Her gaze ensnared him as she looked up at him with those expressive cerulean eyes. What was she thinking so hard about? He could practically see the gears in her head turning. Her gaze flitted down to his mouth, and then she bit her lower lip again. Dear Lord, if she continued to worry that ripe berry of a lip, he would certainly lose hold of his tenuous control and devour that tart mouth.
He cleared his throat. “So, what is it that has you angry today?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you used your staff when you were in a bad mood? What has you beating that poor bag to death?”
She grimaced. “It’s the blastedPiccadilly Pressonce again.” She rose and crossed to a small side table by the window. She returned and handed him a folded newsprint. With one finger, she pointed. “That’s why.”
Hart looked down. The drawing portrayed the scene at the Bartleby ball. In a grotesque caricature, Lucy sat splay-legged on the floor between him and Fitzwilliam, crying big fat tears with her hair disheveled and stockinged legs showing. He, of course, was drawn to look like a villain, scarred and snarling. And Fitzwilliam, dressed foppish in the extreme, had his fists up and one arm winding up to throw a punch. The caption read “A Monstrous Night at the Ball.” Hart crumpled the paper in his fist. “What the hell does this ridiculous paper have against us?”
“I think it’s simply that it makes entertaining fodder to print.” Lucy’s bottom lip trembled. “I did not cry. That’s not at all what happened.”
Most women would be upset at being portrayed in such a disgraceful way, but Lucy was upset that they had shown her crying. “Scandalous, everyone knows fierce warriors don’t cry. They beat people with big sticks,” he teased.
Lucy was not amused. She glared down at him with arms crossed across her chest. Then a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. The single tear tore a hole in his chest.
Hart rose to his feet and brushed the tear away. “Unacceptable. No one makes my future duchess cry or portrays her as such.” For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about his own pain. Lucy was upset, and his need to champion her overwhelmed him. He grabbed her hand. “Gather your things; we are going to march down to the newspaper so I can give them a piece of my mind.” He headed for the door with Lucy in tow.
“What right now?” she sputtered.
“Yes.” He would tear that newspaperman to shreds.
“Hart! There is the small matter that we are getting married in a few hours.”
He stopped and blinked hard several times, trying to clear away the red haze of anger that had flared when he saw her tears.
Now, she looked up at him with amusement instead of sadness.
“You are quite right.” He took a deep breath and raised her hand to his lips. “We’ll save the set down for another day. Now go put on a pretty dress and get ready for our wedding.”
Lucy made a sour face. “I guess it’s best there will only be a handful of guests. I will make quite the spectacle with this black eye.”
“Don’t worry, you will be in good company standing next to me. We will make a spectacle together.” He winked. “The monstrous Duke of Hartwick and his pugilist bride.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucy stood waitingoutside the drawing room, flanked by Adeline and Violet. Based on the volume of conversation coming from the other side of the door, she doubted there was only ahandfulof people. “How many people did Trudy invite?” she asked Violet.
Her friend shrugged. “My best guess is there are about twenty or so guests.”
She hoped Hart was all right in there. Forced to make small talk with people for the last hour, he probably was grumpy as a bear. “How do I look?” She nervously brushed a hand down her pale blue skirt.
“You look beautiful,” Adeline assured her. “Nothing to worry about, just marrying a duke today. Happens all the time.” Addie giggled at her own joke.
Lucy’s nerves were frayed. Ever since her talk with Hart, she could focus on nothing except what he said about their wedding night. He was being so kind, but she must tell him that there never had been an engagement to Mr. Murdoch. She didn’t want Hart to think she pined for anyone but him. Even if the idea of their wedding night scared her to death.
She knew absolutely nothing about what happens between husband and wife. She had been too young when her mother died to have had any more than a cursory conversation about becoming a woman when she had started her courses. Beyond a few stolen kisses, the mysterious act of love was just a hazy concept that everyone seemed to have an opinion about. Matrons warned that it was something to avoid before marriage and after marriage, something to be endured.
But why then did so many women risk their reputations for trysts in dark gardens or elicit affairs with a rake? It couldn’t be so unpleasant, right? Besides, Hart was an expert at pleasure. For years, she had watched women throwing themselves in his path. And his kisses had been sinful and delicious, making her want more, making her wonder what more pleasures could be had.
Lucy leaned in and gave her friend a hug. Then she turned and embraced Violet as well. “Dear Lord, what have I gotten myself into?”
Violet gave her a knowing look. “This is everything you have been longing for since you were sixteen. Don’t worry. Are you sure you don’t want me to cover that bruise with some powder?”
Lucy shook her head. If Hart could walk with courage each day, showing his scars to the world, she could certainly join him without shame over one small bruise. Besides, she quite liked his idea of them making a spectacle. She had spent far too much time in her life keeping herself in check, hiding the bits of herself that were too outlandish, too bold for society. She was going to be the Duchess of Hartwick; she could be a spectacle if she chose.
The door opened, and Trudy came through the threshold. “Are you ready, dear?
