“What do you mean? You will do as you always have.”
He huffed, then slumped into a nearby chair. “I certainly cannot, not with this ruined face and body. I’ll scare small children as I walk down the street. Actually, I will probably trip over them as I try to navigate the city streets with only one working eye. This morning, I ran into the door jamb twice just trying to enter and exit the dressing room.”
“It will take time to adjust. You must allow yourself grace while you recover.”
A loud snort was his only response.
She approached and sank down to her knees in front of him. “Hart, you will be fine. Life might be different, but you will adjust.” She smiled at him. “You might have to give up your harem.”
His lips twisted into a self-deprecating half-smile. “I doubt they’ll still want me.” His gaze shifted from her to stare at the empty fireplace grate.
“I still want you.” She took a deep breath in. Marshaling her courage, she placed her hand on his knee. “I love you. No scars can change that.”
Hart abruptly stood, jostling her back onto her heels. “No, Lucy, save your affection for someone worthy of it. You could choose anyone. Your whole life is ahead of you.” He stepped past her to pace to the fireplace.
She scrambled to her feet. “But I want you.”
His broad shoulders rose and fell with his rapid breaths. Then he turned to face her, his features set in a cold, distant mask. The bright pink scars across his cheek like claw marks added to the harshness of his expression. “Lucy, you are acting like a child. We could never become romantically involved. I wouldn’t allow it.”
His words sliced through her. A child? Was that how he still viewed her? Nothing but a responsibility, a burden?
Hurt and embarrassment fueled her already raw temper. “I’m acting like a child? You are the child, moping around here as though your life is over. Worried about your good looks being damaged. Not one ounce of gratitude that you are still alive.”
“How would you know how I feel,” he roared. “Get out.”
Seeing the pain flash in his eyes, she immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorr—”
“Get out!
The door to the room swung open and Trudy stood in the threshold. “What in god’s name is going on in here. I could hear you bellow as I walked down the corridor.”
“I want you both to get out of my house,” Hart shouted. “I don’t need your pity or your coddling.” He turned his back to them and placed his hands on the mantel. “Go home. Leave me alone.”
Thump, thump, twist, thump.Lucy continued her assault on the sandbag. Tears she didn’t want threatened the back of her eyes.Dammit!She planted the staff on the floor and panted, trying to catch her breath. It still hurt. Even though she understood that he had been lashing out. The problem was that she couldn’t convince herself to stop loving him. She had tried all year. Flirting with gentlemen at balls, dancing in other men’s arms. Logically, she must marry. Trudy wouldn’t be around forever; she was seventy-five years old, for goodness’ sake. And being Trudy’s companion was not a plan for her life. She must marry. But certainly not to the likes of the despicable Fitzwilliam. She only wanted one man. But he didn’t want her.
Hart would never see her as a woman. Only as the girl he had been tasked to watch over. Lucy’s only saving grace had been the distance he had put between them the past year. It had hurt, but it had also made it easier to not think about him. And now he was back in town and back in her thoughts. She pushed a damp tendril of hair from her brow. Well, she refused to be the first to reach out. If he wanted to see her and Trudy, he would damn well need to darken their doorstep.
Unfortunately, the next edition of thePiccadilly Pressthe following Thursday forced her to take action. Lucy sighed as she stood outside Hart’s townhouse in St. James Square. The day was lovely, the weather sunny and warm. In contrast, her thoughts were thunderous. She hated that she must ask for help. She hated that he would probably not be happy to see her. She hated him. She bit down on her lower lip. Well, she hated that he had not come to see them this past week.Blast it, girl, just knock.Lucy grasped the brass knocker and hammered it twice against the dark green door.
Chapter Two
Hart slapped thenewspaper down on the polished table. He took a sip of his tea and contemplated the words on the page. Lucy was getting married. Good for her. But Fitzwilliam? What a spineless jackanape. The man had no discernible skills except spending his father’s money at the tables. What did she see in him? And why hadn’t he, Hart, been contacted about the contract? Everyone knew Lucy was under the protection of the Duke of Hartwick. He shook his head. Didn’t matter. He would make sure Fitzwilliam couldn’t get his hands on Lucy’s inheritance. Then his duty to see her safely married would be done.
The morning sun glinted off his glass of juice. Hart reached out and twisted it back and forth, watching the refracted light make a pattern on the table. Someone as vibrant as Lucy should never shackle herself to a man as pedestrian as Fitzwilliam. Of course, it was none of Hart’s business whom she chose. He had much more important matters to take care of while he was in town. He had stewed long enough over the letter that he had found in his father’s desk at Belstoke. Finding and exacting revenge against whoever had murdered his family was his purpose now.
Two hard raps of the door knocker echoed down the hallway. Who could be calling on him? No one knew he was in town. He closed his eyes and sighed.Trudy.He was a fool to think Aunt Trudy hadn’t heard of his arrival from the servants. But the imperious voice that rang out in the next moment was not that of his great aunt.
“Mr. Townson, I don’t care if he is not receiving. He will receive me. Now kindly step out of my way.”
The door to the breakfast room swung open, and there Lucy stood like the first blush of spring, fresh and pretty in a gown of pale green. Her cheeks were pink from the crisp morning air, and a few of her tousled mahogany locks had escaped their pins. She likely walked over from the Portman Square house; Lucy always eschewed riding in a carriage if the destination was walkable. She froze in the doorway, looking adorably uncertain for a moment before she schooled her features into a polite mask.
Hart stood. “Hello, Lucy.”
“Hello, Hart.”
Torn between the pleasure of seeing her and regret at his behavior the last time they had been in the same room, Hart stood silent, his brain refusing to function properly. The silence between them stretched out uncomfortably. Finally, he swallowed the dueling emotions that clogged his throat, and his manners kicked in.
He gestured to the seat across from him. “Please come in and join me. Tea?”
