Lucy was a spitfire, that was for sure. He chuckled. A sharp pain in his side made him wince. He pushed aside his banyan, and glancing down at the wound on his side, some blood seeped out between the stitches. Damn, he must have aggravated it tonight when he picked Lucy up off the floor. He frowned at the four-inch slash of angry red skin. Just another injury to add to his collection.
Would Lucy recoil in disgust at the raised, twisted burns and scars that marred his body? She had only seen a small portion of what covered the right side of his body when she massaged his shoulder before. Well, he didn’t have to subject her to them. It wasn’t necessary to take off his shirt to swive his wife. His cock agreed enthusiastically.
Thoughts of Lucy in his bed, naked beneath him, soft and eager, rose unbidden. All that silky dark hair threaded through his fingers, and her eyes luminous with desire as she begged him to make love to her. He groaned and took another swig from the bottle. He was getting ahead of the situation. Lucy was as trapped as he by their impending marriage. She had affections for another man. His gut tightened at the thought. But Murdoch’s claim to her was tenuous at best. The man should have married her already if he wanted to secure her hand.
Hart would take things slowly with his new wife. First, he would give her a chance to get used to living with his surly, morose self. Let her come to his bed when she was ready. When she had let go of her feelings for that rogue Murdoch. Hart could be a bloody gentleman. Even if he wanted her with every fiber of his being.
He would focus his attention on his search for the answers to his father’s death. He set the bottle down with a clank against the wooden table. Closing his eyes, he let out a long sigh. This marriage was an inconvenience, that was what it was. He didn’t need a wife. What he needed was to find the killer and exact some well-deserved revenge.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two days later,Hart walked over to Trudy’s townhome, the special license he had procured from the archbishop in his front pocket. The butler ushered him into the foyer and Hart gave over his hat and gloves. He glanced up to find Trudy descending the stairs her expression tight with annoyance, she frowned down at him.
“You’re early.”
“Am I? I thought your note said eleven.”
“Oh dear, yes. I’m sorry didn’t I inform you? I was sure I had,” she muttered. “The minister couldn’t make it until one.” Trudy descended the last couple of stairs and came over to look him over from head to toe. “You look very handsome in your morning suit.”
Hart rolled his eyes. “Very handsome, my foot.”
Trudy harrumphed. “But you needn’t look as though you are about to be executed. When our guests arrive, perhaps you can look as though you are happy to be getting married and less like this was all hastily arranged to avoid scandal.”
Having Lucy for a wife was going to be messy. She was not going to be happy just spending his money and leaving him alone. She was going to be around. Challenging his moods, making him go for walks, prodding him to eat his damn breakfast. He didn’t need messy. Didn’t want to feel the way he did about her. “But itwashastily arranged to avoid scandal.”
“That may be, darling, but is it so terrible that you are gaining a witty, beautiful wife?”
He cleared his throat of the lump of guilt that suddenly lodged there. “No, of course not. It’s just—” Hart cocked his head as a loud grunt echoed from across the foyer. It was followed by more noises of exertion and then a loud clatter. “What’s that?”
Trudy sighed as she looked over his shoulder at the closed door to the music room. Which was odd, as the last time he’d looked into the room, it had been mostly empty.
His aunt raised a hand and gestured toward the door. “You might as well find out now. Perhaps you can convince her to come out and get ready for her wedding day.”
“Find out what?” he asked cautiously.
“You’ll see. Go on in.”
Hart crossed the foyer and hesitated for a moment outside the music room with his hand on the doorknob. A rhythmic sound like the dull thud of something being struck filtered out. Carefully, he opened the door. Nothing could have surprised him more when he saw Lucy, her back to him, holding a wooden staff, both hands gripping it about six inches from each end. She repeatedly struck a large hanging bag. Her motions were graceful as she hit the bag in a pattern of precise movements.
She wore a skirt over a sleeveless shift, and he spotted the matching jacket flung over a nearby chaise. The muscles in her shoulders and arms, sinewy and lean, captured his attention as she continued to maneuver the wooden staff. He licked his lips, his throat suddenly parched at the way her muscles shifted under all that creamy skin.
Suddenly conscious that anyone in the hallway could see into the room, he quickly stepped inside and shut the door with a snap.
Lucy whirled around, her feet planted wide, and the staff pointed directly at him. Her hair was loosely knotted at her nape, and several strands from the front floated down around her flushed cheeks. The energy that poured from her hit him like a hard punch in the gut. God, she was so beautiful.
“Hart! What are you doing in here?” Her breath came out fast and shallow.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “That was going to be my question.”
The red stain on her cheeks deepened. She looked down at her staff. Lowering it to the ground, she held it loosely in one hand as the other hand moved to her hip. “Yes, well, who let you in here anyway? I didn’t hear a knock.”
“I guess Trudy thought I should know that my future wife could be a danger to my person.”
Lucy huffed and tucked a piece of her hair behind one ear. The bruising around her right eye was a dark bluish green. He had seen worse in the mirror in his younger days when he spent time boxing at Gentleman Jim’s. But to see Lucy’s porcelain complexion marred gave fire to his anger toward Fitzwilliam all over again. He was going to ruin that man. Hart tried to keep his tone light for Lucy’s sake.
“I had no idea you were so fierce. I mean with something other than that sharp tongue. This explains how you handled my cane so gracefully when you threatened Seaton. Is this part of the defensive tactics you mentioned?”
“When I was young, there was an incident while my father was away. Some local thugs thought my mother was the perfect target; she was assaulted.” Her eyes clouded with sadness. “Afterward, my father insisted on teaching both my mother and me some defensive skills. Basic fighting skills. How to escape a hold.” Her eyes drifted down to the front of his pants. “Vulnerable places to strike at someone bigger than you. Learning to fight with the staff was something I picked up in Italy two summers ago.”
