart, however, had blithely ignored the sensible edicts of his brain. Instead, it had made an unholy alliance with his cock, and the two of them had colluded to become alarmingly besotted with the girl.
Which was—obviously—a disaster.
He was young, handsome, titled, and rich. He couldn’t possibly fall in love with the first girl he encountered. Especially since nothing could come of it. Girls like Lucy Montgomery weren’t to be bedded then discarded, and he was far too young to evenconsidermarrying.
He had adventures ahead. Drinking and gaming. Love affairs with wildly unsuitable women. Duels and capers and swashbuckling scrapes.
Will shook his head at the memory of his younger self.
God, he’d been such an ass.
Lucy’s twin, Lenore, had enraptured every other male of their acquaintance, and while physically the two of them were almost identical, that was where the similarities ended. Lenore was bold and charming, and even at sixteen had been aware of the power she could wield over men with her looks and her sparkling wit.
Lucy had always been a tomboy, perplexed and somewhat irritated by the attention given to her beauty, always looking for a challenge, and for an explanation as to why the world wasjust so.
It had taken an extraordinary effort, but Will had managed to treat her with a credible amount of bored indifference and brotherly disdain whenever he’d encountered her—even as he dreamed of her with feverish intensity.
At university he’d distracted himself with other, more available women, but he’d still been plagued by thoughts of her pink lips and sly smile. He’d joined the fight against Bonaparte as soon as he graduated, cockily sure that he’d emerge unscathed from war. And despite the unfortunate incident in Sylvia Greenwood’s gardens, he’d also naively believed that Lucy would still be within his reach when he returned.
He’d been wrong on both counts.
In France and Belgium, he’d found the adventure and excitement he’d craved. But he’d also found terror and misery and heartbreak. And while he’d been away, dreaming of her despite his fervent desire not to, she was off traveling the world with her intrepid family. Her father, a botanist, was the country’s foremost expert on butterflies, and his work took them to some of the most far-flung corners of the globe.
At first Will had been glad that she wasn’t back in London, where any man with half a brain might realize her brilliance and snatch her up for himself.
Then he’d been afraid for her, because he’d seen first-hand just how terrifyingly short and brutal life could be. He couldn’t help imagining the myriad dangers that could befall a beautiful, inquisitive girl in the wilds of God-Knows-Where.
When a Frenchman’s saber sliced his head open during the mayhem of Waterloo, and he’d fallen to the ground, stunned and barely conscious, his overriding emotions had been bitter self-recrimination and regret. Here he was, about to die a glorious, valiant,stupiddeath, without ever having told Lucy Montgomery that he loved her.
What a bloody waste.
He’d kissed her precisely once—and that had been by mistake—and his instinctive, panicked reaction on that occasion had been so forceful that he’d left her convinced that he hated her.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
